Page 6 of Mother Pucker

Competitive to her core, Payton has the talent to back up all that rebellious bravado. She’s fierce and wild and utterly untamable.

Stark som en björn— Strong as a bear.

“You’re very good at running that pretty little mouth," I growl at her, surprising us both. “One of us is getting a spanking today, but it won’t be me, Payton.”

I’m rewarded for my smug recklessness when Payton’s cheeks flush a deep crimson. Her dark eyes widen, sparking with gold embers as whatever sharp retort she was lining up dies on her lips.

I don’t know all the rules of this dangerous little game we’re playing. But one thing is certain— I just scored the first point.

“It’ll only take me a minute to get leg pads on,” I add casually.

Then I turn and walk back toward my gear before I do something stupid— like scooping Payton into my arms and carrying her all the way back to my townhouse, injury and career be damned.

Payton really is the sexiest woman I’ve ever met. More than lust or attraction, my need for her is an irresistible force of the universe. Like gravity or momentum or the way toast always lands butter-side down when you drop it.

I have been infatuated with Payton since the first time I heard the sharp click of her heels across the press room floor. And that desire hasn’t dulled with time. If anything, I’m more obsessed with her now than I was at the start of the season.

“Take your time,” Payton replies after a long beat. Her sweet smile does little to dull the sharp questions in her eyes. “I’ll just warm up a little in the meantime.”

She glides onto the ice without another word.

“Not that you need it,” I call out after her. “You’re already better than half the team.”

Payton doesn’t reply. She simply casts a feline grin over her shoulder. The wicked curve of her lips says everything.

She moves with the fluid, athletic grace of a panther on the prowl. Tall and slender, Payton’s willowy build disguises a steely core that turns me on more than my wildest fantasies.

I watch her in the gym every morning, mesmerized by the taut definition in her limbs and the fiery determination in her eyes. Her workout clothes may be hidden beneath thick layers of padding now, but the shape of Payton’s body is branded onto my mind forever.

All the boxy shoulder pads in the world couldn’t alter the image of Payton that dominates my thoughts every time I close my eyes. She’s strong and lean— with thick thighs and a tight, round ass. Her long legs and narrow waist look just as good in a designer suit and stilettos as they do in a pair of faded yoga pants. The sight of Payton’s modest breasts pressed against a sports bra is enough to make my mouth water.

“You won’t be able to stall forever, you know.” Payton’s teasing singsong echoes as she makes a lazy lap around the rink. “I know where all the exits are.”

Her laugh is low and melodic, skipping across the ice before crashing into my chest like a lead puck. Even knowing that this is a bad idea isn’t enough to stop me. I take a deep breath, ignoring the aggressive ring of warning bells in my mind. And then I follow Payton onto the ice.

It feels like stepping off a cliff and plunging into the unknown.

The arena smells like freshly resurfaced ice. Every lungful of sharp, cold air sends a familiar spear of adrenaline racing through me.

I’m home.

Most people aren’t lucky enough to discover what they were born to do. But here in the crisp bite of air of the stadium, I know exactly where I belong.

I left Stockholm in high school after my father’s job uprooted our lives. Back then I thought I’d never forgive my parents for moving us to Texas. To a fifteen-year-old boy, the United States might as well have been Jupiter, and I spent most of those first few months plotting ways to get myself back to Sweden. But I settled into a new kind of normal somewhere along the way. Then came college and the NHL— and everything made perfect sense for the first time in my life.

I have a career and a home that I love here at The Nest. The Snowhawks are more of a brotherhood than a sports team. And as long as I’m guarding this net, there’s no question about who I am.

I wouldn't trade this for anything.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Nordstrom.” Payton’s words are muffled by the cage at the front of her helmet, but there’s no missing the unbridled joy in her voice. “Your ass is mine.”

Well. Almost anything.

Payton’s blades slice across the smooth surface of the ice. She weaves deftly between a row of bright orange cones set up in the middle of the rink, skating around and between obstacles with athletic grace.

The quickfire sound of Payton’s stick slapping against the biscuit reverberates off the boards. It mingles with the delighted peel of her laughter before bouncing through the empty seats and shivering along my spine. She’s quick and focused— moving with the kind of nimble determination that still eludes some of the team’s rookie players.

“Bring it on, Lawson.” I crouch lower, ignoring the sharp bite of pain in my leg as I watch her approach. “Do your worst— I’ll stop you every time, baby girl. That offer for a safe word still stands.”

---