Page 83 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

The defending players form up.

“Don’t mistake my kindness for insincerity,” he says.

My winger gets smashed into the boards.

“Oh, does that make you a ‘nice guy’? I’m not interested in nice guys. In my experience, they’re mediocre lays and steal my silverware.”

They tussle on the ice.

“That was very specific.”

Mason chuckles out of sight.

The puck is recovered.

“Based on a true story,” I inform him. “I don’t want nice. I want someone who knows what he wants and goes for it.”

A slapshot at the goal.

If my purpose was to convince them to loosen up around me before the event, then I have failed spectacularly. All three of us are more angsty than we’ve ever been.

The die is cast, though. I said what I said. I’m trapped here underneath Trick.

He tilts his head at me, his eyes narrowing.

The goalie lunges . . .

Trick backs away and I assume he’s retreating, but he drops onto the weight bench and grabs my sports bra dead center. He yanks on the elastic and I slingshot forward.

. . . and lets the puck pass him.

The big alpha catches me in his arms, my legs askew and my arms flailing. Fingers sink into my loose hair and he lavishes a demanding kiss on me.

Trick Wyatt is frantic and insistent. His lips press against mine and direct the kiss like a commanding dance partner. He projects exactly what he wants and then takes it.

And what he wants is me.

Goal for the home team!

Right now anyway.

He wraps his arms around my body and forces me to straddle thick thighs. The move shifts us to the far end of the bench, and it tips from the cantilevered weight.

Mason’s there to help catch us, but my whoremones win and I fist his shirt too. I tempt him into the kiss while Trick sucks and licks at my neck and shoulder.

The bench lifts half an inch again and crashes down, so Mason straddles the space behind me. I have no idea if the whole thing will collapse from our collective weight, but I certainly hope the fuck not.

I never want this to end.

Being sandwiched between Trick Wyatt and Mason LaMille is the dream to end all dreams. Trick’s dominant in a reassuring way that draws me to him, while Mason’s so eager and enthusiastic that the contrast is delightfully stark.

“Fuck, Izzy,” Mason says behind me, his voice guttural. Trick’s rolling his hips beneath me, but Mason sinks a hand between my legs to play with me over my leggings.

I moan into Trick’s mouth while Mason runs teeth over my bare skin.

The pressure builds. It’s an unpleasant reminder that this can’t go any further.

The boys have a long day ahead. I switched shifts so I could have the morning to get ready for this big fundraiser.

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