Page 53 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

Hell no.

He’s beating my ass by leagues, and he’s pretty decent at the game. I need bumpers.

“I don’t wanna embarrass you in front of your friends,” I emit when he stops in front of me. My ass is pressed into one of the tables as he continues his torture of barely touching me.

“Friends is a term we’ll use loosely here,” he mutters. “They’re a bunch of assholes.”

“They’ve been nice to me.”

“Because I’ll throw them down the lane if they aren’t.”

“Be nice to them,” I lightly chide. “This is weird for them.”

“I’m not going to,” he replies before his hand touches my hip, and I almost gasp at the sensation of his touch coursing through me. “Because I had plans for you, Rory Sellers. And they ruined them.”

“This is fun.”

His green eyes glisten with mischief when he says, “I can think of about eighty more things that we could be doing that are more fun than this.”

“Who doesn’t love gutter balls and greasy pizza – the glamour of pro sports on a Friday night.”

“Me,” he deadpans as he leans in. “Because I love your naked body and my lips all over it a lot better than this shit.”

A slight blush blankets my face as I rest my palm on his chest. “They’re just trying to get to know me better.”

“They can wait. I haven’t seen you in almost two weeks. And, let me say, Snowflake…I’m not a fan of that.”

I’m not, either.

It’s been hard to speak with him only on the phone, but I understand hockey life. It’s full of travel, practices, and press. I also appreciate what he has to do for himself and what he’s trying to accomplish with his team.

“It hasn’t been that bad,” I jeer with a smile.

“No?” Wells pulls me flush against his chest as his fingers splay right above my ass. “That picture you sent me the other night wasn’t nice, Snowflake.”

Red lingerie, that’s all I’m saying.

And I happen to have it on underneath my clothes right now for him to tear off me later after I’m done giving him a piece of his own medicine.

“Should I return it?” I hedge with a cock of my head. “Did it make me look—” Wells’ fingers press harder into my spine, and his expression is serious.

“Did you wear it for me?” he grounds out, his voice taking a tone I’ve never heard. One of impatience and raw desperation. “You know you’re driving me insane by making me wait.”

I lean forward, my lips inches away from his. “Says the man who sent me a video of him stroking himself.”

And he did it while I was at work.

Thankfully, the beginning didn’t have any audio because that would’ve been interesting to explain to Chloe.

“I just wanted you to see what I do in my spare time when I’m not with you,” he mutters. “Thinking of you…”

I feel my heart pick up its pace at his words—the promise of how he’s feening for me as much as I have been for him.

“Is that what that was?”

“And promises for later. Especially when I get you back—”

“Wells, you’re up,” I hear one of his friends say, and I look up to see his face change into one of sexual frustration and irritation.

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