Page 7 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

One of his hands slides between us, and he finds my aching clit with ease, showing his way around a woman’s body like he mapped it out.

An expert on and off the ice, apparently.

He wouldn’t be a known womanizer if he didn’t know how to score. His laundry list includes celebrities and random girls at bars, and I guess that rumor is true.

Except I have a secret—whoo hoo—being the head coach’s daughter of the team he hates the most.

I wonder if he’d hate me.

I’d have to care, I guess, to put too much thought into that. My type is bad boy, and I’ve learned to handle disappointment and heartbreak.

But Judson Wells is anything but a disappointment.

My body hums in pleasure with every stroke of his cock, and I’m already teeter-tottering on the brink of coming. Doing so will only allude that I haven’t had sex in forever, but that judgment won’t mean a lick to me because all we have is tonight.

And tomorrow, when I see him at the game, he won’t see me.

I’ll blend in with the crowd. I’ll be another fan screaming and waving my hands around.

I’ll need to be careful.

Games like this are vital to my father, and any mishap will send him over the edge of half-stroke, half out of his mind. There isn’t anything my father loves more than hockey.

Not even me.

And I’ve thrown myself into the pond just to find some affection somewhere because Daddy Dearest doesn’t have any to spare.

“I can feel you, Aurora,” Judson coaxes, his voice deep and deliciously seductive. “You’re so wet.”

I bob my head again, all out of words. I don't want to distract or disrupt anything happening right now.

He is a silent killer.

One that deprives me of rational thoughts or all thoughts, only leaving one in its wake.

I want both of us to come so hard that we forget our names.

“You’re so goddamn perfect,” he drawls, pushing me more into the wall and squeezing his hand between us. “How am I ever gonna let you go?”

“I think you’ll manage.”

“What if I don’t?” He nestles his face into the crook of my neck and goes in for the kill again. “What if you’ve ruined me for other women?”

My lips coil into a smile because he’s officially lost his shit, and maybe my pussy is magic, after all. “We’ll talk about it after you’re not in a lust-filled state, Killer.”

He pulls his face away from me, and it’s then that I know I messed up.

Killer.

His nickname in the NHL.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“What did you say?”

I try my best to keep a straight face—or one that is still sex-crazed, even though he’s stopped fucking me—and rearrange my words a bit. “I said we’ll talk about it when you’re not in a lust-filled state.” I force a playful chuckle. “Calm down, killer.”

His face relaxes, and it’s then that I realize he’s trying to hide from himself—from who he is. Maybe he’s tired of the limelight and fame. He introduced himself to me by his first name, Judson, and not Wells, as everyone else in the league calls him.

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