Page 5 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

I do what she asks, keeping her hand locked within mine as I start for the exit.

Elliot and I make eye contact, and he rolls his eyes at me because he sees Aurora following behind me, looking hot as fuck.

He should be grateful.

Because if I had thrown those drinks at Charles, we’d both be suspended for several games afterward for starting a public scene.

You’re welcome, bestie.

2

CHAPTER TWO

RORY

Whoever said to keep your friends close and your enemies closer probably never envisioned this scenario.

Here I am, Rory Sellers—beloved daughter of Dylan Sellers, the head coach of the Montreal Blizzard and sizzling rival by association—pressed up against Judson "Killer" Wells, the defenseman everyone in my dad's orbit loves to hate.

And God, if good ‘ole Dad knew what I was doing right now—against a wall with Judson’s lips lashing at my neck while he has me pinned up against his rock-hard body—he'd probably have a coronary and order me to my room.

It’d definitely be forbidden.

It doesn’t matter that the whole thing started innocently enough—if you can call me planning to run into him and any interaction between a Wolverine and a Blizzard innocent. I spotted Judson the second he swaggered into the bar, looking every bit the hockey god he's celebrated as.

Except, in my world, he's more devil than deity. He was clearly on a mission to stir up trouble with Charles Gagnon, our team's most notorious hothead and asshole.

Charles would’ve deserved whatever he had coming to him.

After the shit he pulled tonight, I should have allowed Judson one play with his fists to set it right. However, like a moth to a flame, I couldn't help but intervene. I told myself it was to prevent a brawl, but deep down, a part of me was drawn to the danger he represented.

Judson is off-limits.

The ice cream proposition should have been a red flag—but it wasn’t. Judson Wells’ well-documented history of fleeting romances and whispered promises seems like the epitome of a cautionary tale.

Yet, here I am, not as a naïve damsel hoping to be the one who changes him, but as someone fully aware of the game and surprisingly at peace with playing it, even if just for tonight.

The truth is Judson's allure isn't lost on me; it's as palpable as the heat between us. There's something thrilling about being with someone who knows exactly what they're doing, who brings to the bedroom the same confidence and skill that make him a star on the ice.

Perhaps his reputation as a womanizer makes this simpler and cleaner. There's no need for pretenses of forever or declarations of undying love. We're just two people seeking a moment of connection in a world that's too often cold and lonely.

That’s all I want.

A boyfriend is the last thing I need because I’m too busy focusing on other people’s lives and indulging in their problems. As a social media content creator and a journalist at an up-and-coming online magazine in New York, I’d take other people’s problems over my own any day.

No one offers ice cream as a peace offering or a way out of a bar, not in this universe. But sure enough, he took me to get cookie dough ice cream, which led to us making out in his car like a couple of teenagers.

The next thing I knew, we were stumbling into his hotel room, hands roaming, lips locked, in a dance where we were perfectly in sync.

I hope he knows where a woman’s G-spot is and makes me come like my life depends on it.

If not, this is about to be highly disappointing.

“You sure about this?” he mutters through what sounds like a groan. His hard cock is pressed against my core, and he must be insane to think I’d turn down a night of, hopefully, good sex.

However, it’s endearing and slightly out of character—I think—to ask me if I’m sure I’m about to have sex with him.

“More than sure,” I reply as he licks at my throat and follows it up with his lips. “Keep doing that.”

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