Page 51 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

Fuck me.

My cock twitches in my pants, and I don’t stop walking until I have her sandwiched up against the side of the truck and I smell her sweet perfume of honey and something floral.

“I’ll be whatever you need,” I mutter, brushing my lips against hers, and it takes everything in me not to take them and devour her whole.

But just as I’m about to give in, there’s a raucous burst of laughter nearby.

I pull away slightly, my attention snapping to my side as the familiar voices of my teammates fill the air, their figures emerging from the shadows of the arena.

Figures.

“Wells,” I hear Graham say as the boys continue toward us. “Why are you still here?”

He knows why.

They’ve only been riding me about it for the whole week about seeing Rory like a bunch of horny, fifteen-year-old boys.

Hence my little jab at Cyrus tonight.

“Get lost, Sinclair,” I ground out, blocking Rory from their view.

And it’s not that I’m scared of what they’ll find, they know. It’s that they’ll give her a hard time.

“Let the girl breathe, Wells,” I hear Morgan order, his deep voice filling the air with all the broodiness in the world. “You’re suffocating her, and the last thing we need is a story about how you murdered someone from the other team.”

He’s never happy.

Even after a win, he’s not happy.

“Why don’t you go drown a bunch of puppies, Morgan,” I urge with a sigh. “Isn’t that what you do on Friday nights?”

“Kittens,” Morgan corrects me, leaning against the truck beside Rory. “So, this is the little Sellers we’ve been hearing about. You don’t look like your dad.”

Rory glances up at Morgan’s towering 6’5” frame without a shred of intimidation. “Thanks,” she replies dryly.

“What’s a girl like you doing with a guy like him?” he probes, tossing a sideways glance my way.

“Oh, you know, just extracting all your team's guarded strategies and innermost fears,” Rory retorts with a smirk.

Morgan doesn’t laugh—I suspect his face might crack if he tried—but the rest of the guys let out a roar of amusement.

“I’ve already told her that you’re scared of the color red,” I tack on. “You get fidgety.”

“I can already tell you’re a good fit,” Morgan says, his voice flat. “Two peas in a fucking pod.”

“Something like that,” she deadpans, her poker face perfect as she squares up against one of the NHL’s most badass enforcers.

“Well, now that we’ve all been charmingly introduced,” Cyrus states, sliding up to the other side of us. “How about we go hit some pins? Bowling night’s been on the books for weeks.” He looks at me, then twists a grin at Rory.

“You in? I'd love to see if your aim is as sharp as your tongue.”

“Bowling, huh?” Her eyes search mine, a silent question hanging between us.

“I promise it’s strictly amateur hour. The only thing we hit harder than pins is the snack bar.”

“We had other plans,” I answer for the both of us. “Maybe another time.”

“You can do that afterward, Judson,” he retorts, eyeing Rory as if she’s something he’s never seen before.

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