Page 2 of My Pucking Crush

A celebrity.

A hockey star.

I can’t be too careful these days. As much as I need to bury my dick inside something warm and tight,anythingat this point, I can’t look so easy.

“Wanna tell me your name?” I ask to sound like I care, even though I don’t.

“Where we’re going, we don’t need...names.”

I bark out a laugh at theBack to the Futurepun.

“Do you live around here, Marty McFly?” I ask.

“No.” She downs the shot in her hand and a waft of vodka hits my nose, overtaking her perfume. “I live in California. I’m in Connecticut for business.”

My hockey team built an arena right smack in the middle of Stamford, Connecticut. Even here in trendy Norwalk, a few towns over, I’ve not run into too many out-of-town businesspeople.

“Are you staying long enough to get fucked by a hockey god?”

She leans against the bar. “How many times can you come before my eight-a.m. flight tomorrow?”

Nothing long-term, thank God.

I gulp down the rest of my beer and toss a twenty on the bar. “Let’s go find out.”

Ten minutes later, I’m strolling behind her on thestreet as she leads me to her hotel room at the nearby Mariner Inn. The balmy late March air seeps in from the harbor a few blocks away.

A hotel room is ideal. And since it’s not mine, I can leave at any time. I don’t have to be rude and ask a woman to leave when we’re done. I’d never go to a strange woman’s house after hearing horror stories of married women wanting to taunt neglectful husbands.

My date makes no attempt to kiss me in the elevator, which I prefer. My eyes stay focused on her lower regions. That ass underneath a tight skirt is all I need tonight.

My speech sits on my tongue:On your hands and knees, grab the headboard. Yeah, that’s lube on your asshole. Hold the fuck on...

At the end of the hall, I’m surprised she brings me to a suite. The door opens, and that familiar smell of fresh cotton and citrus hits me, kicking up memories of nearly fifteen years traveling with the Stamford Crushers.

Slipping off her shoes and tossing them aside, my date says, “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right out.”

Glancing around at a fancy sofa and two chairs in front of an accented wall with a television, my speech might have to be amended to say:Grab the back of the sofa.

Not as sexy, but neither command is very intimate.

The sound of a door opening pulls my attention, and I think I’m hearing things. It couldn’t be the front door to the suite, but when I spin around, my heart lands in my throat.

Two men the size of tanks stand there wearing ski masks. One is wearing a black leather jacket, the other a navy wool pea coat.

Fuck.I try to stay cool. “Look, I just met her.”

Leather Jacket Guy brandishes a hockey stick in lieuof a response.

Whose stick is it? It can’t be mine. All my equipment is locked up in the arena.

“Whoa, whoa.” I step back. “Come on. She wasn’t wearing a ring. She invited me here.” My frantic brain catches the tape on the handle, the lime green color jogging a memory.

From the enforcer’s gear in tonight’s game against Richmond. What the fuck?

Leather Jacket Guy lifts the stick and twirls it in a practiced move. When he smacks the wood against his meaty palm, the sound of skin on skin triggers a memory. My sight goes fuzzy for a moment.

“Should we make him beg?” Leather asks Pea Coat, using a Russian accent.

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