Page 50 of My Pucking Crush

I amble up to him until we’re sharing breathing space, and release a long, teasing answer.

“No. I’m not staying.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Luca

The air in my bedroom now tastes like Max’s spicy cologne and raw male heat. I breathe him in, grateful that he doesn’t smell like perfume.

Hewasn’twith a woman. I wasn’t sure.

I wondered if he snagged one of the women ogling him all night for a hot hook up to taunt me. I hate myself for caring. I knew he caught a ride with Damien Carter and the tasty twink he picked up.

Only that twink is the son of Aspen’s head coach. I wonder if that fact comes up while they’re fucking. Or after. If rumors are true, Carter is likely to be traded there next season. But I can’t think about Carter, and the hell he’ll catch for fucking his future’s coach’s son.

The here and now demand my attention.

“Why are you even in my room?” I say to Max’s back before he steps out into the hallway.

I just can’t help myself. My words bring him up short. Max is a hockey god, famous, and not accustomed to answering to anyone.

Especially his conscience.

He turns to me, and his blue eyes lower to my aching cock, twitching in the glow of his stare. “To seethisreaction.”

That kiss in the coat closet surprised the hell out of me, but I’d been sending out signals that must have been hard to turn down. He tasted of delicious curiosity.

“You’re right about one thing,” I admit with a teasing stroke. “Nothing moreshouldhappen betweenus. I’m not worried about the team. I’m worried about you. I’m gay and you’re...straight-ish.” Even if I don’t want that to be true. “The gnashing of your mouth against mine twice and jerking off with my tongue in your mouth aside.”

Max swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his thick neck. It’s so wide, my cock will slide down the column so sublimely.

“Good night, Luc.”

“Without you in my bed, it won’t be.”

“I wish I could argue with you.” Max swings open my bedroom door and gasps.

I spin around, and a man in a long black trench coat, shades, and a head shaped like a Neanderthal lunges from Max’s bedroom and into mine.

With a knife.

Max stands frozen, and before he yells, which is the normal human reaction, I’ve already grabbed my Glock and screwed on the silencer.

I shove Max out of the way, aim, and squeeze the trigger as the knife comes down, catching my bicep. The shot at close range pops this jack-off in the shoulder, his rotator cuff practically blown off. I only shoot to kill when I know the enemy. A dead man can’t confess anything.

I knock the blade out of his hand. He caught my arm in a messy flesh wound. Bloody as hell, but not deep.

The guy drops to his knees, holding his shoulder in a guttural cry. We have him on camera, breaking in with a knife. A knife he lifted to stab Max. I’m a hired bodyguard. My actions are justified. His aren’t. Not that I’m likely to leave this aggression to law enforcement.

First two guys with a hockey stick and a knife. Now one guy with a knife. If Belova wanted Max dead, a gun would have been put to his head already.

This is pure bratva torture. This is about pain. Prolonged agony is meant to keep him out of the game. Make him sit and watch his teammates blunder and fail without him. Max would take that personally. It’s his team, and he feels responsible for everyone and everything.

After I kick the knife away, I jam my foot down on his uninjured arm, so he can’t grab my leg. I don’t aggravate his blown-up shoulder. I don’t want any more blood on me than I already have, and his adrenaline from the pain will give him superhuman strength to fight me.

“Who sent you?” I don’t bother askinghisname.

He groans and shakes his head.

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