Page 18 of Santa's Pucking Hat Trick

It was easy, at least, to ignore most of the guys on the team as they posed like Christmas-themed Ken dolls all over the festive photo backdrop. I didn’t care to see Nakamura or Young or—ew—my dork of a brother in their half-clothed states, and it was second nature to tune them out and just examine the photos from an objective marketing standpoint. Most of the guys might as well have been faceless mannequins.

Sawyer, Wes, and Roman, though…those three were an entirely different story. I had to very consciously avert my eyes as the first two reluctantly posed, allowing myself only a second or two of admiring all that taut, glistening skin. Neither of them had the modeling gene, at least, so the fact that they clearlydidn’t want to be seen made it slightly easier to see them the tiniest bit less.

But I was still pretty sure I’d be haunted by Sawyer Finnegan’s red chest hair and those sharp Wes Robbins hip bones in my dreams.

When it was time for Roman to do some solo shots, though, I really couldn’t help but stare, gawking on the inside even if I was able to keep my face impassive. He smiled for the camera like it was where he belonged, just as at home here as he was on the ice, if not more so. He may have missed his calling as a model.

Or honestly, a porn star. The pure sensuality that radiated off of him as he flexed and preened under the photographer’s guidance was palpable, at least to me. I found myself transfixed by his gorgeous inked skin, unable to tear my eyes away from the scene. My breathing became labored. A hot, tight feeling wrought havoc on my body, and a low, delicious warmth pooled in my belly.

“Like what you see?” Roman joked across the room, looking right at me as he lifted his sculpted arms over his head, stretching out all of those dark tattoo lines until I worried they’d snap like my pushed-to-the-brink sanity was threatening to do. I swallowed hard and made a concerted effort to seem unimpressed, which only egged him on further. “I can take off more, if you like.”

“Family friendly,” I croaked out, my head swimming just from the sight of him hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his pants.

Roman’s laugh echoed through the studio, and being surrounded by such a surprisingly pleasant sound was almost too much in my overstimulated state. He laughed like a real person—a little loud, a little husky, not nearly as untouchably perfect as he appeared in stillness. I almost wanted to moan.

“Hey, don’t worry about my reputation, sweetheart,” he said, shooting me a condescending wink that had my blood boiling for a different reason, thank God. “I already got everybody else to get half naked. Bringing them down to my level, yeah? That’s gotta count for something.”

It irked me that his thoughts so closely mirrored my own.

When Leonard finally got tired of taking photos of Roman, the shoot wrapped up. It had been a success, despite the gray hairs it had probably given me—and the endless amount of fantasy fodder. The last of the guys from the team who’d stayed to laugh at Roman’sTop Modelfantasy playing out before their eyes finally left, thanking me for the fun day and giving me a sense of satisfaction that dulled the effects of my grumpiness.

Which left me and Roman alone. Bad, bad news.

He was clearly lingeringbecausethis opportunity had presented itself to him. Any opportunity to get my metaphorical goat seemed to thrill him. He did, mercifully, change back into his regular clothes, but that wasn’t actually that much of a mercy; gray sweats slung low on his hips, a black t-shirt that fit him snuggly enough to outline each ridge of his abs…he still looked absolutely delicious. And those gorgeous, inked arms were out in the open too—no matter how many times I saw them, they’d never be less impressive. All that muscle…would it kill him to leave some sex appeal for the rest of the world?

“Any plans this evening, sweet cheeks?” Roman asked, approaching me with the slow, measured gait of a jungle cat on the prowl. I turned away from him with a herculean effort, fiddling with the containers I’d packed with leftover food on our makeshift craft services table. I threw my response over my shoulder.

“Not that it’s any of your business, Roman, but I actually have more work to do.” I resisted the urge to make some kind of snarky comment at his expense—something about howsomeof us had to work hard and weren’t just handed things because people thought we were beautiful.

I didn’t care that it would discount his genuine hockey talent, but obviously I wasn’t going to compliment him by calling him beautiful to his face. Instead, a light bulb went off in my head, and I whirled around to look him in the eye, trying not to fixate on that gorgeous gray-green color I’d never seen in real life before him.

He was nearer than I thought, so we were almost touching. I’d felt it when he moved closer, the displacement of the air he’d disturbed, but I didn’t expect him to be so close that I could count all of his eyelashes. I swallowed hard, and my voice came out a little breathy when I said, “Actually, you can make yourself useful and help me. Since you’re here and all, now might be the best time tofinallyget your interview for the social media profiles.”

His slow smile held ill intent. So did his low, husky voice when he said, “Ask whatever you like, baby. I’m an open book.”

And I was about to open my legs if he didn’ttone it down.I took a step back, then pivoted out of his direct line, as if worried he’d reach out and touch me and then I’d be a goner. I gestured for him to follow me, one crooked finger that made him raise his eyebrows. I ignored the heat that flooded into my cheeks, into the rest of my body, as I led him to a couple of folding director-style chairs at the other end of the room.

“Sit,” I told him firmly.

“Yes, ma’am,” he practically purred, and I ignored how that made my clit throb with a need I’d been trying to ignore all damn day. Tonight, when I finally made it back to the guest house, I’d really have to get my money’s worth out of my vibrator.

“First, tell me how you got into hockey,” I asked Roman as I set up my phone to record his answers. I hadn’t thought to bring along my notepad, since the photoshoot had been the plan,so transcribing the interview later would have to suffice. The disinterest in my voice was apparent as I started the interview, though. I was resisting any path toward knowing this man further for my own health. Besides, I’d lost my ability to perform after suffering through such a long, arduous photoshoot. Roman smirked from his own director chair, sliding down lazily into it so he was slumped low. The man even madeslouchinglook sexy. I ground my teeth.

“Figured out it was a pretty good way to impress girls when I was in middle school,” he answered with a smirk. “And the rest is history.”

I got a feeling he wasn’t telling the full truth, but I decided to take him at his word. I fired back, “Is thereanythingyou do that’s not about getting into someone’s pants?”

“You know what they say, baby. Do what you love and you never work a day in your life.”

“That sounds like you’re a sex worker,” I shot back. He laughed.

“Nah. I guess I’m just a sucker. Nobody pays me for the pleasure I give them—but I work at it like they are. Gotta earn my keep.”

That stopped me in my tracks. Roman Jett, and other cocky men like him, always struck me as the type to be selfish in bed. Men like a few I’d slept with in college who asked a half-hearted “did you come?” after thrusting quickly into me with no art, no finesse, no real love of the game. This was an interesting development, and I couldn’t help but sate my curiosity.

“Oh? What does earning your keep typically entail?”

Roman’s grin turned more wicked. He slid bonelessly out of his chair, ending up on his feet and prowling toward me again. Christ, he was like a stray cat, always coming back no matter how many times I tried to deny him. Like he could sense that I really wanted him to come closer, rub himself all over me theway a tomcat would. I was practically in heat. I shifted uneasily, crossing my legs together tightly. Maybe I was worried about giving him easy access. My mental fortitude certainly wasn’t up to the task of refusing him when he looked at me with those striking eyes, especially if he flicked that godforsaken tongue ring at me again.

---