Page 1 of Pucking Obsessed

CHAPTER ONE

D’Angelo’s Beach House, Freedom

Robyn

“Areyou writing your secret hockey smut book complete with stickmen drawings?” I plop another strawberry cream truffle into my mouth.

The impossibly gorgeous, dominant man, who is sprawled like he’s a king next to me on the couch, smiles cockily over the top of the book that he’s writing in.

Typical D’Angelo.

Warm sunlight bathes over the back porch of the beach house that overlooks the sea. But there’s an icy gleam in the man’s eyes and a cruel twist to his sensual lips.

D’Angelo is dressed in an immaculate designer navy suit and waistcoat with the sleeves rolled back to reveal his strong forearms.

His jacket is slung over the back of the couch.

The man is six foot three with olive skin and piercing ice blue eyes that are so frosty they make me shiver. Raven curls frame his strong face.

He looks like a beautiful fallen angel.

He should be working on the hockey strategy that Dad, Austin McKenna and coach of his team, demanded he finish by tonight.

With dire threats if he fails.

Instead, D’Angelo is planning something wickedly fun for me.

Again, typical D’Angelo.

He’s captain of the Bay Rebels NHL hockey team, my best friend and rebel from college, and the man who I’m desperately in love with.

Also, a grumpy asshole.

But I love a grump.

My other lover, Shay, the star player in the team, has enough sunniness to even his captain out.

Shay’s introverted and tattooed twin, Eden, is the caretaker dom who grounds us all. He’s the burning heart of our polyamorous relationship.

My phoenix.

I push my wavy, flame-red hair out of my emerald eyes. It’s still tangled and damp from skinny dipping with Shay at dawn, my mascara has run making me look like a clown in a horror film, and sand is clinging to really uncomfortable places.

See, the dangers of skinny dipping that romance movies don’t warn you about.

Robyn McKenna, twenty-seven, independent businesswoman and PR Director of the Bay Rebels, and also,a hot mess.

I should have a plaque made of that for my desk.

On the other hand, I may be a hot mess. But I’mD’Angelo’shot mess.

The morning sunlight shimmers on the crashing waves and winding path, which leads over the sand dunes of D’Angelo’s private beach. The back porch of his wood paneled beach house is painted white like the wooden decking.

A television is set up across from us, along with a sound system. At the far side is a grand dining table and chairs.

The porch is filled with tall vases of orange roses. It’s like being surrounded by a rose garden. D’Angelo ordered them because they’re my favorite.

He does romantic gestures like that, including stocking this luxurious box of strawberry creams for me, which is balanced on the arm of the couch next to my glass of red wine because he knows that I loved them at college.

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