Page 7 of Pucking Fake

"Take me to your place instead."

His expression turns downright feral as he links our fingers, silently pulling me through the bar toward the doors.

I follow in his wake, my entire body still humming.

Chapter Two

Logan

Peyton Cloud is a pretty little minx disguised as an angel. And I'm going to defile her every which way there is to defilea person, let's be clear about that right now. Judging by the way she keeps looking at me as I lead her into my kitchen, she's fully on board with my plan.

Bringing women home isn't something I do, contrary to popular belief, particularly not women who will be working for me in a matter of days. But people see what they want to see, and it suits my purposes to let them think what they want to think. I've never given a fuck about my reputation. I have more important shit to worry about—like keeping my sister, Lauren, out of the press. She has enough going on in her life without being media fodder just because I'm famous.

If breaking rules and keeping the attention on me ensures it stays off her, that's what I'll do. But I don't blow through women like I'm trying to create my own little harem. Frankly, fucking every woman who crosses my path has never interested me much…and that was before I watched my last team fall one by one.

I never thought I'd be the motherfucker who wanted a wife and kids but seeing them living their best lives made me realize how goddamn lonely my life has become. I've just been too busy to do anything about it.

Maybe that's changing because I was done for the minute Peyton snatched our beer off the table, fire in those pretty forest green eyes, and tossed it all over the dick who wouldn't take no for an answer. I couldn't take my eyes off her. And seeing that prick raise his hand to her?

Hell. No.

He's lucky I didn't break his jaw on principal before I had Jett toss his sorry ass from the bar because that's precisely what I wanted to do. No one threatens a woman in front of me. And no one tries to put their hands on the woman who has my blood roaring in my veins like a goddamn avalanche.

It's been roaring all night. I can't think through the tumult of sound and sensation. I want to be all over her…right fucking now. Maybe then I'll be able to breathe again.

Or maybe I won't. Who the fuck knows? I saw this shit happen often enough back in Nashville to know how it works. There's no fighting it. There's no denying it. Once she's under your skin, there's no getting her out again. It's kismet or destiny or something equally as powerful that means the same goddamn thing: permanence.

I am fucked.

It's about damn time.

Not telling her that I'm the hockey player she came to the bar to spy on tonight is a dick move. But I'm not completely fucking brainless. Had I told her that I'm the player looking for an assistant, she wouldn't be here right now. She would have bolted like an Olympian.

There was no fucking way I was letting that happen. I fully intend to tell her the truth. I'm just hedging my bets first. I need her hooked on me before I spill the messy details. Otherwise, I don't stand a chance in hell of convincing her that she wants to stick around.

She's a pretty little goddess. I'm an asshole in skates.

The playing field isn't remotely close to even here.

She stops just inside the door to the kitchen, spinning in a circle. Her long blonde hair flows around her, sending vanilla wafting through the air toward me.

Christ. I want to wrap it around my fist and taste those pouty lips.

Her wide eyes meet mine, burning with curiosity. "Please tell me you actually cook in this kitchen, Logan."

"Concerned about my health, baby?"

"No." Her nose scrunches. "I'm concerned you're not giving this kitchen nearly as much love as it deserves."

I lean back against the door, grinning at her. "So you like my kitchen, huh?"

"Uh, clearly." She steps deeper into the room, gaping around her. "Jesus. Do you know how much damage I could do in here?"

A quiet laugh rumbles from my lips. "I can guess. Especially if it involves beer."

She shoots me a dirty look over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed. Fuck, she's sexy as hell with that pert little nose and those dimples. Her jeans mold to her ass, lifting her round cheeks in a way that's making me irrationally jealous of the fucking material.

I've never wanted to be a pair of jeans before now.

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