Page 48 of Dirty As Puck
“Damn Rochelle, you’re about to make me lose my mind,” I hiss against her neck, and she bites her lips in a way that makes me rock harder.
I turn swiftly and we switch positions instantly. Suddenly, I have her pinned to my bed, both arms beside her head, locking her in. My mouth finds her nipples and I suck them gently, causing her to tug harder at my hair, her moans filling the entire room.
When I pull back to look at her, she shakes her head and pulls me back to her.
“Don’t stop, Kai. Not now,” she whispers against my ear and it’s all the motivation I need.
In one move, I pull off the red lace panties she has on and run a finger between her legs. She’s wet and throbbing, her eyes begging me to give her more.
In one easy thrust, I slide into her and her cries fill the entire room. My thrust is slow and deep at first, filling every inch of her until I find a rhythm that works for both of us.
“Fuck, Kai!” she cries out, making me thrust deeper, increasing my pace as I feel us get close to the edge. Her hips roll as I move, her back arch as she takes in as much as I thrust into her.
Every growl, every sharp exhale, is met with a gasp, a bite, a grip. The intensity is relentless and I’m so close to the edge, and I can tell she is too.
When we finally collapse against each other, our bodies slick with sweat, hearts hammering, the room spins in the aftermath of what we’ve done. She rolls off me, straightening her clothes, cheeks flushed, eyes burning.
“This was physical,” she says, voice firm, breath still uneven. “Nothing more.”
I grin, tugging the hem of my shirt back into place, chest heaving. “Keep telling yourself that, Rochelle.”
Even as she leaves, the room still holds the heat of us, the marks of her the tension, and the chaos we created together. And I already know we’re nowhere near done.
17
I wake to the dull ache of muscles I didn’t know could hurt, and my skin still tingling where Kai’s hands and teeth left their marks last night. A sharp inhale escapes me, and I can’t stop the small, guilty smile that flits across my lips. Last night was…insane. It was reckless and delicious.
I sit at the edge of the bed, my laptop open on the desk, and stare at the blank document. My mind should be focused, typing out the interview notes, shaping the article, chasing the story Marcus Webb is desperately on my neck for.
But all I can think about is Kai. His hands, the sharp bite of his teeth on my shoulder, the way he pulled me against him without hesitation. My professional mask feels miles away, buried under a layer of lust and undeniable chemistry I can’t talk myself out of.
I run a hand over my face, trying to cool the fire inside me, but it doesn’t work. Every memory drags me back, makes me cravemore, even as my stomach twists in guilt. I crossed every line I swore I’d never cross with a subject.
Every ounce of journalistic integrity I claimed to have? Shredded. He’s not just a player, not just a story and yet I let him become something else entirely. Something personal. Dangerous. And now I’m sitting here, completely compromised, feeling both euphoric and terrified.
I lean back against the headboard, eyes closed, letting the memories roll over me. Every gasp, every shiver, every whispered warning I ignored flashes my memory vividly. The thought that I could have been caught, that anyone could have walked in and seen us… it should make me furious, ashamed, but instead, it makes my pulse race all over again.
Taking a deep breath, I open my eyes and stare at the screen in front of me. The cursor blinks, accusingly, demanding the professionalism I no longer feel. I type a few words and delete them immediately. The story, the scandal Marcus wants, the career I’ve worked so hard to build, they all feel distant, almost meaningless.
Not because I don’t care about my job, but because the line I’ve crossed with Kai has rewritten everything. The desire, the tension, the sheer intensity of last night lingers, and I can’t shake it.
I sigh, closing the laptop, and tucking my legs beneath me. I need to focus. I have to. But even as I tell myself that, I know the truth. Part of me wants this as much as I fear it. And that, more than anything, terrifies me.
I step into the facility, the familiar scent of ice hitting me immediately. My notepad is in hand, my pen ready as always,but my focus is split. Last night’s encounter with Kai is still fresh under my skin, making me acutely aware of his every movement around me. I shove the memory aside, mostly but it lingers, like a shadow I can’t escape.
Kai is on the ice, stretching and chatting with teammates, his usual intensity softened in a way I rarely see. My eyes drift toward Jake Rivera. From what I hear, he’s the closest friend Kai has on the team. The two of them exchange a joke, shoulders bumping, and I catch a genuine laugh from Kai, full and unguarded. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and for a second, he isn’t the magnetic, untouchable hockey star I’ve been writing about. He’s just… Kai Morrison.
Jake claps him on the back, teasing him about some minor mistake in a drill, and Kai retaliates with a mock shove. I watch them move with easy familiarity, their bond is effortless. There’s a softness in Kai’s gaze whenever he looks at Jake, a trust that’s obvious even from across the rink. My pen hovers over the page, but the words don’t come. I’m torn between documenting the story and trying to dissect this new side of him I didn’t expect to see.
I take a few careful steps closer, pretending to adjust my angle for better observation, all the while acutely aware of the tension lingering between us from last night. Every movement Kai makes draws my gaze, and I can’t help but notice the subtle way his shoulder flexes, the way his jaw tenses when Jake teases him. My pulse quickens despite my best efforts to maintain professional composure.
I start jotting down some notes, careful to keep them neutral, but my mind is working overtime. This softer side of Kai, his loyalty, his humor, the way he genuinely interacts with Jake adds layers to the story that I hadn’t anticipated. It challengesthe narrative Marcus wants me to write, the scandalous version of Kai Morrison that I’ve been pushed to uncover. There’s a clear display of humanity here that complicates everything, and I’m completely aware of how my growing attraction to him shifts my perspective even further.
West Carmack speaks quietly to Kai about a rookie they’re mentoring, and Kai’s expression softens even more. My curiosity spikes. I want to ask questions, dig into the story behind this bond, but I hesitate. Professionalism demands distance, but my desire to understand him and to be near him overrides my caution.
I scribble down a few final notes and step back, taking a deep breath. My mind is spinning, torn between my responsibilities as a journalist and the undeniable pull of my lingering desire for the star hockey player. Kai isn’t just a subject anymore. He’s complicated, magnetic, and impossible to ignore. And watching him with Jake today has only made me more aware of just how human and real he is beyond the headlines.
I take a steadying breath before approaching Jake, careful to keep my notepad angled just right so it looks professional rather than intrusive. He notices me coming, gives a small nod, and I can tell immediately that he’s wary and protective, the way he always seems to be with Kai.
