Wanna Puck? - A MFM Bad Boy Hockey Star Menage Page 3

  He didn’t seem to be bragging, simply stating facts.

  “Did you ever—oh, hold on. I need to tell you that I am officially recording now. Just for my own notes.” I rifled through my bag and took out the sleek, subtle tape recorder.

  “Dinner on the record?” he asked, eying the recorder suspiciously. “Is that absolutely necessary?”

  “Yes,” I said firmly. “Otherwise I won’t remember everything.” Because I’ll be too busy imagining you lifting me up and pinning me against that wall…

  The food came, then, and I slipped the recorder into the service tray of sweeteners. I wasn’t going to waste unnecessary time arguing about the privacy concerns of tape recorders. If I didn’t say anything, maybe he would forget about it.

  I nearly forgot about it myself. The aroma of the dish before me was enough to get my mouth watering, and my first bite had my eyes practically rolling back in my head.

  “So?” he asked with a cocky little smile.

  “Too early to say,” I lied. “There are plenty of good Thai places around here.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, lightly sarcastic. “Whatever you say, Ms. Ramos. But when we leave, I’m gonna need a real answer.”

  “Deal,” I said between bites.

  Chapter 5

  I was sure I looked like a pig, but it was so good. Dante didn’t seem to mind; his victorious smirk widened every time I chose a bite over a question. Finally, after sampling each delicious dish on the table, I wiped my mouth and met his glittering eyes.

  “So, what’s the real story, Mr. Drake?”

  “Please, call me Dante.”

  “Only if you call me Livia.”

  “Deal.” He smiled that delicious smile. “Anyway. The story. No, hold on. Before I start, let me tell you a few things about Joel so you’ll have some context for all this.”

  “Wow,” I said, feeling my eyebrows raise high. “A rivalry which requires context. I am intrigued.”

  He grinned into his plate for a moment, then put on a serious expression.

  “How much do you know about hockey?” he asked.

  I chewed slowly for a moment, choosing my words carefully. After a moment, I decided to be honest.

  “Everything I know about hockey I learned in twenty-two minutes on the internet yesterday morning.”

  He blinked at me for a second, then threw his head back in laughter. I smiled demurely, patiently waiting him out.

  “I’ve never met a sports writer who didn’t know sports,” he said with mirth in his eyes. “How’d you land the job?”

  “The Crier didn’t want just another sports article,” I told him. “They wanted to get to know you and Palmer.”

  “They? Or you?” he asked, his eyes twinkling dangerously.

  “Do I have to choose one?”

  His grin widened, and he licked sauce off of his bottom lip, sending quivers through my core.

  “Even with just that, you should have some idea of how dangerous hockey can be,” he continued. “Practice isn’t just important—it’s vital. One wrong move on the ice and you’re in for knee surgery or stitches. We have to be in perfect sync. My team has been working hard together for so long that we’re practically telepathic. We know what to do—and what our teammates will do—in just about any scenario.”

  “Do you drill for every potential scenario?” I asked.

  “Not until we get a psychic on our team,” he teased. “We can’t know everything that’s going to happen in advance. What we can and do know is how our teammates will respond to things. It’s not really about what to do, more like…how to decide what to do. Does that make sense?”

  “I think so,” I said, taking a sip of wine. “You’ve trained each other to think the same way when you’re on the ice, to process information the same way.”

  “Exactly,” he replied. “But what happens to that coherent strategy when someone just decides not to participate?”

  “As in, doesn’t show up to practice, or can’t figure out how to think?”

  “The first one,” he said, rolling annoyance off of his tongue. “If you don’t show up to practice, you don’t learn how to think. If you don’t learn how to think, you’re just gonna be out there, putting your team at risk so you can be the star of the show.” He shook his head in disgust.

  “How does the coach feel about this?” I asked.

  “Like he doesn’t want to cross Joel’s agent,” Dante said darkly. “They’ve got big plans for that screw-up kid. But I would bet money that he washes out of the league long before they get the kickbacks they’re dreaming about.”

  “Really? I thought he was a good player?”

  Dante shot me a wry look. “The best player in the world would wash out if he didn’t learn to sync with his team. Frankly, I don’t know how the kid made it through peewee hockey without getting tossed out on his ass.”

  “So, you think he’s irresponsible…”

  “Recklessly irresponsible.”

  “That seems a bit strong.”

  Dante turned his palm over, searching the ceiling for the words to say.

  “It isn’t just that he’s missing practice,” he explained. “It’s why he’s missing practice. He parties, and he parties hard. He could give an entire fraternity a run for their money. If he did show up, he would show up hungover and get himself seriously injured or worse.”

  Dante shook his head disapprovingly and took a bite.

  “How does that affect your rivalry?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “It drives it, to a certain extent. If he wants to win, he’ll need to get his head in the game. If he doesn’t, well…” He grinned wickedly, his brilliant eyes glittering. “It’ll be fun to knock him down a peg or five.”

  I laughed at his obvious pleasure. When I looked at him again, his eyes were lingering on my neckline. I casually rolled my shoulders back, leaning forward ever so slightly, a sultry smile twisting my lips. When he glanced up at my eyes, I could almost see the electricity in the air.

  “You don’t sound too worried about him,” I observed, cocking my head to the side. “Everybody seems to think that he’s going to overtake you as the star of the team.”

  “Not a chance,” Dante said with a cocky twist of his lips. “Not with the way he lives. He’ll burn out in a year, hang in there for another season or so, and disappear. I’ve seen it before. You’re either dedicated to the sport, or you aren’t, and that is the single most important difference between success and failure. A player’s body is his tool, and it needs to be cared for even in his down time.”

  “What do you do in your down time?” I asked. “We know Palmer parties. I know a few of the other players are active in different areas—I stumbled across Krushnic’s charity page. Are you all hockey all the time, or…?”

  He chuckled softly. “Hockey is my work. I’m passionate about it, but I can’t let it define me. I’ve seen too many legends fall without a stick to lean on. I spend my downtime appreciating life.”

  He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

  “Tasting a bit of everything that life has to offer.”

  His touch sent shivers through my body. The delicious Thai food before me suddenly paled in comparison to the promise of carnal dessert in the air.

  “And what are your favorite flavors?” I asked suggestively.

  “The obvious, of course,” he acknowledged, trailing his fingers over the back of my hand. “And also books. Literature is an incredible tool. To be able to wrap truth in fiction…it’s almost like the authors map out new connections in their readers’ brains, open them up to see the world in a new light, without ever letting them know what’s happening.”

  “I never thought about fiction that way,” I admitted, surprised at this intellectual side of him. “Words are powerful; that’s why I’m drawn to them—but I’m no good with fiction.”

  “Oh, I think you could be,” he said with an assessing look.

  I smiled a little,
my own confidence swelling slightly with his compliment.

  “What else do you like?” I asked.

  He grinned at the table, looking almost embarrassed. I found the contrast of that look on his powerful, macho body endlessly attractive, and I shifted my legs under the table to brush my calf against his.

  “I enjoy opera,” he said quietly. “And plays. I go out dancing whenever I have the opportunity.”

  “To clubs? Which ones?” I asked, wondering if I might have seen him before.

  “Oh, no,” he said, his expressive face exhibiting distaste. “I gave up clubbing years ago. No, I go down to the old Dancehall Revival. Ballroom, swing, Latin dance, that kind of thing. Better music, better lighting, and better people. Granted, most of the women who go are either old enough to be my mother or young enough to be my daughter, so it’s not much of a help to my love life.”

  “Then why go?” I asked.

  “To dance,” he said simply. “Have you ever danced like that?”

  I had to think about it for a long moment. Sure, I’d danced plenty—awkward high school dances and girls’ nights out in bars and clubs…but ballroom dancing?

  “Once,” I said finally, nostalgia settling on my face as the memory surfaced. “When I was about nine years old. My dad’s friend got married, and there was this huge dance floor at the reception.

  “This old man—I mean, he seemed old to me, but he was probably in his mid-fifties—was dancing with everybody. I was bored and energetic from too much cake, and demanded to dance with him.” I laughed at the memory. “Poor guy spun me around the floor for three songs before my dad rescued him. I’d almost forgotten.”

  “I would love to remind you sometime,” he said, lifting my hand from the table and pressing it to his lips. “A woman like you deserves to be spun.”

  Depth, class, and charm. He was surprising me more with every sentence, exciting my mind along with my body. I wanted more of him in every way, but when he slid his hand down to lightly tease the tender skin on my wrist, the primal need took priority.

  I suggested we call for the check.

  Chapter 6

  I’m not sure whether he invited me back to his place or I invited myself, but it was clear where the evening was headed before the check came.

  Dante’s guiding hands lingered a little longer, softened a little more, trailed as he pulled them away. Tension built in the car on the ride back, and by the time he unlocked the door of his apartment, I was aching for him.

  As the door closed behind me, he turned, placing his hands on either side of my head, sandwiching my ravenous body between himself and the door. His breath was hot against my lips, and his gaze burned deliciously over me.

  “I would like to kiss you, Ms. Ramos.”

  “I would enjoy that, Mr. Drake,” I replied, lightly mocking.

  He crushed the sass out of my mouth with his full, supple lips. He stole my breath with his tongue, ignited my body with his hands. I writhed against him as he pressed into me, wrapping one leg around his, opening my hips as he grew hot and hard against me.

  There were entirely too many clothes between us, in spite of my short skirt. He broke away from my kiss, breathing heavily, his eyes smoldering beneath his thick lashes.

  “Let me give you the tour,” he said, his voice rumbling low in his throat.

  He grabbed my hand and led me through the small, beautifully decorated apartment. I was struck by the clean lines and tasteful choices in a hazy sort of way; I was paying far more attention to his energy, his scent, his touch. He must have been in much the same state, because the “tour” was as short as it could have been.

  “The kitchen’s in there,” he said, pointing past a classic dining table to a swinging door. “Living room’s through there.”

  The arched opening revealed dark brown couches and little glass tables, simultaneously masculine and aesthetically pleasing, just like the man who lived there. He pointed out a few more places, then pushed through a pair of French doors tucked into a sunken alcove.

  “Finally, the bedroom,” he said as he pulled me into it.

  “It’s a nice room,” I murmured, running my hand up his arm.

  He caught me around the waist and pulled me into a deep kiss. Excitement rattled my senses and burned in my veins as his tongue twisted around mine, as his hands swept over my body, brushing against every nerve, spreading warmth from the tips of my toes to my lust-drunk head.

  I was trembling with desire before he led me to the bed, picked me up, and lay me down beneath him. He cradled my shoulders with one arm, leaving his other to lazily trail over my quaking body as he kissed me.

  Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, he slid his hand up under my skirt, gently pressing his thumb against my already swollen clit.

  Gasping into his mouth, I arched against him, wordlessly begging for more. Molten heat pooled between my hips, shooting a tingle through my most sensitive area, soaking through my satin panties.

  He teased me mercilessly, keeping me always on the very edge of climax, until I growled and bit his lip. With a sultry little chuckle, he moved his mouth down my throat.

  Freeing his arm, he pulled my dress and bra down to reveal one hard-peaked breast. An appreciative groan escaped his lips as he pulled my nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the tip, driving me wild.

  I was ready to beg. He wanted me to, I could feel it, but I never begged. I twisted my fingers into his curly hair, pulling just enough to heighten the pleasure with a hint of pain, making him moan against me, and he caved.

  He tugged my panties off, found my pleasure point once more, and plunged his fingers inside of me as his thumb worked in quickening circles.

  A rush of ecstasy washed over me like sweet fire, up from my toes, down from my breasts, to explode from my pelvis. My ears rang, my legs shook, and still he didn’t stop. He drove me over the edge again and again, until my entire body was putty in his hands. My cries of pleasure awakened the animal within him. I could see it raging behind his eyes as he stripped me out of my clothes and removed his own.

  My eyes widened as his boxers came off. I was no virgin, but I had never in my life seen a man so heartily endowed. He must have interpreted my heightened interest as fear, because he gave me a small, soft smile.

  “I’ll be gentle,” he promised in a low, husky whisper.

  “Not too gentle,” I insisted, tangling him in my legs to center him over me. “I want it all.”

  His eyes darkened in a reflection of the desperate lust which coursed through my own body and he slid into me—slowly, tantalizingly. He felt as big as he looked, filling me to the brim and beyond, pressing against the limits of what I could hold. He groaned and shuddered, lowering his head to kiss my collarbone.

  I was in heaven when he was inside of me. I was in another dimension when he began to move.

  Gentle and firm, just as I had suspected. He took his time, thrusting slowly as he used his eyes and mouth and hands on my body. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been encompassed like that in the bedroom, with every part of my body engaged and attended to. It stirred feelings deeper than lust, feelings which I was almost willing to risk acknowledging.

  “Roll that beautiful body over,” he told me as he flipped me, tucking one ankle over his shoulder.

  “Oh my God,” I breathed as he withdrew, then filled me all at once.

  He stroked my back, my ass, my breasts, caressing me as he stirred my senses. His bulging muscles slicked with sweat, he kissed my ankle and slid his hand between my thighs, playing my body like an instrument. As he pumped, faster and faster, rubbing on me with the heel of his hand, a universe of pleasure exploded within me.

  He groaned and cursed mildly under his breath, then grabbed my hips and turned them until I was on my hands and knees, never once breaking our intimate connection. His hands worshiped my curves as he plunged into me, a primal rhythm, an ancient dance. I felt his hands in my hair, tugging me back, arc
hing me into him.

  Pleasure built again to an insistent ache, and I pushed back against him in time with his thrusts, needing more—needing everything he had.

  “Yes, baby,” he murmured, sending waves of excitement through my very core. “You’re so damn sexy.”

  His breath quickened with his thrusts, driving me to the edge. Then, he stopped. I gasped for breath, trembling in his grasp. He moved again, ever so slowly, running his hands over my back and hips, molding my body.

  Desperate for release, I slid away and rolled onto my back, pulling him into me with nails and thighs, arching up to slide around him.

  He gazed into my eyes for a long moment, just breathing. Stroking my face with one finger, he kissed me gently.

  “Relax,” he murmured. “Let go.”

  “I can’t,” I whimpered, locking my legs around his and pressing against his flat, hard belly. “I need you.”

  “Tell me how you need me,” he breathed, running his lips over my throat.

  “I need you inside me,” I breathed. “I need you to fill me up.”

  He groaned just under my ear and thrust hard into me. I cried out, my legs winding like steel springs around his hips, my pelvis crushed against his. He slid his hands up my body, pulling my arms over my head, holding my wrists down. Dante was the embodiment of masculine power, overwhelming me with his raw sex appeal, filling my senses with his pheromones.

  I bucked against him, demanding release, demanding his essence. With a slow, lazy grin, he kissed me. He pressed into me until I thought I would break, then moved in a circle, hitting every pleasure point with his thick length. I trembled with the power of it, giving myself up to him, utterly vulnerable in that moment.

  I felt his control snap, and I whimpered. He was so strong and so big that when his restraint left him, I was powerless. Anticipation tinged with just the slightest fear rocked me to my soul as he thrust into me, growling in my ear.