Puck & Make Up (A Rush Hockey #7)

Chapter 10

Ten

Dessie

“ N o,” I say on a sigh, tossing the binder of job suggestions he put together. “I will not be a stripper.”

He tosses that wolfish grin in my direction. “But you already have experience with poles.”

I roll my eyes.

But I’m secretly touched.

The man actually put together a collection of career suggestions for me.

Which is just…

Maybe the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.

“I believe I suggested an exotic dancer ,” he says, waggling his brows. “And why not? You’re hot and would be good at it.”

“For one,” I counter, “despite my pole experience, I have no rhythm. And for another, I don’t think my body type”—I wave a hand down my front—“screams stripper.”

The way his brows drag together in outrage may be even nicer than the whole binder of jobs. “Have you not seen that gorgeous body in the mirror?”

I laugh. “Oh, I’ve seen it. And so have my exes. I know exactly where I’m lacking?—”

I barely finish the word before I find myself pinned between a hard body and the couch.

“Fox,” I whisper.

Hot brown eyes on mine. “You are not lacking.” His mouth comes so close to mine that I think he’s going to kiss me.

Or maybe it’s just that I’m desperate for him to slant his mouth over mine.

Instead, I only feel his words on my lips. “Not lacking in anything , sugar.”

“Fox,” I whisper again.

“This body”—a hand drags along my side—“these curves. This strength. This ass—” He groans as he palms it. “You have no idea how much I dreamed of it.”

My hands tremble.

Hell, every part of me trembles.

I shift, spreading my legs slightly, feeling?—

Oh.

That’s nice.

And big.

And nice.

But even as I’m processing the hard length of his erection against my thigh, reveling in the pleasure of his weight pressing me into the cushions, even as I’m trying to summon the courage to part my legs a bit further and allow him even closer, he’s pushing off me, sitting us both up again, saying, “So if not an exotic dancer?—”

I huff out a breath and roll my eyes, but I can’t fight my smile.

Each of his “suggestions” has grown increasingly more and more outrageous, and I know it’s because he’s trying to help me—by both making me laugh and also to see if anything resonates.

“—definitely not an exotic dancer.”

He gives a beleaguered side that I don’t buy for a second as he continues, ticking off on his fingers as he says, “We’ve already turned down teacher and financial analyst.”

I nod.

“And park ranger and city planner and restaurant owner and”—he shakes his head at me, hang dog expression fully in place—“you also, for some reason, don’t want to get rich and own a hockey team.” Another beleaguered sigh. “So really, what’s left now?”

It’s my turn to sport that long-suffering expression.

Only mine isn’t fake.

None of what he’s saying, none of what he’s gathered—which, as I’ve established is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me?—

None of them fit .

“Ugh,” I groan, rubbing my hands over my face. “What’s wrong with me?”

Suddenly, his face is in mine again, those big brown eyes filled with determination. “Do I have to talk about that ass again?”

Somehow, I laugh. “ Fox .”

He settles his hand on the side of my neck. Gently. And I feel another piece of that shield around my heart shudder and break off. “Nothing’s wrong with you, sugar,” he says softly. “We’ll figure something out.”

My breath catches, hope blooming in my belly.

I always knew men could act like this, could be like this—hell, I’ve seen it with my friends. I just…never thought it was something I could have.

The gentle, the soft. The knowing —that something was eating me alive, that I was feeling insecure a couple of minutes ago, hell, even the fact that Fox remembered my favorite type of pasta and how I take my coffee is almost unfathomable.

Except…it’s not.

Because he did remember. And he’s here, brainstorming job ideas after having put together a color-coded—freaking color-coded! —binder of options, all of which was after having brought me dinner.

And coffee.

And cookies.

And…

He’s full of life, blazing bright and beautiful…

And he’s here for me .

More pieces of my shield falling away.

Especially when he slides closer to me on the couch and slips his arm around my shoulders, tucking me into his side, sheltering me against the warmth of him. Pressed against all of that big, hard strength is quickly becoming my favorite place to be, quickly filling my dreams, taking over my fantasies.

“It’ll be okay,” he murmurs, tightening that arm, bringing me closer. “I promise.”

I want to stay there, flush against him, but know I can’t, so I push gently against his side and remind him, “You have to leave for San Jose in the morning, and you have practices, workouts, along with training camp coming up. Then the season will be here, and you’ll be busy. You can’t spend all of your time trying to help me fix my disaster of a life.”

He lifts one of those big, strong shoulders and drops it in a careless shrug. “What else have I got to do?”

“Um,” I say. “Hockey and a life that doesn’t involve holding my hand?”

“Hockey’s not everything.”

“It’s your life. Your dream.”

“I don’t know if you’ve picked up on it, but—” He laces his fingers through mine. “I kind of like this, sugar.” A kiss to my knuckles. “Being here with you. Laughing and touching and talking with you.”

“Fox,” I murmur.

A wink. “Most especially when we’re talking about your pole skills.”

I swat at his shoulder. “There are no pole skills to speak of. The station didn’t even have one.”

His mouth curves up, making his beard twitch. “Well, that’s disappointing.”

“ So disappointing,” I tease. “And most of our call outs were for medical emergencies, not to actually put out fires.”

“Also disappointing.”

I roll my eyes. “All of that being said, you really should head home. It’s late, and you have a long drive in the morning.”

He turns and, if I’m not mistaken, there might be the barest thread of hurt in his eyes. You really want me to go?” he asks quietly.

Yes.

No.

Yes.

No.

But I don’t say those things aloud. Instead, I remind him, “It’s late and you have a life to get back to.”

“Sugar.”

It’s a reprimand.

One I narrow my eyes at.

“Princess,” I say pulling out a nickname from months ago that I know pisses him off.

But tonight, he just grins, as though it doesn’t bother him in the least and says, “Trying to make me mad, sugar?”

Ugh.

Why can he read me so easily?

“I’m trying to let you off the hook,” I grumble.

“And have I not made it clear that I don’t want to be let off the hook?” he counters, turning to fully face me.

The heat in his eyes has my pulse picking up its pace, and I suck in a breath when he comes closer. The intensity woven into his expression, the coiled strength in his big body…

I want.

So fucking badly.

My thighs tremble when he settles his hand on my knee, the warmth of his palm soaking through my pants, burning into my skin.

What I wouldn’t give for him to slide that hand a little higher.

Then higher until?—

“Have I not made it clear that I’m interested in you?” he asks, voice like roughened velvet stroking between my thighs. “Have I not made it clear that I dream about you, that I want to stroke every inch of your body, that I want to lick you from head to toe and then back up again. I need to find out how you taste, have to hear the sounds you make when you come. But first—” His voice drops, turning silken as he brushes his thumb along my bottom lip. “I’m just fucking desperate to kiss you.”

I shiver as he nudges me back onto the cushions again, his big body coming over me, covering me from head to toe. Heat gathers between my legs, making me go damp and warm and soft.

“This is a bad idea.” But I don’t push him away, and my words lack any kind of strength.

“No,” he says, “I think it’s the best idea either of us has ever had.”

I hitch my leg around his waist, feel the hard length of his erection against my pussy, and?—

Yes.

That’s good.

It’s fucking great.

And I’m in total agreement as he groans, one hand settling at my shoulder, the thumb on the other brushing along my bottom lip again, back and forth, back and forth .

“I want to kiss to you,” he rasps.

Heat blazes through me, erasing my common sense. “Then why aren’t you?”

He settles his forehead against mine and sighs. “Because you don’t trust me, sugar. And I get it. I’m not going to hurt you, but you don’t believe that?—”

“I want to,” I whisper.

“I know,” he says gently. “But you have good reason to be gun-shy.” A sigh as he shifts back enough to press his lips to my forehead before rolling us to our sides, his body behind mine, his arms wrapping around me. “So back to this job thing. Tomorrow I’ll?—”

“You’re leaving tomorrow,” I remind him.

“And there are these things called cell phones,” he teases. “Along with the internet. I won’t know any of the guys on the team, and the schedule will be light at first. I’ll have plenty of time to scroll through those new job listings. Plus”—he squeezes me a little tighter—“you’ll only be a couple hours’ drive away. I’ll come up and visit. I might even”—he drops his head, inhales deeply—“bring you some cookies if you let me in.”

My heart rolls over in my chest, and…I feel it then.

The last pieces of my shield fluttering away.

I’ve been wavering on knife’s edge.

Standing in the middle of its tipping point, perfectly balanced.

On one side, my isolated life. On the other…

Fox .

And as he picks up the remote and asks, “What bad movie are we watching?”

I already know which way I’ve fallen.