Puck Prince (Houston Scythes Hockey #1)

3. Callie

3

CALLIE

“It could be worse,” I tell Delilah, who is surprisingly just lying on my lap, claws retracted. She might even be purring. Probably dreaming about smothering me in my sleep, but still. “It could be ra?—”

I spoke too soon. Little drops of rain begin to fall. Of fucking course.

I huddle farther into the chair, which, by the way, is no California King and this is very much not the Bahamas. It all tracks, though. A shitty couple of months running unchecked right into a shitty night. And if I don’t get off this balcony before sunrise when Kennedy comes walk-of-shaming through the door, it’s looking to be a shitty weekend, too.

I would cheers to that sentiment, but I don’t even have my wine.

Fanfuckingtastic .

Suddenly, the other door opens. My mouth runs before I even turn my head in that direction. “I already told you, I don’t need?—”

My words cut off when I get hit in the face with a blanket. A soft, warm blanket… that also smells delicious. I wonder if that’s how Owen, the-maybe-but-probably-not-serial-killer, smells. God, I could eat it like cake.

I’m freezing, though I wouldn’t admit that under pain of death, so I wrap the blanket around me like a cocoon and toss him a begrudging, “Thanks.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.” But he doesn’t go back inside. Instead, he braces his hands on the railing, flexing his forearms in the process. “Better?”

“Much.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I already said thank you. It’s a blanket, not a life-saving kidney. Don’t make more of it.”

He laughs, and fuck me , it’s a sexy sound. Gritty and loud. It twists those perfectly curved lips into the most scrumptious smile. A smile I wouldn’t mind feeling on my own lips. All the lips, if you know what I’m saying.

I squeeze my thighs together under the blanket.

“Same question as you asked me,” he says.

“What?”

“Are you always like this?”

I sit up, though I’m still wrapped in the cinnamon roll-scented blanket. As much as he’s irritating the ever-loving shit out of me, I keep getting sucked back in for more. “And just what is that supposed to mean? I am trapped on a balcony?—”

“Not trapped. I’ve offered a way out. This is a choice.”

“Unfortunately, I have no pants on.”

“That’s only unfortunate for you. I’m enjoying the view.”

I shoot him a look that could kill. “It’s raining.”

“It’s barely drizzling. And, not to beat a dead horse, but there’s a roof available to you just a hop, skip, and jump away.”

“My life is—” I stop. Nope. Not going to give him that much. This jester would just take my sob story and make a joke out of it.

But he’s not just a jester. He’s a mind reader, too. His eyes narrow in interest. “Finish that sentence.”

I don’t want to. I don’t even know him. But right now, huddled in his blanket, marooned on a locked balcony with the sky crying and my world crumbling, I’m struggling to maintain the RBF and emotional dissociation required to remain amongst the walking, talking, not-openly-crying types.

“Messy,” I say in the end. “My life is messy.”

“I like messes.” He grabs a chair, spinning it in his hand like a bar stool, plops down in it, and tips his head again for me to go on. “Tell me all about it.”

God help me, I want to unravel. I’ve needed to for a while. That’s why I came to Kennedy’s in the first place.

But I can’t do that with him. I don’t even know him.

Except, I kind of do.

Men like him are why my life is a mess. And I can’t get caught up in this, with someone like this, ever again.

Last time hurt too bad.

But I also can’t walk away. In the literal sense because of locks and the law of gravity, but also in the figurative sense.

I was speaking from experience when I said he could dole out lazy smiles and catch women like flies. I’m caught. Whether it’s that smile or his laugh or the way I might actually take a bite of this blanket it smells so good, he’s got me hooked.

“How about… you ask me questions, and I decide whether or not I want to answer?”

That makes him smirk. “A game. I like it.” His hands steeple as he thinks. “Where are you from, Callie?”

“Nearby.” It’s a meager breadcrumb, at best, but hey—I never said it was going to be a fair game.

But he runs with it. “Texas girl, I love it. And what do you do?”

“I help people.”

“This is like pulling teeth.”

“I help people… do their jobs better.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Queen of Vagueness.” He hops up, bracing against the balcony railing again. His muscles flexing… again. I don’t hate it. He’s got his sleeves pushed up to his elbows like some kind of forearm foreplay, and unfortunately, I am an absolute sucker for that sort of thing.

“What about you?” I flip it around. “What do you do besides watch hockey in a dirty jersey?”

“I play it, on occasion.”

“Sunday night beer league MVP?”

He chuckles. “Something like that.”

“I see.” I nod. “Your mother must be proud.”

He must sense the sarcasm, not that I went to any great lengths to hide it. “You don’t like hockey?”

How exactly do I answer that? Without, you know, answering that. “I don’t… mind hockey.”

“Ah. You don’t like hockey players .” He sits back down, but it’s an amused sit. A cocky sit.

“I don’t have a problem with hockey players in general.”

He narrows his eyes again. The way it darkens them all while furrowing his brow is enough to make me bite my lips together. Then he points at me. “You have a history with hockey players.”

Mayday, mayday! He is getting dangerously close to being… dangerously close.

The universe must have empathy, or a sense of humor, because the sky lights up before letting out an extremely melodramatic peal of thunder. “Alright, you win,” I tell him.

“Win what?”

I stand up, tuck the loose flap of the blanket around me to form a quasi-toga, and then grab the railing on my side. “You ready?”

“For what?”

“To put those pretty muscles of yours to good use and help me onto your side without me plummeting to my death. Preferably before one or both of us gets struck by lightning.”

I expect some aggressive I-told-you-so-ing, but Owen just nods. “Alright. Do you think you can get your leg over the railing? If you can sit on it, I can pull you over.”

I nod, though looking at the narrow space between the balconies and the long drop to the ground, I’m suddenly not so sure. My heart is racing, and I think I might be sick.

“Hey. Hey. Look at me.”

I look up at him. His eyes lock on mine, holding them. Holding me. “I got you.” The way he says it, I believe him.

Slowly, I step up onto the bottom of the railing. Then I swing one leg up, a death grip on the iron barricade.

“You got this,” he says. “Go slow. Have faith in your muscles. They’re not weak—they’re just tired.”

I stop, looking at him. I coined those words. He doesn’t know that. Can’t know that.

I step with my second foot to swing that leg over, too, but my foot slips on the wet metal.

“You good?” he asks, true panic in his voice.

I nod. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t love that you’re barefoot.”

“I don’t love that my ass is hanging out.” I maneuver to sit on the railing.

“I don’t hate that part.”

He smirks.

I glare.

“Alright.” He holds out his arms and leans over until they’re close enough for me to reach. “Grab my forearms just below the elbows, and I’ll do the same to you. Keep your arms strong and use your feet against the bars to push off. I will not drop you.”

It means letting go of the rail. I look down. “You sure?”

“Look at me,” he says again. His eyes holding mine again. “I promise.”

I reach out with one hand and, as soon as I do, his hand—a large, warm, trustworthy hand—clasps my arm.

“Now, the other one. It’s okay. I got you.”

I nod again and grab his other arm.

He offers a reassuring smile. “See? Not going anywhere. Count of three and you’re going to push off. I’ll lift you onto my side.”

Another nod.

“One… two… three.”

I push. He pulls.

I shriek, because, well, fear of heights and possible death. He lifts, and one flexed-muscle moment later, I am on his side of the balcony, my body wrapped around his. In the adrenaline of the moment I seem to have spider monkeyed around his large, athletic body. He does smell like cinnamon rolls.

“You good?” he asks as both our chests—which are pressed together as he continues to hold me—rise and fall.

“Yeah. Easy breezy. Nothin’ to it.”

The air between our mouths swirls together. Hot, wet, humid as the Texas sky around us. And it takes all of two seconds before our mouths crash into each other. He props me up in his arms, my legs instinctually wrapping around his toned waist, and I run my hands through his hair, releasing a second wave of that scent.

Fuck, this man smells edible.

Tastes edible.

I want to taste all of him. Speaking of that, I can feel him hard and ready right below me, with only a thin fleece blanket between us. But even that’s too much. I tug on the blanket, trying to unwrap myself from the cocoon.

He laughs grittily into my mouth. “Someone a little hot and bothered?”

I open my mouth to say something equally as salty when the sky lights up again, and we both jump, hugging tighter. “We should go?—”

“Yeah.” Owen laughs, scooping me up and walking us inside.

Meanwhile, our lips are still locked.

I apologize between kisses. “I’m sorry… for the inconvenience… I can’t believe… Kennedy… doesn’t have a spare key.”

“No… problem.”

We pull apart, looking at each other for a moment. “Any idea when your cousin will be back?” he asks in a low murmur, as if talking too loudly will break the thin ice we’re skating on. My legs are still wrapped around him and his hands are gripping my ass. His fingertips are so close to the place that is throbbing I wonder if he can feel it. Every pulse of my need.

I glance at the hockey puck-shaped clock on the wall. Cute . Past midnight. “If I had to guess, she won’t be back tonight.”

He adjusts his hands just right and runs one finger along the inseam of my thong. My mouth pops open and the air whistles out of my lungs like a balloon.

“Too much?” he whispers. “Can’t take it?”

Asshole. Two can play that game.

I shimmy down in his grip just enough that my pussy is pressed against his cock. He moans as I respond, “I don’t know. Is this too much?”

“Game on.” Owen tosses me onto the couch. I let out a half-laugh, half-shriek as he puts his hands on either side of my head, caging me in. His mouth covers mine and his tongue presses deep past my own. Meanwhile, one of his hands finds my breast. My nipples are on fire as he draws a circle around one of them with his thumb. Who told him that was a weakness of mine?

He kisses down my neck, until he’s on his knees in front of me, and lifts the white tank top to expose my breasts. I arch my back in want as he kisses them both, gently at first, then teasingly. His tongue flicks one of my nipples, and I let out a moan. I feel him smile against my skin.

“You like that?” His tongue swirls as he nibbles and sucks.

All I can manage is a nod.

He takes his time before moving on to the other one. I grip his shoulders, tugging and scratching, which only seems to make him hungrier and my breasts more devourable. He kisses down my stomach and sits in front of me.

His eyes flash up to mine with a look of mischief as he uses his hands to slowly push my thighs further apart. I nod in submission and he hooks his finger inside the thong, pulling it to the side before pressing his middle finger inside me.

“Oh my God,” I let out, leaning back into the couch. He takes his ring and pointer finger, using them to part me to make room for his mouth. A moment later, I feel his tongue, hot and soft, working with skill as his middle finger makes a come hither motion inside of me.

“Jesus Christ, you have to be fucking kidding me.” I grip the couch.

“You surprised I know what I’m doing?” he asks, mouth still on me.

I’m surprised I’m not dead and at eternal rest in some sexy as hell version of heaven.

“I never said that.”

“Sounds like you doubted me.”

“No. I just… I mean… Shut up and lick.” I grab him by the hair and shove his face farther against me, making him laugh.

“Yes, ma’am.” With that, he picks up speed, his tongue sucking, licking, flicking. All the while, his finger beckoning inside of me.

I near the edge like a car without brakes, a runaway vehicle knowing it’s going over the edge and not giving a shit. As I fly through the white light, I gush. My mouth opens, but no words come out.

He stays pressed to me the whole time, letting me ride out my orgasm. Only when I’m finally done does Owen sit back, wipe his face, lick his fingers, and shoot me what I’m quickly realizing is his signature smirk.

“How ya doin’?” he asks cockily.

I can’t breathe. Words are hard. But speaking of hard… “Is that all you got?”

Owen stops dead and his mouth curls into a grin.

He bolts up, taking me with him, and marches into his room where he tosses me on the bed. He rips the nightstand drawer open, pulls out a condom, and opens it with his teeth. It’s a fast and fluid motion. Pants down, condom on, jersey off. The next thing I know, he’s on top of me, caging me again. A quick look from him and a nod from me, and he tugs my thong off and I feel him inside of me.

Hard. Throbbing. Hot. Thick.

“Oh, fuck me,” he lets out, getting his bearings before thrusting deeper. I gasp, realizing that I might just come again already. And again. “You feel so good.”

“Harder,” I tell him.

Owen comes to his knees and grabs me by the hips, yanking me up to him, holding me there while he slides in and out, harder and harder, crashing into that fiery spot deep inside of me that most men never know how to find.

“Owen…”

“Are you going to come for me again?” he taunts.

“That depends. Are you going to come for me?”

Owen bears down with a ferocious grunt. He thrusts until I can see his abs engaged, I can feel the friction inside of him, swelling up and up and bigger and bigger…

Until everything releases and we both come completely the fuck apart.