Forbidden Puck
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
About the Author
Forbidden Puck
June Winters
Copyright 2017 June Winters
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter 1
Too Much
Ella Couture
I rifled through my wardrobe for clothes while my boyfriend, Matthew, watched from the bed. Through the open window and 50 stories down, we could hear the distant honking and humming of stop-and-go New York City traffic.
Matthew chuckled. “I can't believe you're seriously packing a bag three weeks early.”
“I can't help it. I'm so excited,” I sang. “Key West! A real vacation. Do you have any idea how long it's been since I've had a vacation? Or, heck, since I've taken a day off?”
Matthew didn't answer. I peeked over my shoulder and saw he was multi-tasking with his phone, thumbs busily tapping and swiping away at the glowing screen. I'd come to accept his constant phone use as a hazard of trying to date a lawyer—the poor guy never could get away from the office. I could relate! But at least I don't have an office I need to be at, because I'm self-employed.
I think we'd make a good husband and wife duo, the lawyer and the interior decorator, both successful in our respective fields and enjoying a luxurious life together. If anything, this trip to Key West was just a taste of our lavish years to come.
With Matthew distracted with his phone for the moment, I nervously bit my lip and quickly stuffed some racy lingerie into my suitcase. I'd bought it just for our trip together.
Matthew never even looked up. I'd gotten away with it.
Whee! It's the small thrills in life that always get your heart going.
Most of all, I wanted it to be a surprise. I didn't want Matthew to suspect that I was finally, well, ready. I could picture it so well—watching the sunset on the beach, a romantic candle-lit dinner, the two of us going back to our hotel, our hands clasped, butterflies in my stomach as I knew the magic moment was about to happen … the look on his face, of true love and pure desire, when he took off my little black dress and saw my white lingerie for the first time.
The poor guy had already waited almost four months. Which was a lot longer than most other guys I've dated. There's a funny thing about being a virgin: every guy you date thinks it's insanely hot at first. That's only because he assumes that he'll be the guy with the magic touch that makes panties smolder, and after a date or two, you'll be begging and screaming for his cock. But the first time his hand starts to wander up your legs, and you clasp your thighs shut and tell him no, the realization smacks him like a brick wall: he'll have to work for this.
And that is the precise moment when they stand up, mumble a few niceties, and run for the door.
I'm not even waiting for marriage or anything like that. I never even meant to be a virgin. It just sort of happened, or I guess didn't happen, and here I am—still lugging around a v-card at age 22. But since I've waited this long? I feel like there's no point in rushing to lose it. The first time might as well be special, right …?
All I'm looking for is a guy who can prove that he's willing to work for it. And most importantly, be honest with me—because honesty is the most important thing in the world to me. But those two things are way too much to ask in this day and age, apparently.
Until I met Matthew.
Matthew. A 32 year old lawyer with his life together. Matthew is a big kid at heart, and if you looked at the two of us together, you'd never know he was a decade older than me. Truth be told, I'm surprised his firm never lectures him about his messily-tousled hair, or his suits that look like they could use an ironing …
But the point is, Matthew is taking me to Key West for a week. Just the two of us. Which was a big step in our four-month relationship. He's not yet ready to make us Facebook official, but hey, he wants to take me to Key West. Which is a pretty big deal, in my opinion. Some people are just weird about social media, right? So what if he doesn't want all his friends and family on FB to know we're an item. That's not something I should be concerned about … right?
But if I won't sleep with Matthew—what was I waiting for anymore? Did I even know anymore? What if I missed out on a real quality guy?
I finished packing my bag, zipped it up and let out an accomplished and musical sigh. Matthew was still texting when I jumped on the bed next to him and curled up to him.
“Hey, who are you texting?” I flirted, wrapping my arm around his burgeoning tummy. With all the time spent in the office and eating fast-food, he was nurturing a cute little potbelly.
“Oh, uh, just some work e-mails.” Matthew hurriedly shut his screen off so I wouldn't see it.
… Hm. Something about that maneuver I didn't like.
“Must be some awfully sensitive work e-mails,” I teased.
“Well yeah, attorney-client privilege is pretty important—”
I wedged my fingers into his armpits and dug, giving him a good tickle. “You're not screwing around on me now, are you, Matthew?”
He fought me off and swore under his breath. “Fuck, Ella! How many times do I have to tell you? I'm super ticklish and I hate it when you do that.”
I backed off. “Sorry, dude. We just haven't talked at all since you
showed up. You've been on that thing all night.”
He laid his phone at his side. “Well. Here I am. So, what do you wanna talk about.”
“Hmm. You could ask me how my day at work went.”
He took a deep breath. I could tell he was still annoyed about the tickling.
“So, Ella, how was your day at work?” he asked, slightly strained.
Happily, I began to tell him about the latest kitchen remodeling project I'd just finished in an apartment in Cobble Hill. It was an apartment that had languished in the décor of the boring, blasé 90's. Appliances that had once tried to look futuristic, now looked plain dated. The orange wood cabinetry and matching island hadn't aged so gracefully, either. The laminate counter-tops looked unacceptably cheap, and the white tile floor looked uninspired.
But as of today, I was happy to report that the project was finished. New cabinets, a new island, new appliances and lighting and a beautiful tile backsplash and hardwood floor and farmhouse sink, to just name a few of the upgrades, and the client had absolutely loved it all, and …
Matthew nodded while I told him all this, injecting perfectly placed uh huh's or right's whenever necessary. But the whole time, his phone, lying on the mattress between us, buzzed incessantly. One bzzt after another bzzt, and I could see it in his eyes, he wasn't listening to me; his mind was on those text messages.
“Someone sure enjoys their attorney-client privilege,” I said. “Who's texting you, anyway?”
He patted me on the head, as I were a well-behaved puppy. “Oh, I don't know, probably one of my partners at the office.”
“Don't lie to me, Matthew …” I said lowly. “You know lying is a deal-breaker to me.”
“Yeah yeah, of course.” But he was quick to change the subject. “Well hey, I'm glad to hear your little work thing turned out.”
Little work thing?
“So, how's Lance doing?” he asked. “Spoken to him lately?”
Really? He's asking about my brother again?
“I dunno, why?”
“He's on a goal-scoring tear lately. Lance and his winger, Ryan Ryder, have some serious chemistry together. Ryder is like a wrecking ball out on the ice, crushing guys left and right and clearing space for your brother. It lets Lance focus on scoring goals, while Ryder does all the dirty work. They've got a good thing going. It's a really exciting brand of hockey they're playing right now, honestly. Everyone's talking about them.”
“Oh.” I gave a small shrug of my shoulder. “I wouldn't know. I don't really watch his games all that closely. Or at all.”
“Yeah. I know. You're crazy.” Matthew chuckled. “If I had a brother in the NHL, I wouldn't miss a single game.”
“So you've said,” I said with a sigh.
“Ella,” Matthew said, sounding suddenly serious. He took my hand in his and gently squeezed. “Can I ask you something?”
“Um, sure.”
His eyes probed deeply into mine.
“When do you think I'll get to meet Lance?” he asked at last.
Why did I feel like Matthew would be happier taking my brother to Key West …?
“I don't introduce my family to guys unless we're serious,” I answered at last. “It's bad form.”
Hint, hint.
“This again?” Matthew smiled, but it wasn't a happy one, and he let go of my hand. “Holy shit, Ella. That's a hell of a thing to say to a guy who's taking you to Key West in three weeks. How paranoid are you? How many times do I have tell you that I'm not dating anybody else? I mean, seriously, what more do you want from me?”
My eyes searched skyward for guidance. On one hand, I hated to make demands. On the other hand, he was asking, wasn't he?
“You could make our relationship Facebook official, for one.”
“Facebook official,” he scoffed. “I don't subscribe to all that social media bullshit, okay. If you wanna obsess over it, that's your problem, not mine.”
Says the guy constantly on his phone.
I shrugged. “Alright. Sorry.”
He blew out a heavy exhale and pulled me closer to his body. “Ella. I'm sorry too. I just get so anxious before a vacation, you know? But don't worry, I'll be able to relax once we're on the beach … just you and me … some drinks … you know?”
“Yeah. I'm excited,” I said.
“Me too.”
He smiled at me, stroked my face, and moved in for a kiss. I kissed him back, even if I didn't really want to. But then Matthew cupped my breast, and his hand began the quick descent down my side, over my hips and between my thighs …
“Matthew,” I said, and I pushed his hand away as gently as I could. “Not now …”
He threw his arms at his side, into the mattress, with a thud.
“Alright—alright. Nope. Can't do this.”
I sat up. “What?”
“I thought I could, but I can't.”
“Can't do what?”
“I'm not going to Key West with a girl that refuses to put out.”
“Excuse me?” I panted.
“You're just so much to deal with, Ella. You're so demanding and overbearing and ugh. It's a lot of shit to put up with, all for a girl that doesn't even wanna fuck.”
My stomach twisted into sickening knots. I could not believe this was truly happening. “Are you for real right now?”
“I'm dead-ass, babe. You wanna know the truth? You wanna know the whole truth, like you're always asking?”
He snatched up his cell phone and showed me what his 'business e-mails' really were: girls that he was busily messaging on Tinder.
“These aren't work e-mails. These are sluts that I was arranging to meet as soon as I left your place tonight.”
My jaw dropped.
“Surprised? You shouldn't be. I'm a lawyer, Ella. I'm single, I'm young, and I live in a fantastic apartment in Park Slope. I don't have to wait for pussy. Pussy comes to me. Pussy is dying to fuck me.”
I made a face like the stench coming off him was unbearable.
“Wow. So this is the real you, huh? You are literally repulsive. Those girls can have you, for all I care. You might be a lawyer, but you look and dress like a middle-school boy—and you talk about sex like one, too. It's time to grow up, Matthew, you're not getting any younger.”
“And what about you?” he taunted.
“What about me?”
“You're a seven at best, and that's if I'm feeling charitable. Did you really believe that I was going to wait around for you?”
Blood boiled in my veins, and my fists clenched automatically. My infamous temper began to rise and it took all the restraint I had left not to hit this idiot square on the nose …
“Then why the hell would you waste my time? Why even offer to take me to Key West, if that's how you feel about me?”
“Because.” He gave an arrogant chuckle. “I told all the boys on my beer league team that I'm banging Lance Couture's little sister.” He punctuated the barb with a grotesque sneer. “Figured I should probably hit it at least once to cosmically justify all my bragging, or something—but fuck it. I'm cutting bait. Right now.”
He stood up and put his shoes on.
“Wow, you're an asshole,” I snarled. “For your information, I was actually planning on making the colossal mistake of fucking you in Key West. Thanks you for shooting yourself in the foot, moron.”
“Oh, I'm sure you were, Ella. Just like I was going to drop to one knee, pull out a ring, and pop the question on the beach.” He rolled his eyes.
“Whatever. Get out of my apartment already, you heartless douche-bag.”
He headed for the door, but stopped to get one last word in. “You know. You were right about one thing. Damn, it feels good to tell the truth.”
With that, he left.
I kicked my suitcase off the bed, crawled under the sheets, curled into a ball and told myself I wouldn't cry.
So much for Key West. Guess I'll just spend the week working like usual …
The Code
Ryan 'Radar' Ryder
At thirty-four thousand feet in the air, the Boston Brawlers had left Denver and were finally heading home.
The four of us sat in the team plane's lounge, crammed into the restaurant-style booth.
On my left was Lance Couture. At 24 years old, Lance is our all-star. He's all speed, flash and skill, and supreme confidence in his talent. He's also my best bud and roommate. At the start of this season, we moved into a sweet condo together downtown.
Across the table, captain Shea Ellis. At 37, Shea is still the Brawlers' undisputed #1 defenseman. He's not the fastest d-man anymore—but there's no substitute for the years of experience that the crafty vet has accumulated over his career.
To Shea's side sat goalie Ilya Zarkov. A fierce competitor who didn't speak a word of English when he arrived in the States to play hockey at age 20. Ilya still speaks with a thick (and sometimes hilarious) Russian accent—but his English had really improved from when he first joined the league. The guys love 'em, even if we all think he's completely nuts.
Anytime we flew home after a road trip, the four of us had a tradition of getting together for a cut-throat game of poker. And we were feeling the heat: our suit jackets had come off, our neck-ties loosened, and our shirt sleeves rolled up.
I laid my cards on the table with a sigh. “I'm out. I got fuckin' nothing.”
“Same,” Ilya muttered.
Now the hand was between Shea and Lance.
“Long road trip, eh boys?” Shea said as he pushed a small stack of $500 chips into the pile with a clattering clink and raised the pot. He lifted a salt-and-pepper eyebrow and cast a suspicious glance at Lance.
Lance clutched a bag of ice to his swollen and purple eye thanks to a punch he'd taken in the game. “It was only a week on the road. You feeling it in your bones, old man?” he teased.
Shea didn't react. “Waiting on you, young-blood.”
Lance finally pushed a stack of chips into the pile. “I've played enough poker with you to know that you love small talk when you're bluffing.”
Suddenly looking ten years younger, Shea revealed his cards.
“Aw, fuck!” Lance swore while Shea lunged forward and greedily scooped up the entire pot with a snicker.