Hot as Ice--Heißkalt verloren. Pucked (Series). Helena Hunting Author Michaela Link Translator (). cover image of Hot as Ice--Heißkalt verspielt. Pucked Off (Pucked #6) - Helena Hunting - dokument [*.pdf] Table of Contents Ocken Proofing by Marla at Proofing with Style Pucked Off is a work of fiction. [PDF] Free Download Pucked Love By Helena Hunting, Pucked Love By Helena Hunting Pucked Off by Helena Hunting Genre: Contemporary Romance ***A.
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compwalsoihassre.gq - Read Online Pucked Love By Helena Hunting, Pucked Love By Helena Hunting PDF Free Download. Download pdf Pucked Up (Pucked, #2) By Helena Hunting Epub #EPUB Book details Author: Helena Hunting Pages: pages Publisher. Chris, a sexy tattoo artist, tries to win the heart of Sarah, a grad student with little interest in him, in this second e-short and follow-up to Helena Hunting's gripping .
His nose is crooked with a decent bump from what I imagine could be multiple breaks. To avoid saying something worse, I excuse myself so I can pretend to smoke. I grab my bag and sweater and leave the beer. Buck grabs my arm as I pass him. Too bad; he was fun to talk to and nice to look at. I sigh with irritation.
What else am I supposed to do? Ignore him? I was being polite. Be careful who you get friendly with. We were talking. The temperature has dropped in the past half hour, so I pull on my sweater. Finding my smokes, I pop one between my lips and search for my lighter. If I were dumb enough to allow myself to be affected in such a way.
I purse the cigarette between my lips. Alex strikes the match and curves his palm to protect the flame. He watches while I inhale, the embers burning orange as I take a shallow drag and cough. Swearing like a sailor, I cover my eye with my palm.
Alex tosses the matches on a table and pats my back until I stop hacking up a lung. I do it as a way to escape awkward social situations. Remembering the way he took out the Atlanta guy makes me warm all over. Thoughts such as these are bound to get me into trouble. Hockey players are bad news. Especially ones as hot as he is. He must have asked a question. My mind is wandering like a squirrel on Red Bull. I have to finish it for my book club on Tuesday. Do I ever sound like a winner.
He must have been watching me while he was in the time-out box. I was right; he did get my Shakespeare reference. Alex Waters has singlehandedly obliterated my misapprehension regarding the inferior intellect of hockey players—with one sentence.
I sport the same one when I inadvertently revealed my extreme nerdiness. Most nights I would much rather be at home curled up with a book or playing solitaire than out at a bar. Hence the excessive beer consumption and the fake smoking crutch.
I have one of those rare moments where my brain fritzes and I do something completely out of character. I grab Waters by the shirt and pull his face to mine. His mouth is soft and warm. The stubble on his chin scratches my skin, and I like it. I shove my tongue into his mouth.
Pucked (Pucked #1) - Helena Hunting
I slide it across his bottom lip, touching the barely healed split, and he parts for me. Soft, warm, and wet meet more soft, warm, and wet. He tastes like chocolate and, more faintly, coffee liqueur. His hand runs a hot trail along my side, and he pulls me tight against him. After far too short a time, he breaks the kiss, trailing his lips across my cheek to my ear. Alex takes the hint, kissing me again. I expect him to be all aggressive and hard, considering his performance on the ice, but the way his tongue moves with mine can only be described as sensual.
My past experience with hockey players tells me this unequivocally. The difference is, this is a fling. I want it to be my anthem. The few people on the patio have stopped talking on account of his unnecessary loudness. This is such an odd situation; the awkwardness causes me to continue to spew idiocy.
Buck gives up rationalizing with me and turns to Alex. If you breathe one word of this to my mother, I will openly talk about the time we got drunk and you tried to feel me up, you got me?
I would never actually touch those. Only the two of us have knowledge of this incident. He was drunk out of his gourd at the time. Allowing him to believe he did grope me, even if by accident, gives me leverage in situations such as these. I let go of his lapels. Cockblockers are everywhere tonight, thwarting my attempts at poor decision making. Alex whispers something in my ear; it sounds like stay. Granted, he may be breathing out of his nose and making a whistling noise that resembles a word.
Annoyed and unable to backpedal, I turn to Alex. He winks.
Alex is way too hot and far too good a mouth fucker to be safe. Sometimes Sidney walks around in his underwear. I have a solid understanding—pun completely intended—why my mom married him, beyond his stellar personality. I tiptoe through the suite and lock myself in my room. My first stop is my suitcase. I giggle, finding the term in reference to lady parts comical. I did bring plenty of extra socks and my one, awesome bra. It takes me fifteen minutes to come.
The sore wrist and finger cramps eliminates the relaxing element of the whole process. Finished riding the masturbation express, I search the pile on the floor for my pajamas, laughing upon their discovery. The top is stretched tight across my chest, like an Ace bandage.
The pants, complete with fly flap, are now capris. The waist sits so low, it barely covers my ass. I find them on the floor between pairs of clean socks and my lone pair of clean underwear, which I need to save for tomorrow. The muffled sound of my phone ringing comes from under the pile of discarded clothes.
Now you have to disturb my masturbation session, too? Masturbation discussions make Buck uncomfortable. Probably because he believes he once asked if watching me jill off would constitute incest. I may have twisted his words in my recount of the events. Also, the mouth fucking earlier is a clear sign I like the way he looks. Silence follows. Three seconds too late, I have six witty retorts. Sadly, the moment for cleverness has passed. I enjoy the visual this incites; I bet he gets really into it.
Almost too quickly. Wait a minute—did you do that? He sounds intense. I try to picture the matching facial expression. I stop laughing. Secondly, I have this fantastic image of me underneath him. Like really, really excited.
Beavers are dangerous. Look, what are you doing right now? Do you want company? Suite six-oh-nine. Want me to knock? Hold on. The common living room is empty.
Throwing open the door, I find Alex with his jacket slung over one arm and his phone to his ear. I step out into the hall. Oh yes, now I remember. My nipples are clearly saluting him through the threadbare fabric.
His eyes drop for a split second, as if my nipples have their own force field, and then return to my face. He rocks those damn dimples. The banged-up face and the bruises seem to elevate the level of pretty. Well, then. I reach for the door and tug the handle. Nothing good can come of this. Except maybe another make out session. I mean what? We can chill for a bit.
I look at it and then him, debating. It could be the residual booze floating around in my system—and my lack of gratification during my jill time—but I put my palm in his and allow him to guide me to the elevator. He pushes the button and drapes his suit jacket across my shoulders. The doors open, and he motions me in ahead of him. The entire elevator is made of mirrors, providing an awesome view of Alex from all angles. I, on the other hand, am a complete mess. I surreptitiously attempt to fix my hair.
His fingers are rough and calloused, yet the touch is gentle, intimate even. I promise.
Showing up at my hotel room in the wee hours of the morning usually constitutes a booty call. I can always leave if I need to. Alex laces my fingers with his and we walk down the hall to his room. The space is laid out almost the same as my parents suite aside from the single door leading to what is most likely the bedroom.
Number twenty-six. He plays right wing. I hope Charlene forgives my distraction.
I suppress a shudder. I wonder what kind of bet he won. I trail Alex to the bar, where he makes me an alcohol-free drink. He cracks a bottle of Perrier for himself. We stand there, staring at each other, not saying anything until the awkwardness becomes unbearable and I crack.
The corner of his mouth quirks up, his eyes alight with amusement. This would be a first for me. Leaning across the bar, I drop a few more ice cubes into my drink. A throat clears behind me, and I remember how low these pants sit. I straighten quickly and hike the pants up, nearly giving myself a camel toe. No matter how I turn, Alex is going to get an eyeful of something. I cross to it and sit in the corner, tucking my legs under me to prevent further wardrobe malfunctions.
He sits beside me, leaning back, looking all relaxed and hot. Then he fucks me. But he might as well. What does he do to crumble my already weak resolve, other than be his absurdly gorgeous self? Alex does exactly what he said he wanted to do—hang out and talk.
This chick Lydia was getting tired of reading the word moist, so she picked Fielding. Moist is a terrible word. It should only be used to describe the consistency of cake.
He twirls my hair between his fingers. I took a few courses for fun. What about you? I take a sip of my grapefruit drink. I had to drop the kin after I was drafted. I was a little late getting picked up.
My Spidey jammies are at risk of peeling themselves off my body. His glass clinks on the table, and then his hands are on me, under my shirt, gripping my waist and burning against my already heated skin. I giggle, and then moan. Oh hell, do I moan. I skim his jaw with my fingers and thread them into his hair. This is simultaneously the best and worst idea ever. His probable hockey-whore status ceases to matter as I settle over the straining bulge in his pants. My focus lies on the feel of his hands on my skin and the warmth of his mouth on mine.
He breaks the kiss, and his lips travel along my jaw, warm and wet on my skin. His full bottom lip begs for attention, so I give it a nibble and a suck. We kiss for a long while, grinding all up on each other, his hands in my pants, my fingers in his hair.
He pulls my body closer, shifting his hips at the same time. It feels so good. I freeze. Is this what he says to all the puck bunnies? If it is, I understand why it works. The notion is bereft of logic. The first time I had sex was on a couch, so the prospect that this is less dangerous than say, oh, a very large, comfortable bed, is ludicrous. Alex kneads my ass while I grind on him shamelessly. He proves to be incredibly helpful with the whole hips shifting business. This is awesome, as far as making out goes.
The contrast of rough stubble and the softness of his lips against my throat send a delicious shiver down my spine. I release his hair to explore the rest of his cut body. Muscles tense and jump under my touch. The top button of his dress shirt is undone and his tie hangs loose around his neck.
Now seems as good a time as any to help him get more comfortable. Under the crisp dress shirt is a white tee stretched tight across a solid wall of chest. Excited to find out, I slip my fingers under the hem, mindful this is similar to the unveiling of great art. I want to revel in the reveal of his godlike body. Below his navel is a smattering of dark hair, a treasure trail leading to something close to gold. Washboard abs flex under my fingers.
He raises his arms, and I lift the T-shirt over his head, careful of his busted lip and bruised jaw. Not bothering to hide my appreciation, I exhale on a low whistle. Tattoos accentuate each bicep. The left boasts a waving Canadian flag—long live patriotism—and the right has a set of hockey sticks crossed over a puck.
When my body jerks, he hesitates. I suck in a breath and hold back a giggle.
As soon as he reaches my breasts, his thumbs sweep over my nipples. I moan like a street walker. My face and chest heat with embarrassment. Apparently Alex is good with the moaning. Still cupping my boobs, he looks me in the eye, waiting for the okay to take this further. It makes him infinitely sexier and harder to say no to. I raise my arms in silent assent. Of course, when he removes my shirt, my glasses get caught in my hair. Alex stares at my boobs. He cups them in his hands, which are huge—his hands, not my boobs; those are average sized.
Then he bounces them around a bit.
I bite the inside of my cheek in an effort to derail the sound forcing its way up my throat. I manage to keep it to a whimper as Alex massages one boob and makes out with the other one.
His low chuckle follows. Alex is in serious boob nuzzle mode. I almost expect him to do the whole motorboat thing. He winds an arm around my waist and pulls me flush against him. At my slightly desperate whine, he shifts his hips. I know where this is going. The point is moot, but the denial makes my failed attempt at resistance seem less offensive. He kisses me, soft and searching. Like gummy bears left out in the sun, I melt right into him. Finding the clasp on his belt, I slip it through the buckle.
He must think my actions mean I agree with his suggestion. He grips my ass firmly and stands. Locking my legs around his waist, I hurry to free a hand from his pants and clutch his shoulder. This is really happening. Like, for real.
With a hockey player, no less. So much for good judgment. Alex sets me on the edge of the bed and flicks on the lamp. The soft glow magnifies the dips and curves of his body, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw and the bruise below his left eye. It eliminated most potential mistakes. Letting go, I shimmy back on the bed, giving him enough space to join me. His eyes are low-lidded, his expression intense as he follows after me. Fumbling and uncoordinated thanks to my loss of fine-motor function, I struggle to pop the button on his pants and pull down the zipper.
Alex watches my hand disappear inside. It has to look good from his point of view. How can it not? Soft, hot skin encases the hardest dick on the planet. I need to take a look at this thing. I push his pants over his hips, giving me room to check things out. Alex, being the helpful guy he is, takes them off the rest of the way, leaving him in a pair of boxers. I stick my hand back in, and when I finally manage to wrestle it free, my eyes are at risk of popping out of my head in visual-stimulus-induced fear.
I know some guys do this to make it appear bigger. Alex Waters is an aberration of cock. But, honestly, what the fuck am I supposed to do with this? Alex chuckles nervously. Do you have some kind of. Like elephantiasis of the penis or something? My thumb and middle finger must have a good inch or more before they can meet.
I squeeze to see if it helps bring them closer together. What it does is make Alex groan, and that, oh holy monster of cock, is one hot noise. Bad idea.
His arms are loose at his sides, head bowed, eyes dark, lips parted, chest rising and falling. Licking my lips, I glance at his cock. This is a night full of firsts. The way the skin wrinkles with each stroke toward the head and smoothes back out as I reverse the motion is entrancing. The girth alone is staggering. Am I seriously coming up with arguments against having sex and voicing them?
Instead of stopping, I continue like the head-trauma victim I am. What the hell do you think happens to the shirt? The seams split, and they burst out of it like the Hulk. I want to avoid saying more stupid shit, particularly to a guy I just met and am planning to have sex with.
His palm covers mine and pries my hand away as he nudges my legs apart. Only a thin, worn, cotton barrier in Spiderman print protects the land of Beave from invasion. He claims my mouth again. Butter soft, his tongue tangles with mine, lazy and lulling. I let my hands wander from his shoulders and the broad expanse of his back to his rock-solid ass.
I push down and lift my hips, and there it is—his monster of a cock. He continues his descent to my breast. I fist his hair and push my chest out.
All the while, I grind with him, lost in sensation and his little hums of approval.
Eventually, he releases my nipple and licks the tip. I giggle and twist away. With his eyes on mine, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of my Spidey pants. He helps remove them and tosses them on the floor. So this is an inferiority complex. Alex runs his hands up my calves and kisses the sensitive spot on the inside of my knee.
No is not an option. Not with his hands where they are or his polite request. I open my legs in invitation. He shakes his head. I shrug. Giraffe-sized red blotches break out across my chest.
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His eyes flutter closed. He turns his face into my leg, biting high up on my inner thigh and sucking hard. Wet kisses mark a path on the inside of my thigh.
Is he really going to? No way—oh yes, he is. But not right away. Oh no, Alex is the best kind of tease. He nibbles at the juncture of my thighs, drawing out the anticipation before his mouth is finally on me.
The hair gripping and hip bucking should make it clear I do, in fact, like it. I moan a garbled God yes, Alex to ensure my pleasure sounds are taken in an affirmative context. Hot breath caresses hotter skin as he eases a finger inside. Intense sensation builds and spirals.
Heat rolls over me in a crushing wave, funneling through my limbs to the center of my body. He adds another finger and twists up and in, hitting the heavenly spot I can only get to with my fake plastic friends.
When he adds a third finger, my toes curl. White heat radiates across my skin. I curse as my legs fight to close. He places a tiny kiss on my clit and follows a straight line up my body with his mouth, pausing at each nipple on the way until his lips meet mine.
I reach between us and grab his cock. He nabs his wallet from the nightstand. He flips it open, retrieves a quartet of foil squares, and tears one free with his teeth.
Seems like an awful lot of condoms. Two is smart, in case one ends up a casualty of misrolling. Maybe it happens often, so he comes extra prepared. With a quick zip, Alex rips open the foil packet and rolls on the condom. He runs a soothing hand from the outside of my knee to my hip. His kiss is all soft lips and sweeping tongue. Propped up on one arm so his eyes are on me, he eases inside.
I panic and tense, clamping down like Fort Knox. The way he says it, warm and needy, makes my whole body liquid. He goes deeper. I groan. When he pauses, I tighten my legs around his waist to urge him on.
We both whore-moan. Everything turns suddenly intense as he pulls out—way, way out—and pushes in again. As the heat and the need expand to consume me, he draws one of my legs up, changing the angle.
I gasp when he hits the. My previous lovers have been pretty unimpressive in comparison. Carry on. At my insistence he goes harder and faster. Alex has unbelievable stamina, as expected.
Without the slightest bit of warning my entire body flushes. The spark ignites, bursting to flame. Volume control gone, his name is a scream on my lips. He bites out a dirty expletive and buries his face against my neck as he pumps erratically, chasing his release. Spent, Alex collapses on top of me. I run my fingers through his damp hair, both of us breathing hard, our hearts beating double time.
There are red lines spanning his back from shoulders to ass. Nail marks from me. They can bring a room key, too, so you can go when you want. The smokes seem like some form of payment for my services. I slip off the bed, feeling exposed as I search for my Spidey pants.
Without glasses, everything more than five feet away is an indistinct blur. When I reach for them, his hold on my wrist tightens. You think I want you to leave? I thought it would be easier to get a key before we pass out. I want you to stay. Against my better judgment, I want to stay. In case he wants to do it again. But the lickable creamy stud-muffin here is Darren Westinghouse. He's darkly dangerous charm and hidden talents of passion.
A walking sex on legs hockey player with Chicago NHL. Master of hunkalicious body and an all encompassing heart, he's stuff dreamy book boyfriends are made of. This book is a daring flight into Pucked Family lives with no seatbelts on!!! The story flies high, turns on its head, does loop-de-loop. Makes you dizzy with abundant love, unbridled passion and unseen dangers. Her Wheel of Fortune is gawked at by all and as private as they wanna keep their sex lives, the "pussy" cat is out of the bag.
All gather together, laugh together, celebrate together and got each other's backs. In all this jumbo party of sorts, there's moments of solitude, of self doubts, of broken pasts and monsters that still chase them. Darren is intense and focused. On his game and Charlene, but he's emotionally stunted too But bottom line- he doesn't wanna lose her and that scares him to death!!!The situation had been escalating for a long while, but it had finally reached unmanageable.
Flash Beaver gets me again. Play a little tonsil hockey with him. I have no idea how much of a player he is or how high profile.
When I gasp for air, he covers my throat and my breasts with wet kisses. I step out into the hall. We can watch TV or something? He narrows his eyes at my glass, suspicious, maybe. Fandom friends: Thank you for coming with me on this journey. Two is smart, in case one ends up a casualty of misrolling.