Puck Money: A Hockey Love Story by Miller Raine & DeMille Brit

Author:Miller, Raine & DeMille, Brit
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Raine Miller Romance
Published: 2020-03-10T16:00:00+00:00

Twenty

Talia

YOU SHOULD BE HIS SEX ADVISOR, TOO

Ugh. I can’t get my head into work stuff at all. My stomach is a flip-flopping disaster zone. My head hurts. My heart is racing. I’m not a panic attack kind of girl but this feels like one. Or maybe it’s karma. Karma for getting all hot and bothered over yet another of my clients. What is wrong with me?

It’s been three days since that hot mess with Boris, and I haven’t heard a peep from him. I’ve been thinking about him, it, the situation… Ugh. Constantly. It just doesn’t go away, the thinking or the wanting. And to add to my anxious misery, I’m still totally hot for the guy. Totally turned on and wanting nothing more than his big hard—

Stop.

Boris rejected me. He had a change of heart apparently and then totally bolted from my apartment.

But as he left, Parker came in and that's when I completely lost my shit. Bawled like a teenage girl ditched on prom night. Seriously. Not just because he left. I think, probably, his leaving was the right thing to do. Still, it doesn’t mean it felt good to watch him go, even though I know he was as turned on as I was. But when Parker came back in? I fell apart, collapsing into a weeping mess on the floor. I was literally sick for letting it go so far, for being such a sluttress. Because I was one. One-hundred-percent-out-of-control-sluttress-trying-to-bang-her-client. How horrifyingly humiliating.

He must think I’m so immature and unprofessional. I can’t even brush it off like, "No big deal, we were drunk," because I wasn’t drunk and he wasn’t either. I was just my usual, awkward, idiot self, spilling tea on him. And then he was shirtless…and then he wanted me to read to him.

"Oh my God." I lean back in my chair and yell out loud into my empty office. "What an absolute fool I am!"

Boris was totally turned on by my reading. He looked like he literally wanted to devour me, like he might eat me alive. And, frankly, I wanted him to go there.

It’s embarrassing that I let myself get so worked up, so out of control. And then he tells me he doesn’t want to cross a professional line? Already crossed it when you looked at me that way, buddy. Crossed the fucking finish line when you kissed me.

It probably wasn’t just professional courtesy that stopped him. I mean…he’s an athlete. A gorgeous, chiseled work of art. He’s famous and could probably have any woman he wanted. Why would he want some nerdy girl in thick glasses who can barely take a step without spilling something on herself or doing something weird?

I’m probably destined to be a spinster cat lady whose only hobby is reading long fantasy books—maybe knitting a throw blanket once in a while when I really want to spice things up a little. Note to self: Look into finding a "knitting cat lovers" group on Facebook to join.

At least there's my sweet little LuLu who loves me.

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