Justin:

I have a beautiful woman sitting in my lap.

I don’t know her name, or what she does for a living, or where she grew up.

I do know that she smells like tequila… and that tequila and I have never played particularly well together.

But none of that matters to her.

The only thing that matters is that I’m a pro hockey athlete, and so she’s ready to fuck me. Which holds exactly zero appeal for me.

Don’t get me wrong, I love female attention, but lately every minute of it all feels stale, like I’ve been there, seen that, done it all before and have the t-shirt to prove it.

I’m not even sure she knows my name. But I’d bet good money on her knowing my jersey number by heart. I guess that’s why they call the women jersey chasers, or in hockey—puck bunnies.

“Justin Motherfuckin’ Brady!” Owen, my best friend and roommate, calls from our living room. “Get a drink and get your balls in here.”

I nod and flash him a thumbs-up.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” I say to the petite brunette currently running her hands down my chest.

She blinks at me with lust-filled blue eyes. After a moment’s hesitation, she hops up from my lap with a frown and I slide off of the barstool.

“If you want to score tonight, I’m a sure thing, cutie,” she says with a flirty wink.

I rub one hand over my jaw. This shit is really getting old. “I’m good. Thanks, though.”

I’m sure I sound like an asshole, but whatever. I can feel her eyes on me as I walk away.

The party was already in full swing by the time I made it home a little while ago. The marble countertops are littered with empty beer bottles, most of them imported or pricey craft brews. A few bottles of flavored vodka along with fruity mixers are on the island—Owen’s attempt at being welcoming to the scantily-clad ladies scattered around the apartment—most of whom are perched in players’ laps and draped over the sectional in the living room.

I probably sound like an old man at the ripe age of twenty-eight, but this is hardly fun anymore. Some nights I just want to go to bed…alone and in blissful peace and quiet. Yep, it’s official, I need to apply for my AARP discounts and hand over my man card…stat.

Grabbing a six-pack of beer from the counter, I head into the living room. The guys are in rare form tonight. Winning the league championship will do that, I guess.

“Is that really Justin Brady?” a redhead asks from behind me as I head through the kitchen. I’m sure I look different without twenty pounds of hockey gear on, but the cynical side of me thinks about how inter-changeable the players are for girls like her. Bragging rights that you’ve bagged a pro player is practically the name of the game. Not that being someone’s conquest has ever really bothered me before. But something about it annoys me as I weave my way through bodies.

Our star center, Asher, reaches out to bump his fist against mine as I walk past. “Awesome play tonight.”

“Thanks, dude.”

Someone hands me a shot as I pass and I down it without bothering to look what’s in the glass.

Most of the team isn’t just celebrating our win tonight. They’re celebrating the fact that the off-season has just begun and a summer break of zero responsibilities is right around the corner.

Me? Not so much.

I eat, drink, and breathe hockey and so the idea of six weeks without the rigorous schedule to distract me is my own personal brand of hell.

I didn’t have the easiest time growing up, and the breakdown of my family only made me play faster, fight harder, take more chances—and that’s why we’re winners celebrating tonight.

That said, when the two people who are supposed to love you unconditionally use you as nothing more than a pawn in their sick games, it warps your view on love. I wasn’t lovable—I knew that. I’d known that since I was six years old. And nothing had changed in the last twenty years. Women wanted me for my dick, and that was fine. That was really all I had to offer anyway.

I take up one half of the sofa, and work on polishing off my beer.

Teddy King, one of our best forwards and a total player, is making out with a girl in the corner.

“TK, get a fuckin’ room!” someone calls out.

It’s no surprise that Owen is on the couch with two blondes in his lap. He’s my best friend, but the dude is a notorious player. “I hope you ladies are good at sharing,” Owen says over the thumping music.

The blondes smile at each other, one of them turning to blink up at him. “And what will we be sharing?”

“My dick,” he says, matter-of-factly.

The girls begin to giggle like he’s just said the most interesting thing in the world.

I roll my eyes and open another beer from the six-pack at my feet.

Owen is six foot four and well over two hundred pounds of muscle with messy brown hair and the stubble of a beard he hasn’t bothered to shave since we made the playoffs. He’s one of the best goalies in the entire league, and he knows he’s the shit. He’s cocky, but he’s earned the right to be. He plays it up well, and is known to be a total ladies’ man. And the girls eat that shit up.

Normally I’d be doing the same exact thing, looking to blow off steam and celebrate our win, but tonight I can’t seem to get out of my head long enough to relax. I’m more than a hard dick. I’m more than what I can do with a hockey stick. But most of these people here don’t know that. Hell, I’m not even sure I know that anymore.

The only person here who looks to be as uneasy as me is Owen’s younger sister, Elise. She’s standing across the room, arms folded over her chest with her lips pressed into a firm line. The three of us grew up together a few hours from here in central Washington. I’ve known her since she was a bossy first-grader with a gap between her front teeth, and always wearing those shiny patent-leather shoes with frilly dresses.

Her looks, and her sense of fashion, have changed quite a bit. Her attitude, not so much. I can tell she’s pissed about how out of hand things have gotten. I’m sure she’ll be the first one here in the morning, nursing hangovers and helping us clean the apartment. There are at least fifty people here, and I know less than half of them.

A few seconds later, like she’s heard my inner thoughts, Elise wanders closer and sits down next to me on the sofa. She looks so damn small in an oversized jersey and a pair of leggings. It’s strange because most girls here are dressed in tiny black dresses that barely cover their asses and too much makeup, but Elise is nothing like that. Sometimes I forget she’s all grown up, that she graduated from college last year, and is an actual adult.

“Hey, E.” I raise my beer toward hers.

“Hey. Congrats on tonight.”

“Thanks,” I mutter after another long swig of beer. “You’re not drinking?” I ask.

“I’ve had a couple,” she says, her gaze still scanning the party, almost like she’s making a concentrated effort not to look at me.

I know the feeling.

Normally—I see something I want—and I go and get it. It’s how I’ve always been. It’s how I’m wired. The one exception to that rule? Elise Parrish.

She’s a no-fly zone. She used to be the cute kid sister of my best friend, but something shifted recently and I went from thinking of her as Owen’s younger sister to something more.

This was the girl who borrowed my sweatshirts and never returned them. Took my warmest gloves and lost one somewhere between home and the ice rink. The girl who followed me and Owen around like a lost puppy all throughout our childhoods and the girl who cried during sappy commercials. 

I had no idea how badly I would miss all those things about her until I moved away for college. But then my life got so busy with school and exams and hockey and fighting for a spot in the pros, my fascination with Elise took a backseat, and I knew it was for the best. 

Still, despite my best efforts, she traipsed out of friend territory somewhere along the way, and into a sexy woman who made my dick ache. It was dangerous. And my best friend Owen made no apologies for the fact that his sister was very much off-limits to any member of our team.

My gaze drifts over to her again, and my breath catches. She’s beautiful, intoxicatingly so. But she’s smart too. And feisty. And she knows the game of hockey better than most of the guys, Lord knows she grew up spending just as much time at the ice rink as we did. Plus, the fact that I’m a pro hockey player doesn’t impress her in the slightest. That’s the best thing about her. I can just be myself.

“How pissed off are you?” I ask, unable to hide the amusement in my voice.

Elise shakes her head, the smirk on her mouth unmistakable. “On a scale of one to I’m going to murder Owen?”

“Sure.” I polish off the rest of my beer and wait for her to answer, but she doesn’t say anything else, she just lets out an exasperated sigh. So I grab another from the six-pack resting on the polished wood floor beneath my feet. “Want one?” I offer her a beer, but she shakes her head.

I drain half the bottle watching Asher and Teddy flirt with a group of girls on the balcony. They’re eyeing the hot tub, which I’m suddenly sure will have floating remnants of jizz in the morning. Fucking fantastic.

“Those fuckers better not take those bunnies in the hot tub,” Elise says under her breath.

I swallow a chuckle and shake my head. “You’re good peeps, E,” I mumble, feeling the effects of the alcohol already.

Elise shakes her head, a smile tugging up her full lips. “I’m the freaking best. Someone’s got to babysit this idiot team.”

I study her for just a second. Long dark hair hanging over one shoulder, grey eyes that always seem to see straight through me, along with a sassy mouth that has always called me out on my bullshit.

But I never let myself notice things like that about her, and I won’t start now, so I look down at the beer bottle in my hands instead.

When she's beside me, all my nerve endings light up with a feeling I can't explain. 

I feel alive. 

Raw. 

On edge. 

And there’s no point in denying it–a whole lot turned on. 

I need to get myself in check, but instead I’m feeling a little reckless. Unsteady.

“You know what will make this situation better?” I ask, sneaking one more glance at her.

“What’s that?”

“Vodka.”

Elise shakes her head.

“Come on, E-Class.”

This earns me a laugh. The old nickname I bestowed on her in eighth grade still strikes a chord.

“I’ll slice the lemons, you get the glasses?” she asks.

My heart starts to beat faster as she grins up at me. Well damn, I didn’t know I still had one of those.

I smile back. “It’s on.”

Elise:

It’s way past my bedtime. So why haven’t I gone home yet?

Oh right, because I’m babysitting my idiot brother and his teammates. As per usual.

And considering that they won a national championship tonight—they’re in an especially celebratory mood. We started off at the sports bar near the rink, but when things got too crazy being out in public with some overzealous fans, we moved the party back to my brother Owen and his BFF Justin’s penthouse.

Owen, my disgusting slut of a brother, is feeling up one blonde on the couch while his tongue is down another’s throat. The sad thing? I’ll probably be responsible for kicking both of these naked ass girls out of his bed tomorrow morning.

Awesome.

TK and Asher are in the hot tub with no fewer than five girls between them. No, scratch that, there’s six of them—one chick’s head just surfaced from under the water. Just freaking wonderful.

I’m never going in that hot tub again.

Justin hasn’t hooked up with anyone yet, and I’m just waiting for it to happen. He’s been all strangely sad and mopey tonight and I’m not sure what the hell is going on with him.

But I do know one thing—the shots I took with him were a bad idea. One shot, shame on us, multiple shots, shame on me. I know my limit, and doing shots with Justin is a hard line I shouldn’t have crossed.

I know I should see him as nothing more than a disgusting manwhore, or see him as a second brother to me—but I’ve never felt anything remotely familial about Justin Brady like I should. First there’s my traitorous body—which reacts to his in a very non-sisterly way. So much so, my lady parts are tingling and I’m pretty sure there’s a tiny damp spot in my panties from when he smiled and pushed my hair behind my shoulder as he watched me drain my shot glass for the umpteenth time and suck on the lemon slice afterwards.

Then there’s my heart, which pumps faster whenever he’s near and does stupid shit like ache for him when he takes a hard hit on the ice. It’s all like please don’t have broken anything adorable or important.

But finally, there’s my head—which knows without a doubt that this man is bad for me. My head wins out, which meant I finally extracted myself from beside him on the sofa, leaving him to polish off most of the bottle of vodka alone. Everyone else is drinking like they're celebrating. Justin is drinking like he's trying to numb some indescribable pain that I know isn’t hockey related. 

I’ve always been enamored with him, from his quiet confidence, to his dedication and hard work on the ice, to his hard won smiles and casual attitude. 

The physical changes he went through as we aged made me fall even harder. Instead of being the boy who pulled my ponytail and hid my dolls from me, he grew from a lanky teen into a man. A man with so much sculpted muscle and iron-carved abs it made my knees weak. 

It’s late—or early, depending on how you look at it, and about half of the guests have left. The team and their bunnies are still here, but I’m guessing people will begin coupling off and disappearing into bedrooms soon. I clean up the kitchen a little bit, throwing empty bottles away and bagging up the garbage that’s been left out on the counters.

Owen has disappeared with the two blondes, and the door to the media room is now closed, which is where he’s probably taken them since he has a weird rule about not bringing hookups to his bed. Public displays of drunken sex are never a good thing, especially when one of those people is your brother, so I’m just grateful they’re behind a closed door, although I know I’ll be forced to see some of their prime real estate when I kick their hungover selves out in a few hours. God help me. Teddy and Asher are still in the hot tub with the group of women, and Justin is still on the couch where I left him, drinking party of one.

I’ve had more to drink than I should have, and decide that it’s probably time to say goodnight and get myself home. After I toss a few more empties in the trash, I lean one hip against the counter and fish my cell out of my back pocket to request a ride to come pick me up. I just need to use the restroom first.

The guest bathroom in the hallway is occupied, and after I wait for a few minutes, and no one emerges, I knock again. Then I hear moaning coming from inside.

Gross. Is it too much to ask any person here to have some shame?

Plan B.

I head to Justin’s bedroom at the end of the hall to use the en-suite attached to his room. I have to pee and I know I won’t make it the twenty-minute ride home. Plus, I know Justin won’t mind.

When I enter, I can’t help but inhale deeply. His room smells like him. His scent hasn’t changed in all the years I’ve known him. The smell is a combination of an understanding boyfriend, clean cotton, and a bar of soap. It’s fucking amazing, and I’m in his personal space alone, so I inhale more of it than I should. What can I say? I’m greedy like that.

The space is neat and organized, his king-sized bed dressed in fluffy white linens and a handful of personal items are lined up neatly on the dresser. A phone charger. His wallet. A leather watch. A bottle of cologne. A small day planner. His tablet.

My mind immediately wonders if he watches porn on that tablet while in bed. I have no idea what’s wrong with me, but that downright sinful thought pops into my brain and refuses to evacuate. Geez, Elise. Get it together.

A bulky, masculine leather chair sits in the corner, and the floor lamp beside it glows softly, lighting my way to the bathroom door at the far end of the room. When I reach the bathroom, I flip on the light switch, and then turn off the lamp. Wasting electricity is a strange pet peeve of mine, and burning lamps in an unoccupied room are at the top of that list.

I enter and do my business, not daring—but so wanting—to linger over the bottles of men’s products on the counter. Shaving cream. Toothpaste. A brand of deodorant I’ve never heard of.

A sound from behind the door catches my attention. I quickly wash my hands and exit, hoping I haven’t interrupted Justin bringing a girl to his bed. Talk about a dagger through the fucking heart.

When I open the door, instead of finding him with a woman like I expect, he’s alone. He’s sitting on the edge of the mattress with his head in his hands. I’m not sure what I’ve interrupted, but it’s clear he wants to be alone. Which means I need to make my presence known and exit stage right like as soon as humanly possible.

“I’m sorry. I just needed to use the bathroom. I’ll go,” I say, crossing the room in my quest for the exit.

But as I try to pass, one strong hand reaches out for me, gripping my legging-covered thigh. I stop in front of him, my breath caught in my throat.

“Stay,” he says, still not looking up at me.

I wait for him to make a joking remark, maybe call me by one of the old nicknames he hasn’t used in a while. E-Class. Easy E. But he doesn’t.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” My heart pounds out an uneven rhythm as I wait for him to respond.

And then he does…just not with words.

His hand slides up my thigh, and stops when it meets my hip. His grip on my hip holds me in place, but he doesn’t move any further. My entire body is tingling—because this is Justin, my brother’s best friend and roommate, and despite my many dreams and fantasies about this exact moment, he has never, not once, touched me like this. All I can think about, besides where his hands will travel to next, is the fact that he’s as buzzed as I am, if not more, and liquid courage is never a good gauge for true feelings, only bad decisions.

My lungs burn with exertion. I feel like I’ve just run a mile and I have no idea why.

I take a deep breath, but before I can say anything else, he’s rising to his feet, and standing at his full height, towering over me at six foot two inches and two hundred plus pounds of pure muscle. His shoulders are so broad that I feel tiny by comparison, and even more unsure about what I’m doing here.

But then his hands move to my face, cupping my jawline with his big, calloused palms and I forget how to breathe all over again.

“Stay,” he whispers again.

Suddenly I wish I’d left on the lamp, wish I could see the expression on his face right now. His voice sounds more anguished than I’ve ever heard, and there’s barely enough moonlight to make out his eyes.

His thumbs move over my skin, skittering along slowly as he sweeps one over the swell of my bottom lip.

“What is it?” I whisper.

Justin shakes his head, eyes closed. He drops his head until his forehead is pressed against mine. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him this vulnerable. This exposed. He’s normally all masculine energy, so relaxed and in control of every situation. Tonight I feel like he could fall apart at any moment and it’s unnerving me and causing my nurturing tendencies to go into overdrive.

“Tell me what you need,” I whisper, placing my hands on his waist. He feels so solid beneath my palms.

“You,” he croaks out, voice raw. “On the bed.”

I don’t even consider denying his request, which makes zero sense because we’ve most certainly never had an encounter like this before. I sit down on the side of his bed, and Justin sinks down next to me. But rather than let me stay where I’ve parked myself, on the edge of the mattress, he lifts me and moves me to the center and toward the headboard where he stretches out beside me, lying on his side.

He’s big and muscular, and it feels so surreal to be here next to him. I’ve never even let myself imagine how this moment might feel, despite all my many fantasies about this exact moment. His brown hair is messy and his deep blue eyes are currently closed. But God, he’s gorgeous with his bulky shoulders and arms, a chest that was made for nestling close against, and eight perfectly carved abs.

“You’re so soft,” he says, voice filled with wonder as his palm works under my shirt and lands on my stomach.

My lungs stop working as his palm slides upward, over my breastbone until his fingertips touch my throat. Then his hand moves back down, down past my belly button until he stops over my pubic bone. My pussy feels so hot and tender, and oh-my-God, I want his hand to move lower so badly. But he doesn’t move any lower. His hand rests on my belly and I turn my face toward his.

“Justin?” His name leaves my lips only a second before his mouth presses against mine.

His kiss is so soft at first, then his fingers thread into the hair at the back of my neck as he turns my face toward his and deepens our connection.

My lips part for his, and Justin takes full advantage, sliding his tongue against mine. His kisses are everything I imagined they would be—hungry, hot, hard. A flicker of lust curls inside me.

His mouth moves over mine and when my tongue eagerly tangles with his, a low rumbling sound vibrates in his chest. All of my muscles clench at once. He tastes like lemons, and vodka, and every sinful pleasure imaginable, and dear God, I don’t ever want to stop kissing him.