Pucking Obsessed (Bay Rebels #4)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

D’Angelo’s Beach House, Freedom

R obyn

“Are you writing your secret hockey smut book complete with stickmen drawings?” I plop another strawberry cream truffle into my mouth.

The impossibly gorgeous, dominant man, who is sprawled like he’s a king next to me on the couch, smiles cockily over the top of the book that he’s writing in.

Typical D’Angelo.

Warm sunlight bathes over the back porch of the beach house that overlooks the sea. But there’s an icy gleam in the man’s eyes and a cruel twist to his sensual lips.

D’Angelo is dressed in an immaculate designer navy suit and waistcoat with the sleeves rolled back to reveal his strong forearms.

His jacket is slung over the back of the couch.

The man is six foot three with olive skin and piercing ice blue eyes that are so frosty they make me shiver. Raven curls frame his strong face.

He looks like a beautiful fallen angel.

He should be working on the hockey strategy that Dad, Austin McKenna and coach of his team, demanded he finish by tonight.

With dire threats if he fails .

Instead, D’Angelo is planning something wickedly fun for me .

Again, typical D’Angelo.

He’s captain of the Bay Rebels NHL hockey team, my best friend and rebel from college, and the man who I’m desperately in love with.

Also, a grumpy asshole.

But I love a grump.

My other lover, Shay, the star player in the team, has enough sunniness to even his captain out.

Shay’s introverted and tattooed twin, Eden, is the caretaker dom who grounds us all. He’s the burning heart of our polyamorous relationship.

My phoenix.

I push my wavy, flame-red hair out of my emerald eyes. It’s still tangled and damp from skinny dipping with Shay at dawn, my mascara has run making me look like a clown in a horror film, and sand is clinging to really uncomfortable places.

See, the dangers of skinny dipping that romance movies don’t warn you about.

Robyn McKenna, twenty-seven, independent businesswoman and PR Director of the Bay Rebels, and also, a hot mess .

I should have a plaque made of that for my desk.

On the other hand, I may be a hot mess. But I’m D’Angelo’s hot mess.

The morning sunlight shimmers on the crashing waves and winding path, which leads over the sand dunes of D’Angelo’s private beach. The back porch of his wood paneled beach house is painted white like the wooden decking.

A television is set up across from us, along with a sound system. At the far side is a grand dining table and chairs.

The porch is filled with tall vases of orange roses. It’s like being surrounded by a rose garden. D’Angelo ordered them because they’re my favorite.

He does romantic gestures like that, including stocking this luxurious box of strawberry creams for me, which is balanced on the arm of the couch next to my glass of red wine because he knows that I loved them at college.

He wears a cold mask to protect himself, but I know how warm hearted he is underneath.

He’d probably take it as an insult if I told him that.

D’Angelo is a man who plays at being Lucifer, when truly, he’s an angel.

My devil and my angel.

D’Angelo narrows his eyes at me. “What? Why are you looking at me like I’ve transformed into a fluffy puppy wearing a bow tie?”

I laugh at the image of D’Angelo as anything but a wolf. “Shay is the puppy. Our good boy.”

Shay is loved — fucking owned — by both D’Angelo and me. He longs to be.

D’Angelo and I are protective and possessive of our golden retriever of an English player. Shay is held between us and in our hearts, even if often he doesn’t believe that he’s worthy to be.

Does he still think of himself as my one-night stand?

A hookup who I allowed to stay?

A stray that we took in?

“You’d better never dare call me that, principessa.” D’Angelo arches his eyebrow. “Of course Shay is our pet. But why are you looking at me like I’m Eden?”

I stare at D’Angelo in shock.

Do I only look this softly at Eden?

I need to work on that.

D’Angelo and I have a complicated past. This is our second chance.

My ex-husband, Wilder, drove D’Angelo and me apart for years, making us enemies.

D’Angelo is a trained dom, who always tries to be in control. He concentrates on looking out for everybody else’s needs and pleasure, while forgetting his own.

I’m going to make sure he understands that he deserves equal care as everyone else in this relationship.

Shay and I will find a way to show him.

D’Angelo’s asshole family tried to steal that belief from him because he’s bisexual.

He bled, bruised, and screamed at their hands.

Never again.

Still, our love language is banter.

I swing my legs up onto D’Angelo’s lap. “I was just thinking that if your NHL career crashes and burns, at least you’ll have a backup as a romance author.”

“Your faith in me is adorable,” D’Angelo drawls, coolly.

I know that whatever D’Angelo is writing, it’s not fiction.

The book that he’s been drawing in so intently looks like a hockey strategy book in arctic blue and white with lines, arrows, and arcs on the front.

There’s also a crude puck and hockey stick.

I drew those and also wrote the scrawled words on the top:

A GUIDE TO AVOID DATING HOCKEY PLAYERS

The AVOID is scratched out with silver pen.

I created it in my yearlong divorce proceedings with my husband, as a guide with rules to make sure that I never, ever dated a hockey player again.

It didn’t work.

Three times.

And that’s when I scratched out the AVOID .

Now, it’s a guide to loving my three men.

D’Angelo turned it into a journal of our explorations, kinks, and fantasies.

Of course he did.

My wicked angel.

We each wrote out our secret fantasies, then D’Angelo stamped the pages with one word CONFIDENTIAL and stapled them into the Guide.

D’Angelo made the rule, when we negotiated our contracts, boundaries, and limits that he was in control of when we saw each of the innermost desires.

I lick over my lips.

What did my lovers write?

Why is it so much more exciting, when the fantasies are secret and forbidden?

D’Angelo traces one strong finger over the arch of my foot.

My skin prickles.

He’s scanning up and down my curves, as I lie on the pile of velvet cushions, like he wants to drink me more than the whiskey that he’s swirling in the crystal glass in his hand.

And he fucking loves whiskey.

When he notices the direction of my look, his lips curl up at one side. He takes a deliberately long drink. I’m fixated by the way that his long, tanned throat bobs on each swallow.

My gaze flicks up to his plush lips, which are pressed to the rim of the glass.

Lucky glass.

I flush, clearing my throat.

D’Angelo’s eyes dance with amusement.

He places down the glass. “We have this one weekend together, before the playoff home games begin again next week. So what if I want to spend it writing…?”

“Smut.”

“Romance.”

“Not if it means that we can’t spend our time together. How long are you going to be working?”

He taps his Rolex three times. “Genius takes time.”

“You’ve been scribbling for at least an hour.”

“That’s what Shakespeare’s wife used to say.”

“In glitter pen.”

“She used to say that too.”

When I rub my foot back and forth over D’Angelo’s crotch, he sucks in a sharp breath.

His cock tents his pants, but he attempts to hold still and look unaffected. The way that he clamps his hand down on my foot to stop my tormenting movements, however, tells me that he isn’t.

“Doesn’t being the first NHL player hockey romance author have a good ring to it?” D’Angelo’s voice is low and rumbling. He taps the Guide three times. “You told me that I was meant to turn around my press image. From drunken puck boy to bestselling literary genius.”

I snort before I can stop myself. “Literary genius, really? What are you calling it? How to Puck a Billionaire Grump ?”

Sometimes, it’s fun to poke the bear.

Well, I’d read that.

D’Angelo growls. His eyes darken.

Instantly, he shoves my feet off his lap and pounces on me.

The Guide tumbles to the floor.

I eep, knocking the chocolates flying off the arm of the couch, along with my glass of wine.

Alcohol splashes across my naked skin.

Shocked, my eyes widen at the sensation and the burst of fruity, plum aroma.

The glass clinks as it hits the floor, rolling beneath the table.

D’Angelo cages me. His hard chest is pressed to my naked one.

Then he casually licks the spilled wine from my throat, up my jaw, and over my cheek.

“Fuck.” My eyelashes flutter.

I’m breathing fast and am already wet.

D’Angelo traps me beneath him effortlessly.

Our gazes are locked. Our foreheads touch. His curls are silky against my skin.

“Cara mia,” D’Angelo says, coldly, “you like playing with fire.”

“Love it.”

“Then let’s make you burn.” D’Angelo passionately presses his lips to mine.

He tastes of sweet plum.

I suck on his delicious, full lower lip.

D’Angelo’s gaze is scorching. He deepens the kiss, dominating it. His fresh, masculine scent wraps around me.

I loop my arms around D’Angelo’s neck, and he finally draws back after one final, lingering kiss.

“I knew that Naked Weekends were an excellent idea, principessa.” He pushes a strand of damp hair behind my ear. “Shay and you should be fully accessible to me at all times. Of course, only in private. I’m possessive.”

I flush at the idea.

But it’s hot.

“Yes, Sir,” I reply because I know the effect the Sir will have on D’Angelo.

Immediately, D’Angelo presses me even more firmly against the couch, despite his gaze softening. “Good girl.”

My pupils dilate. I feel happy and floaty.

Because D’Angelo knows exactly what effect those two words will have on me .

Checkmate.

I squirm around, trying to tempt D’Angelo back into kissing me. “Where are the twins?”

D’Angelo pulls a face. “Statistically, I’d say Eden was trying to stop his brother breaking something. Shay has only been at my beach house for four hours but already he’s smashed a window with his football and cracked an antique vase by showing us his so-called dance moves. Then he gave himself a black eye trying to learn to surf. Right now, he’s giving it another go and probably smashing himself in the other eye. People will be giving me sideways looks, when we return to practice. They’ll think that I’ve turned into the type of captain who kicks the newbie’s ass.”

I wince. “At least Shay’s enthusiastic. Code will have to give him lessons.”

My younger brother, Cody, is a talented surfer. He also lives in Freedom.

“Won’t that make coach happy? A dangerous hobby for the adrenaline junkie during the season to add to Shay’s rock climbing and Harley racing.” D’Angelo smirks. “I approve.”

The twins are from England. They’re only twenty-one and have difficult backgrounds.

This is their first beach holiday. It has been awesome to see their joy at the experience.

Shay’s a prodigy on the ice, but in the water, he looks like an enthusiastic puppy who doesn’t realize that they’re moments from drowning.

The rest of us have agreed to take turns being with him every time that he goes into the sea.

“So, Eden’s watching his brother then?” I ask. “How’s his shoulder?”

“Eden told me that he’s at a three on the pain scale.” D’Angelo huffs. “By the way that he’s holding it, however, my guess is that it’s actually about a six but he’s hiding it because he doesn’t want to ruin Shay’s first beach vacation.”

Worried, I glance across the beach, trying to search out a hazy view of the twins.

Eden was a hockey player, until an injury knocked him out of the NHL. He works as D’Angelo’s PA now (and the things that he can do with a schedule are indecent).

Despite his social anxiety, shoulder injury, and his severe post-concussion symptoms, Eden is Terminator level efficient.

He’s receiving treatment from the hospital and my brother, Cody, who is Director of Physical Therapy at the Bay Rebels.

The problem is that Eden never complains.

He won’t speak up in his own defense but he’d burn the world for Shay, D’Angelo, and me.

Yet I’d burn the people who’ve made Eden feel like he’s not a real person but only a shadow.

D’Angelo nods. “Eden is reading. Also, he loves the wildlife. He thrives in the quiet out here, as much as he does in the forest. I’m happy that I can give them this. I almost saw him smile earlier. When I bought this place, I thought that it’d be the perfect escape from hockey at weekends. But I had years of having no one to share it with. Having you all here with me now, principessa, finally feels right. I’m not alone anymore. This is a home at last, and you’re my family.”

I trace the scuff of stubble on D’Angelo’s chin. “And you’re mine. But I’m worried. Fun as drawing smutty stickmen is, didn’t Dad ask you to work on strategy for the upcoming games next week? He is the type of hard-ass who’d leave you with black eyes.”

D’Angelo glances away. “You’re more important, cara mia. You’ll come first over hockey every time. I’ll work, when you’re asleep tonight. We’ve only just got back from the traumatizing road trip that mindfucked me. I suffered for coach. So, he can bust my balls if he wants. But I need this weekend with the people who I love so much it hurts. Unless you haven’t noticed, I’m fucking obsessed with you.”

My heart flutters, and my stomach swoops.

A short breath escapes me.

I pull my hand between us to gently take D’Angelo by the chin and turn him to face me again. “I’m fucking obsessed with you too. I love you, Jude.”

D’Angelo’s eyes light up on my whispered use of his first name.

“Say it again,” he snarls.

I study D’Angelo’s long, raven lashes, which frame his hopeful, blue eyes.

Fucking beautiful.

“Jude,” I whisper, kissing him on each word and feeling how hard he is in his pants, as he humps against me. “ Jude .”

“Read this.” D’Angelo leans over the side of the couch to pick up the fallen Guide.

Then he draws back to straddle me and holds the Guide open in front of me like an unorthodox but extremely hot professor.

I scrunch up my nose. “This is what you’ve been working on…?”

He nods.

I study the page that’s written in his handwriting.

Having lived next to D’Angelo in dorms at college, as well as the other sections of the Guide that are filled in by him, I’d know his handwriting anywhere.

“I’m not in the habit of repeating myself,” D’Angelo says, sternly.

Hurriedly, I start reading out loud:

A Guide to Loving Hockey Players

Robyn’s Number One Rule: Act out a secret fantasy with NHL hockey players every time that they win a game.

Top three reasons:

They’re gods on the ice but are more obsessed with you than their sticks.

They’ll burn down the world to protect you against the world’s monsters.

The Prince twins.

But never forget it all began with D’Angelo...

D’Angelo looks smug. “I hope that the stickmen are self-explanatory. They’re acting out some of the fantasies. It’s hard to draw primal play, bondage, and hot vampire role play with stickmen. So, you should be impressed by my creativity.”

“Stickmen with fangs or in handcuffs. You’ve created a whole new art form.” I glance over the top of the book at D’Angelo. “But what’s this new rule for me?”

Anticipation thrums through me.

Secret fantasy?

Sign me up.

To my surprise, D’Angelo’s expression becomes serious, as he places the Guide on the arm of the couch. “Your ex-husband was an asshole. He didn’t know how to show you pleasure. I want to explore it with you. Also, Shay is still on his bi-awakening journey. And Eden hadn’t even been kissed before you. He’s also learning about his dominance for the first time in his life. Together, we can use the rule as motivation in the next home games, as surprises for you, and also drive you in your PR work.”

“Surprises, huh?” I caress down D’Angelo’s clothed thigh, and in turn, he traces circles on my stomach. “I like this idea. But how serious are the upcoming games?”

D’Angelo stills. “We won the California road trip for the first time in the Bay Rebels’ history. But that only put us under more scrutiny. The board are going to want more from us. They’ll be pushing us to make the playoffs. We need to start winning. A lot of the pressure will be on Shay and me because—”

“You’re PR nightmares?”

“Yes, but also—”

“Such big PR nightmares that Dad made me your twenty-four seven live-in PR?”

D’Angelo gives me his warning dom face (which I, of course, ignore). “Yes, but—”

“Dad also rented a house in the middle of nowhere to essentially put you under house arrest to stop you getting into scandals like dancing on the tables of cocktail bars dressed in flashing devil horns?”

“That was at college,” D’Angelo replies, affronted. “And you know that I was dancing at a Halloween party because you admired my tight ass all night. Now, I’m trying to say—”

“That Dad also has had to hire a security team to look into the high level of trolling and death threats directed at you?”

“And—”

“Eden and I deal with your problematic superfans and obsessive hate mail every day. Because you’re such a—”

D’Angelo smothers my next words with an aggressive kiss.

Leaning down, he buries his hand in my hair, tugging hard. I moan, relaxing into his hold.

When he pulls back, he slides his other hand over my mouth like a gag.

He raises his eyebrow commandingly, as if daring me to lick his palm.

Tempting.

Plus, I have form.

Instead, however, I chuckle.

After a moment, D’Angelo does as well, before becoming serious again. “This season is my only shot at hitting the playoffs and giving the Bay Rebels a legacy. Shay is the spark. He’s the best new player in the NHL. Our relationship, however, could break all of us. It’s the best thing that’s happened in my life, and I’ll do anything to protect it…and you. But people have already used our love and past lives against us. It scares me that Shay’s sponsorships, which he needs to make a new life in America since Eden and he have fucking nothing, or your life away from press intrusion, could be wrecked. So, our love is real but it needs to be a secret fantasy for now. This life that we’re building together is too precious to be broken.”

Warmth curls through me.

I clutch D’Angelo’s strong forearm, squeezing. After a moment he relents and lifts his palm from my mouth.

I lick over my dry lips. “That was a much longer response than I was expecting.”

“I’ll edit better next time,” D’Angelo deadpans. “I’m still a baby author, after all.”

He sits back on his side of the couch, dusting imaginary lint off his suit trousers.

I scramble to sit up. “Wait, come back. I liked your sincerity. You’re a better man than you know, Jude D’Angelo.”

He scrunches up his nose. “No need to insult me in rhyme.”

All of a sudden, sunlight glints off the rings on my right hand: a silver 22 design, which is sunk into a gold signet ring, a flaming phoenix with amber eyes, and a simple silver ring with four stars to represent each of us in this relationship.

One of the rings was bought for me by each of my men in as much of a commitment and a promise as an engagement ring because we can’t marry.

I won’t choose one of them over the other.

I’ve been struggling to decide on what ring to buy for them. I’m determined to show them that they’re equals in this relationship as well.

At last, I know what I want to give them.

But since I’m normally a klutzy disaster zone, I want the moment that I give them the rings to be perfect because theirs to me were.

I’ve got this. It’s my mission.

I cast a sneaky glance at D’Angelo, who is pretending to be fascinated by his cuff links.

I take the chance to wriggle my hand beneath the pile of velvet cushions behind me, where I hid the rings earlier. I pinch my lips in concentration, squirming around.

Shit, where are they?

Panic shoots through me.

Has D’Angelo already found them?

Has my big moment been ruined?

Have I lost them?

This is worse than that time I misplaced my iPhone for an entire morning.

Fuck.

I shove my hand further behind myself, arching my back.

D’Angelo is still pretending that he can’t see that I’ve turned into a contortionist.

He plucks an orange rose out of the nearest vase and waves it casually side to side like he’s conducting an orchestra. He probably is. He loves classical musical by what Shay calls dead blokes like Mozart.

I grit my teeth, reaching to the very back of the couch.

Why did I think that this would be a good hiding place?

Men truly do suffer through torture to plan a good proposal. No wonder so many of them screw it up.

Hold up, is that the edge of a ring box…?

I grin in victory, at the same moment that I lose my balance.

I tip sideways off the couch. With a yelp, I tumble onto the floor. Startled, D’Angelo reaches for me but doesn’t catch me in time.

Blushing, I shove myself up onto one knee in front of D‘Angelo, clutching onto his hand.

The rose is held romantically between us.

I hear a gasp.

“Wait, are you proposing to Jude ?” Shay’s hurt voice comes from behind me.