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Triple Puck
Prologue
Rose
"Fuck, Mason. Oh… yes."
I throw my head back as one big hand grips my waist while the other slides up my spine, pulling me harder against a wall of muscle as teeth sink into my neck, sending my pussy into a frenzy.
"That's it, baby. Christ, you taste good."
His mouth drags along my neck, moving to right beneath my ear, in the exact spot where my pulse is pounding so hard he can probably feel my heartbeat against his tongue.
Oh, wow.
This feels good. Too good.
Because I'm currently straddling Mason Morrison in my office chair, and I have zero plans to stop.
Mason walked in here ten minutes ago with a Breakers takeout bag, grease-spotted and smelling absolutely glorious, but now, the evidence of my downfall sits abandoned on the desk behind me.
The loaded fries are going cold in the box while I make out with the Beachside Bears hottest defenseman. Even the choc-orange shake is now forming a dark shadow on the sponsorship proposals I was supposed to finish four hours ago.
I blame Beck for that, honestly.
For the last two weeks, I've been getting buried deeper and deeper under Beck Morrison content requests.
Apparently the whole world cares that the youngest Morrison brother chose to stay with the Bears, and now I'm the one-woman department responsible for turning that decision into fifteen different social graphics, a daily press reel, and a TikTok series nobody asked for.
And here I am, wrapped around the only Morrison I care about because his hand just slipped beneath the hem of my top.
"Mason—"
"Shh." His palm covers my breast, warm through the lace of my bra, and my hips roll forward all on their own. "Just relax… let me feel this body."
His thumb traces the underside of my breast, slowly working its way toward my nipple.
Here's the thing about Mason Morrison touching me like this.
This all started innocently. It really did.
It started with late night food deliveries which quickly turned into fun conversations. Then came the occasional dangerous look that made me forget exactly why this is a bad idea.
We both know we shouldn't be doing this. We're not stupid.
My father is his coach.
There's a whole list of reasons that is probably laminated somewhere in my dad's office as to why we should be keeping our hands to ourselves. My job, his career… the failing Beachside Bears franchise.
But then Mason walked in tonight, opened the fries, and held one up to my lips. And because I am a weak, weak woman, all it took was for him to look at me for one long, dangerous second…
And I let him drag me into his lap.
Now his tongue is sliding over mine, and there's a very hard, very promising ridge grinding up between my thighs.
"I'm starting to think…" I murmur against his mouth, wrapping my fingers around his biceps. "…that you brought dinner to my office under false pretenses."
He gnaws on my bottom lip. "I brought dinner because you forgot to eat."
"Then explain why your tongue is in my mouth."
"That's a complimentary service."
I laugh into his lips, and he swallows the sound with a deep groan.
His hands slide down to my hips, my wide, soft, plenty-to-grab hips, and he squeezes them with no hesitation.
I flinch a little, out of old habit.
The thing is… I can't remember the last time a man kissed me.
Over a year ago, easily. Possibly longer. My dating life flatlined the day I moved to Beachside, took the job my father recommended me for, and agreed to stay with him temporarily.
Now I'm twenty-five years old, living with my dad, and sleeping down the hall from a man who once benched a player for texting me during film review.
Mason must feel the flinch, because he doesn't let go. He squeezes harder, like he's correcting me. Like my curvy hips are a hill he'd happily die on.
Okay. Recalibrating.
He likes my body… I think.
But even if I want to try dating, even if I found a man in this town who wasn't terrified of my last name, the logistics alone are a nightmare.
There is no sexy way to bring someone home when Coach Jack Pearson might wander into the kitchen at midnight in boxer shorts and reading glasses, wearing the hard scowl he usually saves for sloppy line changes.
No man survives that. No man should have to.
Which is why I'm dry-humping a defenseman in my office instead of a bed like a normal person.
I love my dad. I do.
He coached every softball team, attended every terrible school play, learned to braid my hair from a YouTube video after Mom died because he refused to send me to picture day looking like I lost a fight with a hairbrush.
Jack Pearson is a good father.
He's also a silver-haired wall of overprotection who has made it unmistakably clear that his players do not touch his daughter.
Mason's mouth returns to my neck, and every rational thought dissolves as his lips drag lower. The hand beneath my top shifts, his fingers spreading wide across the soft part of my stomach.
Lucky for me, the chair lets out a squeak that sounds like a dying seagull flapping past the window behind us.
I freeze and stare at my office door. "Was that the chair?"
Mason grunts beneath me. "Probably."
"Colin promised me a new one three budget meetings ago."
"I'll speak to him."
"Please don't tell the general manager my chair can't support your ass."
Mason's hands tighten on my hips. "You're the one trying to climb me, Rosie."
He smiles against my throat, then shifts me deeper into his lap and flicks open another button on my blouse. His mouth follows the new skin down, warm and heading somewhere that makes my breath go ragged.
His mouth hovers an inch above my cleavage, his tongue warm against my skin, and then he lifts his head.
For one stupid second, I wait for him to come back. For his mouth to close over the top of my breast, for his hand to keep moving, for the hottest moment I’ve experienced in years to continue exactly where it left off.
It doesn’t.
Mason’s gaze drops between us, and mine follows.
My top is gaping open across my chest, straining around my boobs. My stomach is soft where it presses against his hard abs, folding over slightly because I'm currently sitting in the lap of an enormous hockey player and women like me don't normally bend like this.
And just like that…
Every insecure thought I’ve ever had lines up for roll call.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a pack of eighth-grade boys starts whispering that nickname again. The one I hated so much I haven't dared to say it out loud since the day I graduated.
I developed early. Spectacularly early, according to every boy who discovered breasts existed and decided mine were public property. By thirteen, I had boobs, hips and a soft stomach that no number of crunches flattened.
The boys gave me a name for it.
They yelled it across the softball field, muttered it whenever I walked past, and eventually carved it into the underside of a desk in science class.
Even the boy I had a mortifying crush on laughed along, because apparently wanting the coach’s curvy daughter was social suicide, but humiliating her earned you a seat at the popular table.
So I learned quickly.
I did what any young girl being bullied endlessly in high school would have done.
While the other girls were tucking tank tops into denim shorts, I was building a wardrobe out of hoodies three sizes too big.
I wore black on black on baggy black, like if I wore enough fabric, my body would stop being a topic of conversation.
I crossed my arms in the hallways and stood behind someone else in every group photo until eventually, I stopped being in the photos at all.
It mostly worked.
It also became a habit I wore for the next decade.
And now, apparently no amount of therapy-adjacent podcasts or aggressively positive Instagram accounts can stop a thirteen-year-old Rose from clawing her way back into my brain the moment Mason Morrison paused while staring at my half-naked body.
Right. Time to exit with whatever dignity I have left.
I push off his chest and swing one leg toward freedom.
His hands clamp around my hips. "Where are you going?"
"Back to work."
He cocks a brow. "That's clearly a lie."
"Fine." I unfold myself from his lap and attempt to escape his grasp. "I'm going somewhere that doesn't involve sitting on a man who just remembered he had somewhere better to be."
Mason blinks up at me, like I've just suggested the earth is flat.
"Somewhere better—" He shakes his head and actually looks confused. "Rose, I stopped because—"
"You just pulled away." I point out. "Again. Which is starting to feel like a pattern."
"A pattern—"
"Yes. You always stop." I start ticking it off on my fingers. “Last Tuesday, you stopped because Sawyer coughed three corridors away. Before that, my phone lit up with Dad’s name and you nearly launched me into the filing cabinet. At this point, fooling around with you involves more false alarms than the Bear Cave smoke detectors after Finn discovered microwave popcorn.”
"Rose—"
But I'm not finished.
"Every time we do… whatever this is. Right when things start to get good, you just—"
Mason grabs my hand mid-gesture, and before I can finish the sentence, he presses my palm flat against the front of his pants so can feel exactly how hard he is.
"Does that feel like I have somewhere better to be?"
He pulls me back onto his lap, chuckling a deep laugh that's smug as hell. I settle over his legs and my eyes nearly cross at the size currently pressing between my legs.
"Well? Does it?"
He starts moving his hips, grinding his long cock against my core.
“Not exactly.” I swallow, struggling to maintain eye contact when there is an alarmingly persuasive argument happening between my thighs. “But human bodies aren’t exactly famous for making sensible decisions.”
“Neither am I when you’re on my lap.”