Page 2 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
Around me, the bar comes alive. Glasses clink, laughter grows louder, and the sensual beats of 'Earned It' by The Weeknd begins to play. The seductive rhythm weaves through my consciousness, adding a layer of sultriness to the mundane data before me. And yet, even amidst all this, I can feel the weight of a particular gaze.
Resisting the temptation becomes a game. How long can I keep my focus strictly professional with the embodiment of temptation mere feet away? The more I dive into my work, the more my surroundings blur into indistinct chatter, shadows, and light.
The bustling hum of the bar, the background music, it's all become a comforting white noise. I lose myself in the drudgery, each line blurring into the next.
“You know, they say puck size matters,” a voice rumbles suddenly, low and tinged with mischief, breaking through my trance.
Startled, I almost knock over my martini, catching it just in time. I slowly lift my eyes from my screen. No longer across the room, the mysterious stranger is now leaning against the bar beside me, all broad shoulders and simmering intensity. The close proximity sends a jolt of awareness down my spine. The heat he gives off is palpable, like standing too close to a bonfire.
"Excuse me?" I challenge, arching an eyebrow, my voice dripping with feigned disdain, though my racing heart gives away my surprise.
His lips curve into a teasing grin, green eyes dancing with amusement. "Just reflecting on a topic from the conference today. Interesting how such minute details can have such a significant impact on the game.”
My cheeks blaze as realization dawns. He'd been at the Strategy Symposium too. No wonder he’d looked so familiar.
And yet, it's the man himself that truly captures my attention. Up close, his charm is practically an assault. Those expressive eyes, the texture of his short beard, his laugh lines—it’s all intensely, impossibly distracting. And I’ve never been a tattoo sort of woman, but the way those designs look crawling up his ropey, thick forearm, vanishing underneath the tightly-rolled sleeve of his shirt, reappearing up above along his thick neck…damn.
As he starts to introduce himself, holding out a hand, I cut him off, "Dominic Steele. You're Dom Steele." The words spill out, the dots finally connecting. He's not just some hockey enthusiast; he's THE hockey legend.
That’swhy he looked so familiar. Not just because he was some guy who happened to be at the conference, but that he was a hockey god in the flesh!
For a split second, I feel like a rookie who’s stepped onto the ice for the first time, disoriented and off-balance. The man beside me isn’t just a handsome stranger; he’s a monumental figure in the world of hockey, a living legend. And here I am, working on budget reports and getting tipsy in his presence.
A touch of pink colors my cheeks, but if he notices my embarrassment, he doesn't show it. Instead, with the smooth grace of someone who's been in the limelight for years, he replies, “Most people just call me Dom.”
I’m too stunned to speak.
He gestures to the empty seat beside me. “Mind if I join you? I promise I won't critique your spreadsheet. Much.”
His teasing tone, combined with that signature Dom Steele confidence, is utterly captivating. All I can manage is a sassy smirk as I motion for him to take the seat. Work can wait, but opportunities like this? They're as fleeting as a puck in the final seconds of a tied game.
"Go ahead," I say, trying to sound cool and in control. Still, my voice hitches just slightly, and inwardly I'm berating myself for it. The bar's ambient murmur seems to fade a touch as he settles next to me. I nod to the seat beside mine, a clear invitation.
Watching Dom move is like observing poetry in motion. For a guy built like a fortress, he carries an unexpected grace with every step. It's a strange juxtaposition—the raw power of an athlete combined with the fluidity of a dancer. As he takes the seat, there's a smooth pivot, an ease in his descent, the lean of his tattooed arm on the bar counter.
My eyes can't help but drift down, taking in the defined muscles of his forearms, and then, a bit lower, to his perfectly shaped behind. A playful, albeit inappropriate thought crosses my mind: I wonder what those arms would feel like wrapped around me—and just how firm that amazing butt really is, what it’d feel like bare underneath my hands…
Whoa, Isabella! Get a grip!But oh, what a deliciously sinful grip that could be.
"So, you were at the conference too?" I ask, hoping to steer my thoughts to safer territory.
Dom chuckles, his smoldering intensity momentarily replaced by amusement. "Yep, and it was every bit as riveting as watching paint dry."
I snort with laughter, nearly spitting out my drink. "Thank God I wasn't the only one stifling yawns! I thought I was going to be buried under PowerPoint slides."
His laughter is hearty and infectious. "And let's not even get started on those long-winded keynote speeches."
We exchange playful banter, tearing apart various elements of the conference, and it's evident we're on the same wavelength. It's surprisingly easy, this back and forth with him.
Dom arches an eyebrow, his magnetic eyes twinkling with mischief. "Anyway, did you catch that session on the evolutionary trajectory of the hockey puck? I mean, who knew there was a prehistoric age for those little rubber discs?"
I stifle a giggle. "Oh, absolutely enlightening! I was on the edge of my seat. And don't even get me started on the dramatic unveiling of the new puck design. I've never seen so much fanfare over a few added grooves."
He laughs, a rich, hearty sound that has a flutter running down my spine. "Oh, come on! That laser light show? The dramatic music? It was like witnessing the launch of a new iPhone—just rounder and... more slappable."
I feign a dramatic gasp. "How dare you! Pucks are the very essence of our sport! Next, you'll be making fun of the strategic placement of water bottles on the bench."
He leans in conspiratorially, voice dripping with mock gravity. "Ah, now that's classified info! But between you and me, I've always believed there's a secret society deciding the precise angles those bottles should face. I mean, it's the only logical explanation."
