Page 31 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
My eyes trace the ink that winds its way up his left arm, a tapestry of tattoos that tells a story I've never read but find myself wanting to. The designs ebb and flow over his muscles, drawing my focus and stirring a curiosity about their meanings—about the moments in his life significant enough to be etched into his skin.
And then there's his knee—the scar from the surgery that ended his career. It's a stark reminder of his vulnerability, a blemish on the otherwise imposing canvas of his body. It's proof of his mortality, a battle wound.
I can't quite believe it, this pull I feel towards him. It's like gravity, inevitable and undeniable. It's not just his looks, not the raw physicality of his presence—it's everything. The way he carries his past, the confidence with which he navigates the present, the undeniable intensity he brings to the future.
Caught in my unabashed scrutiny, I barely register the shift in his stance until his voice breaks through my reverie, laced with that characteristic blend of arrogance and charm. "What's the matter, Isabella? You going to stare all day, or is there something on your mind?"
His cheeky quip snaps me back to the present, and an impish impulse seizes me. With a laugh that bubbles up from some place free of our tangled history, I reach out, my hand boldly finding the firmness of his backside—a testament to years on the ice. It's as if his body was sculpted for power and agility, each muscle defined to perfection, a solid testament to his discipline and athleticism.
In a move that's both playful and charged with an undercurrent of our unresolved tension, I pull him towards me. Our bodies collide with a familiarity that's both thrilling and terrifying. The memory of his hands on me, the anticipation of his touch—it all converges into a moment of heady abandon.
He pushes himself into me, his impossibly thick manhood splitting me open in the best way imaginable. I reach around and clamp my hand down onto the solid muscles of his ass once again, gripping them tightly, savoring their power. I push him down, guiding him where I want him. He moves deeply inside, bottoming me out completely.
As we find ourselves wrapped up in each other once again, there's a sense of inevitability. Our breaths mingle, our heartbeats synchronize, and the world narrows down to the space we occupy. It's a rapid ascent, a whirlwind that captures us in its intensity, bringing us to a precipice we're all too willing to leap off together.
“Isabella,” Dom murmurs, his voice rough, barely more than a breath against the shell of my ear. “If I’d known you’d react like this, I would’ve suggested a fake engagement a long time ago.”
I let out a breathy chuckle, my fingers tracing the hard lines of his muscles. “Keep talking, Steele, and I might just believe the lie,” I tease back, the words tinged with a desire that's all too real.
He tightens his grip around me, pulling me even closer, if such a thing is possible. “No lies between us now,” he says, his lips tracing a path along my jawline, sending shivers down my spine. “Just this—just us.”
The sincerity woven through the huskiness of his voice sends a jolt straight to my core. “Dom,” I whisper back, my hands venturing beneath his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin. “This is madness.”
“Mmm,” he hums in agreement, his hands mirroring mine, exploring with a boldness that speaks of the fire we’ve stoked. “The best kind.”
The release when it comes is swift, a shared shudder that echoes the passion of our connection. It's a moment of unguarded truth, an acknowledgment of the fire that burns between us—a fire that, for all its dangers, we're both drawn to like moths to a flame.
Lying back against the pillows, I’m awash with a tangle of emotions, the echo of my fantasy still resonating through my body. I can't believe I let myself go there, even if it was only in the secluded theatre of my mind. It was a moment of weakness, a slip into a world where caution and professionalism come second to raw, unchecked desire.
I shake my head, as if the motion could dislodge the lingering thoughts, the remnants of a scenario that should have never played out, even in the deepest corners of my imagination. It's okay, I reassure myself, it's not like any of that would happen in real life. It was just a fantasy, nothing more—a brief lapse that I can tuck away into the shadows of my mind.
But the seed that Dom planted has taken root, and despite the tumultuous journey my mind just embarked on, I can't deny the potential benefits his ludicrous proposal might hold. The exposure, the resources, the leg up in the hockey world—it's all too significant to ignore.
Sitting up, I pull my laptop toward me, the keys cool under my fingertips—a stark contrast to the heat of my recent reverie. I start typing, each click a step toward a future that's suddenly within reach.
"Dom," I begin, the familiarity of his name a strange comfort in the professional tone of the email. "After careful consideration, I've decided to entertain your proposal. However, let's get one thing straight—this is strictly business. If we're going to do this, it'll be on my terms. Public appearances, yes. Social media, fine. But no blurring lines, no personal entanglements. We keep it professional, we make it believable, and when the time comes, we end it cleanly."
I pause, reading over the words, ensuring there's no room for misinterpretation. "We'll need a contract," I continue, "detailing the specifics of our arrangement. Boundaries, expectations, duration. And let's not forget the most important part—the StarPucks' access to the Apex Arena. That's non-negotiable."
After a final review, I sign off with a formal, "Regards, Isabella Carrington," and send the email into the void.
Leaning back, I feel a strange cocktail of apprehension and excitement bubble up inside me. I've just agreed to partner up with Dom Steele, of all people, in one of the most unorthodox moves of my career.
I stand, walking over to the window that frames the cityscape. The skyline is a chessboard, and I've just made a bold play. This could be the game-changer I've been looking for, the chance to put the StarPucks—and myself—on the map in a way I never thought possible.
And as I look out over the city, my resolve crystallizes. This is it. The next move. The next challenge. And if there's one thing I know about Isabella Carrington, it's that she plays to win, no matter how unconventional the game.
16
Dom
Morninglightcutsacrossmy home office, casting sharp lines across the hardwood. It’s another day, but not just any day. Today, I find out if Isabella buys into the crazy scheme I pitched her. I’m not usually one to second-guess myself—I make a play, and I commit. But today, there’s a thread of tension knotted tight in my gut.
I've always played the game on my terms, controlled the board, but with Isabella, the rules are different. She's a wildcard, brilliant and unpredictable. I've pushed her, tested her—hell, I've been a real dick, and I know it. So, there’s a very real chance she might turn me down. Even worse, she could blow the whistle on this whole charade, and where would that leave me? The thought is like a blade, sharp and cold against my skin.
I'm staring at the blinking cursor on my screen, trying to distill my thoughts into the semblance of work, when the notification pops up. An email from Isabella. My pulse kicks up a notch, and I click on it with a mix of apprehension and something like hope.
Her words are there in black and white, setting terms, drawing lines, but underneath it all, there's an agreement. She's in. Relief washes over me, a wave that cleanses away the doubts and solidifies my resolve. This is happening. We're doing this.
