The Pilot and the Puck-Up Read online

Ares gives me a thumbs-up. Royal prick’s getting a copy right now.

  And I let Fireball drag me out of the clubhouse.

  Being me is a damn good thing to be.

  Even in a fucking girdle.

  4

  Joey

  We’re four steps outside that stuffy-ass schmooze-fest when I spin on Zeus freaking Berger and startle him into stepping back. “Where’d your buddy take my sister?”

  “Whoa, princess—”

  Princess? I have that fucker pinned to the wall by the throat in less time than it takes me to make grown men cry. “Do not ever call me princess.”

  He grins.

  Probably because he knew calling me princess would piss me off.

  Possibly also because his throat’s so thick that even with my fingers stretched as wide as they’ll go, I can’t reach from one end of his jawbone to the other, and his neck’s solid as steel.

  What the fuck is up with that pulsing in my lady brain? She’s usually smarter than this. More independent too.

  And she’s getting all worked up before we notice the brush of something else solid as steel pushing against the top of my abs.

  Holy dog. If that’s real—no, concentrate, Joey.

  “Where. Is. My. Sister.” I don’t make it a question, because men don’t respect questions. They respect demands and balls, and, honey, I got both.

  “Probably took her out to admire some sheep.” Even with the coconuts, dress, and pink wig, Zeus Berger is nothing short of complete masculinity. It’s raining testosterone in this hallway. Only explanation for the wetness in my underwear. “Told you, sheep are more his speed. Besides, she’s a big girl. Nothing wrong with letting her admire some livestock.”

  Back home in Podunk, Alabama, yeah, Gracie can take care of herself. But wielding Gomer Smith’s pet duck like a weapon when he tries to sneak a pinch of ass—Gomer, I mean, not his duck, though I wouldn’t put it past the duck either—isn’t the same as being hit on by men with money, fame, and mastery of at least a third of a dictionary.

  And don’t go thinking we’re all dumb hicks down in Alabama.

  Nope.

  Gomer’s simply the only one dumb enough to brave hitting on my sister.

  “Admire livestock? That’s the worst euphemism I’ve ever heard, and if he hurts her—”

  Zeus’s grin gets bigger. “You gonna kick his ass? Can I watch?”

  Fuck if that yard of beef in his skirt doesn’t grow three inches and fossilize right there under my rib cage. And what’s up with my nipples trying to slice their way out of my bra? I gave my virginity to a dildo when I was twenty-one after too many over-confident blowhards fumbled around petting my pussy more for their own pleasure than for mine.

  Yeah, I’m technically a virgin. Blow me. Point is, it’s a rare man with a pulse who can crank my engine, and I don’t understand why Zeus Berger is doing it for me.

  “I know six different ways to kill a man,” I tell him.

  “You are so fucking hot.”

  The doofus is still grinning, yeah, but his eyes are hooded blue flames that keep dipping to my lips, and this fucking inconvenient arousal is interfering with my focus on my sister. Pretty sure my clit just tried to outdo his boner, and I have an ache in places between my thighs that have never ached for my dildos or my vibrators.

  I don’t know why or how he’s doing this to my body and I’m equal parts horrified that I’m considering asking to see the sausage in his skirt and at the same time jonesing to grab life by the balls and see if a ride on his mega-rocket is everything it’s promising to be.

  He’s not trying to prove his manliness by fucking my breastbone—yeah, the stilettos make him that tall—and even though we both know this grip I have on his throat is probably the same as him being cuddled by a teddy bear, he’s letting me keep the illusion I’m in control.

  I like being in control.

  I’m very much not in control right now.

  “Tell you a secret?” he says in that overconfident hockey god growl.

  “No.”

  “I’m not actually a woman.”

  “Yeah, well, I hardly qualify as one myself.”

  “Jupiter begs to differ.”

  I’m embarrassed to admit it takes me a full three heartbeats—fast heartbeats, just so we’re clear—to catch on. “You named your dick Jupiter.”

  He gives one of those of course I fucking did shrugs. “Didn’t want him getting jealous that he wasn’t named after a god too.”

  “He has rings?” I ask, which honestly shouldn’t be making my lady brain pulse harder, but there she goes, insanely curious if he’s naturally ribbed for my pleasure.

  He wiggles his oddly attractive brows at me. “Don’t you want to know.”

  “A spot?”

  I’m insulting his junk, and he’s grinning wider by the minute. Hard not to like the guy, which is pissing me off more, because I don’t want to like Zeus Berger. He’s the physical personification of every battle I’ve fought in my professional life to get where I am today.

  “You need a telescope to see it?” I guess again.

  He traces one long, thick finger down my forearm, which sends my nerves into hyperdrive as a pleasurable shiver licks its way up to my shoulder and down my breasts, making my nipples catch fire and pop mini-boners of their own.

  “It’s okay to be nervous,” he says. “Me and Jupiter, we’re both big guys.”

  Damn well better be. If I’m gonna screw this ogre’s brains out, it’s going to fucking count. Not that I’m going to—oh, hell, who am I kidding?

  Thirty seconds in control of his joystick, and I probably won’t need my toy drawer for two months. Can’t pass up an opportunity like this. “You know there’s a reason they call me Fireball.”

  “Because you go down smooth like whisky?”

  The idea of going down on him—if that bulge in his dress is real—is one more challenge I might be up for. Which is further proof I’ve lost my ever-loving mind. I smile at him. “Don’t you want to know,” I parrot back.

  His blunt fingers are drawing Z’s over the back of my hand. “So how are we going to play this? Me toss you over my shoulder and carry you out of here? Or you toss me over yours?”

  The only time a guy’s ever thrown me over his shoulder and carried me anywhere was during a military exercise where I had to play the wounded victim. He tripped, sprained his ankle, and I ended up carrying him to real medical help.

  “You’re very sure of yourself,” I say.

  “Fuck yeah. Optimistic too. Wanna pet my dragon?”

  That grin. That smirk. He’s playing with me. He doesn’t think I’ll do it. Doesn’t think I’ll take him up on his offer. Doesn’t really mean it.

  Just like every other jackass who’s thought it would be fun to say he fucked with Joey Diamonte’s mind.

  I slide my fingers down his neck, over his thick collarbones, and down to fondle the coconuts on his chest. “You pet mine, I’ll pet yours.”

  “Don’t want to pet yours. I’m gonna fucking eat it.”

  Highly unlikely. I grip him by the strap of his dress and go in search of a room.

  This won’t take long.

  And then I’m going to find my sister.

  5

  Zeus

  Hot damn. Suck this, you royal pansy who thought I couldn’t do it.

  Fireball’s about to fuck my nuts off.

  This chick—yeah, she’s way out of my league. Brains. Self-confidence. Owns her own airplane.

  Defies fucking gravity.

  She drags me down the narrow hallway lined with pictures of pretentious golf dudes, trophy cases, and framed awards until she finds a door that opens.

  Office. Desk. Picture of the manager and his poodle. Window overlooking the course. A big tee clock that neither one of us better sit on.

  Her hair’s the only thing loose about her, flowing over her shoulders like a curtain of silk. Her body’s so smokin’ hot it sets off all the fi
re alarms in my system. She’s got the focus of a tiger. Not often I feel like the prey.

  Considering she can’t be bigger than five-seven, maybe one-forty soaking wet, I should be the lion to her gazelle. But those dark eyes are telegraphing an unmistakable message that she’s about to own me.

  “You get one chance, Berger,” she says as she makes quick work of the buttons on her white blouse and drops it to the ground, revealing olive skin over taut muscle and two beautiful tits held in place by a utilitarian white bra. I don’t even care that she’s in grandpa pants that go all the way up to her belly button. Blood pumps into my dick like a fucking dam burst.

  “Supposed to be my line, Fireball,” I reply. “Or should I call you…?”

  “Lose the dress. Fireball’s all you’re getting.”

  She’s using all of my lines against me. Get naked. Call me the Brute. Let’s fuck.

  Yeah, the chicks I bang know my name. But they don’t know me.

  “Your dress?” she prompts.

  “Honey, women don’t tell the king of the gods what to do.” I don’t know if I can get out of this fucking thing by myself. One wrong move, and it’s popping seams.

  I can get rid of these coconuts though. I heft them out of the bra, and hoo—fuck, I forgot I wasn’t breathing all the way. Back’s tight too.

  She chuckles out a delightfully evil laugh as she peels her breasts out of that ugly-ass bra. “Honey, you don’t get to touch these unless you do what I tell you to.”

  My fingers itch, my cock begs to be tagged into the game, and my tongue twists itself in a fucking knot. I’ve seen boobs. I’ve licked boobs, I’ve sucked on boobs, I’ve fondled boobs. Me and boobs? There’s never been a shortage. I know boobs.

  But the thought of not knowing these pretty titties is making that demigod in my jockey shorts threaten to go on strike.

  I’m about to call her bluff—she’ll be begging me to lick her nipples in three-point-two seconds—when she cups her breasts, puts her thumbs to her pert rosy buds, and lets her eyes slide shut. Someone’s taking a cracker to my nuts, because the sight of this woman touching herself is about to make those puppies under my stick burst.

  I spin in a circle trying to grab the hook on this bra Madame Cosette strapped me into. Fuck it. Gonna have to settle for pulling my arms out of the straps.

  Except my arms are the size of a normal man’s thighs, and fuck, the strap’s stuck too. I’d burn the fucking thing off if I could find a lighter, because I’m starting to think that’s what it’s gonna take.

  She shoves me back against the desk. The tee clock bounces to the oriental rug under the desk. My coconuts clatter on top of it. Some other office shit moves and shuffles, but I don’t notice, because she’s climbing up on the desk, straddling me like there’s not a huge-ass window right behind us. “Poor baby needs help?” she purrs.

  Yeah, she’s fucking purring.

  And I don’t give two shits that she’s mocking me, because those firm titties are bouncing just enough to hold every iota of my attention, her legs are framing my hips while she thrusts her goods against the demigod in my skirt, and halle-fucking-lujah, she just released the hook on my bra.

  My mouth’s gone dry as a desert and can’t stop salivating all at the same time. I don’t know which way’s up, what color the sky is, or how to count to ten, but my straining dick knows she’s north and it wants to sit in Mrs. Claus’s lap.

  Shut up. You’d be brain-tied too if this chick had her tits in your face.

  She’s straddling me, yanking my dress down to scrape her fingers over my pecs, rubbing her pussy against the happiest god on earth, and fuck, Mt. VuZeusius is about to blow.

  I grasp her waist, grit my teeth, and count my ABCs to get control of that thunder growing down under, because Zeus Fucking Berger does not lose his shit before the third period.

  “Didn’t paint you for a puck bunny,” I rasp out.

  “Pink hair turns me on, even if you’re due for a good weed whacking.” She rubs me harder with her magic pussy, and shit, I need to get a grip. We’re both still in our pants—okay, me in my underpants—my dick’s about to punch through this dress, and if her pussy’s half as hot and wet and silky as those fuck-me bedroom eyes of hers are promising, this little trip to the principal’s office is gonna be one for the record books.

  “Not my coconuts?” I grunt out, because grunting’s where I’m at. I can’t talk. I’ve got a dick ready to blow and the ref hasn’t even dropped the puck yet.

  “Which one was Athena? This one?” She takes a nail to my left pec and starts tracing a spiral out from my nipple, shooting sparks so hot the air’s crackling. My bra’s hanging open, the dress stretched so thin by the coconuts it’s showing off the girdle Madame Cosette insisted I wear too. I need this chick out of her pants, I need to get suited up, and I need to get in this game. Now.

  “Or this one?” She bends over me, nips my right pec with her teeth, grinds her hips against my dick, and—

  Oh, fuck.

  Fuck fuck fucking fuckity fucking fuck, I’m coming.

  Blinding.

  Hot.

  Fast.

  In my jockey shorts.

  I jerk up into her, trying to stop it, but I’m fucking shooting fireworks out the tip of my dick. That volcano’s erupting. My nuts are running for cover, my dick’s making the party foul of the fucking century, and I can’t bear down hard enough to stop it. I’m coming like a twelve-year-old who just looked at Dora the fucking Explorer the wrong way—don’t judge, asshole, you know you did it too—and Fireball knows it.

  I know ice, and this princess who just froze over me is frosting faster than the lake in my Minnesota hometown in winter. “Did you—” she starts.

  “No,” I lie. “Baby—”

  “You did.”

  “That’s just a precursor.” Fuck, there’s so much more I want to do to this woman. Fifteen minutes, I’m back in the game. I can eat her until there’s nothing left. Finger her with my fat sausage fingers that are bigger than most other men’s dicks. Hell, even half-mast, I’m twice the man most other fuckers are.

  Her eyes narrow.

  I’m losing her. She’s gonna leave.

  I don’t want her to fucking leave. I want her to stay, here, until I can salvage this—this—whatever the fuck this is. I launch myself up, grip her by the back of her head, pretend I’m not leaking jizz out the bottom of my dress, and slam my lips over hers.

  When in doubt, always go for the kiss.

  I think.

  Fuck, I’m never in doubt. This doesn’t fucking happen to me.

  She lets out a muffled curse against my lips, gives me the titty twister to end all titty twisters, and I leap back with a yowl.

  She scowls at me while she shoves her blouse back on and snags her bra off the floor. I can still see her nipples standing rosy and perky and ready under the white fabric. And I’m pretending I don’t have the spoils of war leaking down my thigh. Mr. Party Pooper in my Pants has the nerve to give me an oh, yeah nod.

  “I’ve never—” I start.

  “You know what? I’m really tired of always wearing the pants in a relationship.”

  The door slams shut two seconds later, and I’m left waiting for my dick to explain to me what just happened.

  Which—newsflash—is like waiting for a Minnesota Lake to boil in January.

  Because that fucker in my pants has even fewer brains than I do.

  “Fucking king of the gods,” I mutter.

  And because today apparently can get worse, the door swings open again almost immediately, and—fuck.

  Ares and Chase look at me. Then they look at my dress. My deflating boner. My legs.

  My dripping-in-my-own-shit legs.

  “Shut the fuck up right fucking now,” I growl.

  Chase ducks his head, bites his knuckles, snort-snuffles, and leaves.

  Ares grunts. Happens to all of us, man. Smear some on the dick’s window.

  I d
on’t give a fuck about messing with the asshole manager.

  All I care about is finding myself a plate of cookies and a good, stiff bottle of whisky.

  Only Fireball I’m getting tonight, apparently.

  6

  Joey

  Life rule number one: Just because a guy has a big dick doesn’t mean he knows how to use it.

  I know this, and yet I still fell into the trap of mistaking hormonal impulses for good judgment.

  A hockey player? Really, Joey? You fucking know better.

  Still, who would’ve expected Zeus Berger to be king of the early shot?

  And why am I so pissed about it?

  Not like he owed me anything. Or that I should be surprised. A guy with an ego like that? Of course he’s compensating. Twelve solid inches in his pants—good dog, he’s huge—and he has as much control over it as a rookie pilot in a windstorm. It’s like putting a toddler in charge of a cannon. Letting an elephant steer a rocket. Asking a goat to wrangle a bull.

  And I was the one stupid enough to think he’d actually care about getting me off.

  And I’m also the one who can still taste the meaty, manly flavor of his chest. If men are pigs, his body is the bacon, and god help me, I love a good piece of bacon.

  Unfortunately, he’s undercooked. His package needs a warning label. Contents may combust with minimal handling.

  After leaving yet one more blowhard with a bigger ego than his shoe size and less stamina than a squirrel—I don’t care that they can jump from tree to tree all day long, don’t tell me it takes them more than thirty seconds to get their rocks off—I follow the scent of hairy Viking bodyguards to find Gracie out wandering the golf course with Prince Whoever The Hell He Is. I know Stölland. Nordic country between the Northern Atlantic and Norwegian Sea. Ceremonial military. Exports mead, sheep, and apparently fourth-in-line heirs to the kingdom. It was all on the cheat sheet Peach gave me when she shoved us out the door to come here in her place this morning while she hightailed it to the hospital.

  There’s a reason she usually does our networking. And don’t let her name fool you. Or her appearance. She’s blonde, cute, brilliant, and Southern to the core, and she’ll skin your bones with her tongue faster than you can say bless your heart.