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At six, she was a pain in my ass.

For the last twenty years, we’ve spent every day together. Practicing, competing, eating, traveling, talking.

She’s my best friend, my confidant, my therapist, my masseuse, my partner.

She’s the woman I lost my virginity to and the only woman I’ve ever loved.

I’m beyond ready to take our partnership off the ice.

Which is why as soon as we finish our short program in our last Olympic Games, I blurt out two words.

“Marry me.”

—

Lace up your skates friends. I’m turning up the heat in here. Perfect Score is the love story we’ve all been waiting for. Hot, passionate romance between an ice dancing couple that’s spent twenty years promising their relationship is strictly platonic. Hint: it’s not. So get ready for an over the top, sinfully sweet, and hot-enough-to-melt-ice happily ever after.

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They say I have a dream life.

Billionaire's son. Hockey star. Too handsome for words.

But something's missing.

Until I see her.

Strawberry blonde hair.

I can't get it out of my mind. I search everywhere for her.

Imagine my surprise when she turns out to be the team masseuse.

The second she puts her hands on me, I know I have to get my hands on her.

Warning: This rough and ready hockey romance is hot enough to melt ice. Sit back and enjoy a fast burn so steamy it puts a cappuccino machine to shame. This is a quick read, over the top and oh-so-satisfying. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Chapter One

Grady



Thanks to an overzealous marketing department, there are a half dozen microphones shoved in my face and the season hasn’t even officially begun yet.

“Grady, are you ready for the first game of the season?”

I start to answer when I see a burst of red-gold hair that leaves me speechless.

The golden locks are long, shiny, and I instantly need to know what they’d feel like against my skin. Are they as soft as they look? Do they still smell like her shampoo?

She half turns, glancing down at a paper in her hands. The fifteen feet separating us is too much. My heart begins to thunder, demanding I take action. Reach out to her.

I have no idea who the woman is, but her profile etches itself into my mind.

Before I can overcome my stunned state, she saunters off and the spell breaks. I slam my lips closed and glance at the array of microphones. Our marketing coordinator stands behind them a few feet, waving his hands in a ‘get moving’ motion.

I laugh. “Sorry, I was just envisioning how good it will feel to kick Demon butt.”

I take a deep breath and keep a smile on my face. Interview questions are suddenly not important, finding the beautiful mystery woman is. If I’d been on any other team, if I didn’t take my responsibilities so seriously, I would walk away.

But I can’t.

No matter how alluring she is, no matter how much I need to find out what her voice sounds like and what she’s doing down here. The only thing I have going for me is that her kind of beauty is rare. She’ll be hard to miss, so someone will know who she is.

My heartbeat steadies.

Someone will know who she is and then, so will I.





I’m starting to think I’m going crazy. Two days have passed, and I’ve asked everyone I’ve come across, from Coach to the janitorial staff, if they can identify my mystery woman.

There’s an anxiousness in my stomach I can’t fix and I’m sure it has to do with her.

I’ve replayed her image in my head a thousand times, so often that I begin to question my sanity. Did I imagine her? Could that be it? She’s just a dream girl, a figment of my imagination?

Thoughts of her kept me from bringing my A game tonight and I have no one to be pissed at but myself. It didn’t matter how many times I told myself to focus, to click in, my eyes kept looking for her.

Sighing, I rub my hand over the back of my neck. My inattention cost me. I’m aching all over and a hot shower didn’t do all that much to help.

Turning into the therapy room, my eyes lock on lean, porcelain limbs. My bare feet stumble to a stop as I glimpse red-gold hair.

“Confounded… junk… I should throw—” She stops her diatribe as if sensing she’s no longer alone. Straightening, she keeps one hand on whatever the hunk of wood and metal is.

I instantly love her colorful language. At her full height, she barely reaches my chin. That’s okay; I believe good things can come in small packages. Pivoting, her brown eyes go wide as they lock on mine. She tucks a strand of her gorgeous hair behind her ear and offers me a tiny smile.

“Sorry. It’s a bit of a love-hate relationship, I’m afraid.” She waves toward the thing at her feet. A second inspection makes me think it’s a massage table.

Whoever this angelic woman is, she’s definitely not my usual masseuse. Not that I’m complaining.

No sir.

A long, thorough perusal shows that her front half is just as delicious as her back half. Cut-off denim hugs her thighs and a ruby red tank top encases a torso with curves in all the right places. Her long, strawberry blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail that snakes over her shoulder and down to her breast. It’s messy and glorious, escaping the confines of the elastic.

In a word, she’s spectacular. My teenaged fantasy come to life. Fresh faced and so fucking kissable. Her words, her slight accent, charm me.

And she’s going to have her hands all over me?

My hormones go haywire.

I don’t care what her credentials are, I want her hands on me.

“Where’s Chelsea?” I ask, realizing I should say something instead of standing there like a mute.

Her lips turn down and I want to smack myself up the back of the head. For just a moment I’d been able to enjoy her unguarded regard and then I stepped in it.

“Oh. Um. She broke her wrist.” The woman’s lips twist to the side.

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Grady McMasters.” I step forward, holding out my hand.

She glances from my hand up to my face and her semi-smile returns. What would it take to make her really smile? Like light up a room, mega-wattage smile? And why the hell does it matter?

Why does it feel like she matters?

“Daisy Smith-Alexander.” Her hand slides into mine, palm against palm; she has the softest skin I’ve ever felt. A tingle sweeps through me, awareness humming through my veins. If she had my attention before, I’m laser focused on her now.

Never has a hand-shake gone from polite introduction to hot-and-heavy fantasy so quickly.

And she squeezes as she pumps.

Holy hell, that’s hot. I’ve never felt a grip like hers on a woman. Her hand isn’t large, but I immediately get the impression she really knows how to use them.

“Nice to meet you, Daisy.”

Understatement of the century.

I’ve finally found you.

The thought echoes through my mind and I realize it has a double meaning. Obviously, she’s the woman I’ve been searching for the last two days. But it’s something more. It feels like there’s more to our meeting, to her. She seems familiar and yet I’m certain we’ve never met.

My heart is thundering again.

She stares up at me, her face an open book. I know when a woman is attracted to me. It started when I was a teenager and I started lifting weights in the garage. I keep my hair a little on the long side, I seem to have a perpetual 5 o’clock shadow, and more than a few women have told me I have ‘incredible eyelashes.’

“You too.” She sounds distracted, and she hasn’t looked away yet.

I can’t help but smile.

She is the breath of fresh air I need after that game. What a cock-up. My left shoulder is killing me thanks to a run-in with the glass. More than once. The ache reminds me why I’m here.

Except, now I feel like there’s so much more to it than a massage. I need to find out more about her. I don’t see a wedding ring, but she wouldn’t be the first person to not wear one while working with her hands.

“Should we get started?”

She blinks.

Damn, she’s cute. Gorgeous and cute. How is that even possible?

“Oh!” Her sexy lips curve around the word and I feel a punch to my gut. “Right. Um… just—” She steps back, her hand dropping from mine. I’m tempted to grab her hand again, explore her and say forget about the massage. But my shoulder protests.

After such a tough game, the last thing I expected was to come in here and be so… delighted. All of my frustration with myself, my team, the refs drains away and in its place, a new sort of intensity blossoms. As she struggles with her massage table, my attention narrows on her.

To those talented fingers and the ponytail that begs for my hands.

God, I hope she’s not married. Or serious with someone.

My hands clench into fists and I force them to relax. Just because she’s hot and her legs make me want them around my hips…

“Two minutes. I need two minutes.” She wrestles her folding table into a corner. “I didn’t find out I was replacing Chelsea until half an hour ago. I think I broke a land-speed record to get here and I’m still late. She didn’t tell me if I needed a table or not and—I’m babbling.”

She purses her lips.

I smile.

She looks around frantically before her gaze narrows on the heavy duty massage table. I cross my arms over my chest and watch her flit around in an enchanting dance. Her movements are so fluid, so effortless, I admire the way she has complete control over her body. She finds all the supplies she needs and hums as she sets everything up.

Christ, this is a bad idea. I’ve shaken her hand, stared at her for five minutes and heard her voice a handful of times, yet it’s enough to make my cock hard as ice. And the towel hugging my hips will not hide all ten inches of Grady Jr.

Maybe I should just forgo the massage. Because the idea of those strong hands running down my body, kneading the strain of the day away…

Fuck.

My dick is already weeping.

“All set,” she singsongs. “I’m sure you know the routine?”

She makes herself scarce when I nod. Damn, she even smells like a dream. It‘s on the tip of my tongue to call her back just so I can get another whiff of the strawberry scent or was it bubble gum?

Get on the table.

Easier said than done with a raging hard on.

Once I’m under the sheet, face down, cock squished between my body and the table, I feel her at my side.

The first touch of her hands makes every muscle in my body tighten like a guitar string. Her skin is cool, her touch sure.

“Hmm.” She doesn’t sound pleased.

“Something wrong?”

“You feel wound so tight you might snap.”

Or explode.

“Explode?”

Fuck. I said that out loud.

“Rough game.”

“I know nothing about hockey, but isn’t it, you know, a rough sport?”

“How can you not know anything about hockey?”

“Well, for starters, I’m from a little town in South Georgia. The only ice we see is in our glass of sweet tea.”

That explained the accent.

Her thumbs dig into my shoulders, eliciting a groan.

“Too hard?” she asks, pausing.

“No. Perfect. You have magnificent hands.”

Three heartbeats of silence stretch before she starts working my muscles again.

“Thank you.”

“So, what’s a girl from South Georgia doing all the way up here?” I want to learn everything about her, especially why shyness crept into her voice. I don’t question it. There’s something about her.

“Change of scenery.”

I’m sure there’s more to it, to her, than that.

“Big change.”

“Certainly is,” she says and gives a wry laugh. There’s a story there, and it piques my curiosity.

“How long have you lived here?”

“About a year.”

Not long. Maybe I should offer to play tour guide.

Her fingers gently dig into a spot on my lower back that has plagued me for days. All thoughts of ending her tour at my place vanish as a moan rumbles through me. If she’d just keep that up, I might be good as new.

To her credit, she doesn’t ease up. She keeps working my flesh until I almost can’t stand it any longer.

I’ve always respected Chelsea and her job, kept my distance, but Daisy is a different story. I respect the hell out of her and those talented hands but there’s no way I can keep my distance.

I stare down at her baby blue toenails. An unusual choice, but it suits her.

Toes have never been high on my list of things to look for in a woman but with the world blotted out and my focus zeroed on them, I can’t help but find them sexy.

She smells fresh, clean, like a sweetly scented breeze blowing through the locker room. A toe ring graces the second toe on her left foot.

I stop myself from reaching out to trace the small, nondescript tattoo on her right foot. Believe.

“How many tattoos do you have?” I murmur.

“Six.”

Interesting.

What would she do if I slid my hand up the inside of her leg?

Would she swat my hand or let me tease the frayed edges of her shorts? Would she let me find all her tattoos?

As she works my legs, I let my mind wander. I bet there’s one at the small of her back. A butterfly, maybe. And something delicate on her shoulder. In my experience women love getting tattoos that show when they wear a tank top. It’s like a secret they get to unveil when they want.

Six tattoos…

She hits a spot on the bottom of my foot that makes me groan with pleasure. Damn, the woman has strong hands. I say as much.

“Massage is only partly about hand strength,” she quips so quickly I can tell she hears that a lot.

“Mmm…”

She hits another spot and my eyes roll back. Holy hell.

“A lot of it is anatomy.” Firm fingertips run along either side of my Achilles tendon. Her voice is soft and soothing. “Knowing which muscles to address, when a specific area needs extra attention.”

My cock needs extra attention. In the worst fucking way.

Laying here, feeling her hands kneading my flesh, unable to touch her back… it’s driving me mad.

I’ve been holding off an orgasm for at least fifteen minutes.

Her hands coast up my left calf.

Keep going.

“There are pleasure, I mean, pressure points to consider,” she recovers quickly.

I smile at her fumble.

She rattles off some big words, as if she’s trying to cover her gaff. Her palms continue north. I’m totally digging it. She obviously knows her stuff, and fuck me, if a Brainiac isn’t sexy as hell.

I’m trying to decide which will make me come first, her touch or her words, when I hear someone enter the room.

“Dammit, Grady. Quit hoggin’ the hands.”

“Go away, Val.”

The goalie utters a few choice words. The kid’s a hothead. We all know it. He’s constantly getting into fights on and off the ice. It’s like he’s got a death wish.

Lucky for him, he’s talented. But no one wants a loose cannon on their team. I’ve tried to explain that, mentor him.

Daisy doesn’t miss a beat.

“Give us twenty minutes.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

He stalks off, mumbling to himself. I hear the part where he calls me a daddy’s boy and mutters something about nepotism.

“Nepotism, huh?” Daisy murmurs. She’s working my other foot now.

I’m pretty sure I’ve died and gone to heaven.

💕 Always double-check the price before you buy 💕

  

SJ is a big believer in going after what you want, in and out of the bedroom. Which is why she became an author. Sharing stories of love, lust, and empowerment is a life long dream and she’s thrilled it’s coming true. SJ lives and works somewhere between the refrigerator and her home office, often in yoga pants and fleece slippers. She loves making pasta, watching old movies, and drinking honey whiskey.

   

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They say I’m cocky. Dangerous. That I’m a Bad Boy.

They’re not wrong. I’ve had to fight for everything I have.

Chelsea changes everything. Her smile, her laugh, change me.

Now I’ll have to fight to win her heart.

Warning: Hold on to your skates, ladies and gents. Val is the hottest Bad Boy on the ice. He’s guaranteed to melt a few things, including your panties. When you need a short, sexy, and instaromance read, pick up your copy of Touch.

Enough is enough.

I’m done waiting.

I’ve tired of sitting on the sidelines, watching her, making mental notes. We’ve danced around each other for years, ignoring our chemistry.

She’s it. The one woman I prefer to all others.

As of an our ago, there’s nothing standing in my way.

My name is Wylder Freethy. It’s time show Alexa just how wild I am for her. It’s time to claim my woman.

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