Page 2 of Pucking Bad Boys

His eyes widen for a split second, as if he’s surprised to get carded.

“Sorry, strict instructions from the boss to card everyone who doesn’t obviously look past their twenties. Nothing personal.”

“No problem.” He leans slightly forward on the bar stool to get his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans.

The movement allows me to get a better look at his tall, athletic frame.

Honestly, this guy is unreal. If a gorgeous face wasn’t enough, he has broad shoulders, a wide, muscular chest, a trim waist and flat stomach—I would bet this week’s paycheck on a six-pack—and strong, thick thighs encased in slightly faded blue jeans.

But it doesn’t end there. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled to expose strong, tanned forearms. When he places his wallet on the bar top, my eyes go to his hand. Big, strong, long fingers. A slightly raised vein on the back when he flexes his fingers to open his wallet.

I imagine his hand wrapped around my throat while he whispers what he wants to do to me when he gets me alone causes a jolt of sharp heat to settle between my legs.

Dammit. I need to quit reading smutty books. I blame it on Sam’s taste in literature for the way my mind can’t get out of the gutter right now.

And it’s not like I think about sex all the time. I actually don’t think about it and I definitely don’t do it.

I’ve never even had a serious boyfriend after high school. But lately, sex has been on my mind more than I care to admit. I blame it on my crush on a guy who doesn’t even know I exist beyond seeing me as his teammate’s little sister.

But I shouldn’t think about my unrequited crush when I’m at work. Or ever, really, since I’ve spent the entire summer watching the object of every filthy thought that’s crossed my mind in the past two years hook up with most of my former teammates.

When the blond hottie slides his ID toward me on the counter, his fingers brush against mine.

It feels intentional as he keeps his fingers on the card a little longer than necessary.

If I thought I felt attracted to him before, the second our fingers touch things heat up by a million degrees.

My nipples tighten and my clit throbs, and I have to squeeze my thighs together to seek some relief.

Maybe Sam was right that a mindless hookup would take the edge off my hopeless crush. But it’s not like I didn’t try. It was the first thing I did the night after I was cut from training camp. I met a sexy tourist at a beach party and we made out. But the second he even tried to take things farther than second base, I froze.

The truth is that despite the guy being handsome, I felt absolutely nothing for him. I wasn’t interested in his conversation, and there was no spark. I just wanted to hook up with him to take my mind off the mess my life is and to take care of my most embarrassing problem. I mean, who is still carrying their V-card at almost twenty-two?

As the hot stranger releases his hold on his ID, my eyes go from his face to the photo on the plastic rectangle in front of me.

Of course, the hottest guy in town is also photogenic, while I’m embarrassed every time someone asks for my ID.

The good part about having to card him is that I can get his name without having to ask.

“Beavis Rawbottom?” I snort and he blushes. “Sorry, but if you had to get a fake, you should have paid extra for a credible name.”

He runs his hand through his short, blond hair; it has the slightest hint of a wave on top. I bet that if he let it grow longer, it would begin to curl. “Or I should have gone to buy it myself rather than trusting one of my idiot frat brothers.” He sounds frustrated. “He said I looked like Beavis fromBeavis andButtheadso when he was asked if he had a name preference, he went with it.”

I take a step back, giving him a once over and tapping my bottom lip with the tip of my index finger. “I mean, aside from the blond hair, I can’t really see it. Even if you had on a Metallica t-shirt, Beavis would have had to grow a foot and put on a hundred pounds of muscle to come even close.”

His barely there smile widens into a full-blown grin. “Thanks. That must be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

With that face and that body? I doubt it. But I don’t say that to him. “Look,Beavis, do you mind choosing an alcohol free drink? I could make you a mean Shirley Temple or a virgin mojito that will knock your socks off.”

I half-expect him to become annoyed and to try to use his charm to get his way, but he doesn’t.

“Virgin mojito it is, then.”

It’s my turn to blush. The way he looks at me when he says “virgin” makes me think thoughts that are the exact opposite of virginal.

My situation worsens when his fingers brush against mine again.

“Tab or check?” I ask.