Puck You (Box Set)
Author: Elizabeth Jewell
Cover Art: Bryan Keller
BIN: 07666-02472
Genres: BDSM, Box Sets, Contemporary Women’s Fiction, Romance
Themes: Dark Desire/Horror, Gay, Sports Romance, Voyeurism and Exhibitionism
Series: Puck You (#7)
Book Length: Box Set
Page Count: 102
Rival hockey pros Bessette and Laska hate each other. When their aggression crosses the line into the dressing rooms, it creates bodily collisions like nothing that happens on the ice, and soon they're engaging in semi-regular hate sex. When Russian goalie Chernyaev joins the team, the power plays among the three couldn't be hotter.
Publisher's Note: Puck you (Box Set) contains the previously published novellas Puck You, Puck You, Two, Puckin' Right, Outta My Crease, Crease Violations, and Take It Back Door.
"Canadian Bessette and Slovenian Laska are not just professional ice hockey players, they are also both super-alpha males... there is an attraction, but it is raw, purely physical, and that makes it explosive in every sense of the word. I read these stories before, when they were first published a few years ago, and rereading them now, one after the other in this box set, I found myself totally caught up in the rush of their encounters once again."
"Most of Puck You is taken up by the sex, although the hockey sections sound, to a non-hockey-fan, like the author knows her game. The sex has a purpose in the plot -- it's not just there to titillate (though it does! It does!) Bessette's head is spinning, and Láska's got the last laugh, if not the last moan."
"I never knew hockey was this doggoned hot! I like a good sports story. I love when there's heat involved. Elizabeth Jewell's book, Puck You, Two fits this bill nicely."
"Elizabeth Jewell gives us realistic men on ice. I enjoyed myself as voyeuristically as Bessette did. I will have to catch up with Bessette and Laska and come back for more."
"This is a short but smoking hot read. I really enjoyed how the author showed us how three strong, forceful sports men could turn so much testosterone, anger and fear into a sensual but still masculine menage. A delightfully dark and hot read. Recommended."
Puck You (Box Set)
Elizabeth Jewell
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2016 Elizabeth Jewell
Excerpt from Puck You
When Bessette dropped his gloves at 15:30 in period three of game two of round one of the Stanley Cup Finals, he didn't expect it to end like this. His team was up by one, and God knew they didn't need the penalty, but when Laska hip-checked him into the glass, he was consumed by an overwhelming urge to smear Laska's face into the ice. It was Laska's sneer that did it.
Instead, Bessette was flat on his stomach, his helmet skittering cheerily away, with his own face smashed into the ice and Laska on his back, shoving Bessette's head down so hard he thought the cartilage in his nose might have popped.
The referees had come in to break it up, but they weren't having much luck. Both teams had moved in at this point, some of them scrumming but most of them trying to pry Bessette and Laska apart. Bessette could hear Coulier screaming at him in French, and Laska was hollering at somebody in Slovak. Bessette tasted blood in his mouth, and the ice. The ice tasted like metal and ass.
Laska switched to French -- motherfucker spoke like four languages, none of them well. "Morceau de merde," he said, then went off on some tangent about the overall quality of Bessette's genitals, which Bessette couldn't follow because Laska had a bitch of an accent whether he was speaking French or English or whatever the fuck he attempted to speak that wasn't Slovak.
One of the referees, aided by Coulier, who was six feet five inches of propriety and "don't piss off the officials," finally clawed Laska off Bessette's back.
Bessette lurched to his feet, getting his skates back under him. Somebody handed him his helmet. Bessette grabbed it, screaming at Laska, "Va te faire mettre!" which wasn't original but got the job done. One of the refs, whom Bessette knew spoke French, rolled his eyes.
Laska turned on his skates, giving Bessette a cold look through pale, slanted eyes. "I will see you later," he said in the clearest English Bessette had ever heard him speak. "Be ready." Then he turned and, somehow utterly composed and dignified, allowed himself to be escorted off the ice.
"Motherfucker!" Bessette flung after him, and then was steered toward his own team's dressing room with much less aplomb.
* * *
They won the game, but Bessette got a talking to after. His double minor penalty led to a power play, which led to a goal for Laska's team, which led to overtime. They'd managed to pull it off with a spectacular play from Coulier with a minute and a half to go in OT, but nobody was very happy about Bessette fucking up the lead.
And there was still Laska to worry about. It was so fucking grade school -- I'll meet you in the parking lot, knock your teeth in. Fine. Laska wanted to make it personal, let him.
Bessette lingered in the locker room after the reporters and the other players had cleared out. He wasn't afraid of Laska -- honest to God he wasn't -- but he didn't really want his teammates to see them confronting each other in the parking lot, either. You were supposed to leave that shit on the ice.
Bessette couldn't, though, not this time. And apparently Laska felt the same way. The tension had been building between them all season, every time their teams met, and it was time to take care of it before it cost Bessette his chance to see his name on the Cup.
When he heard the noises coming from the dressing room, he couldn't say it surprised him. Although in a way, it did. Laska didn't fucking belong back here.
He was there, though. Bessette stood to meet him as the big, blond Slovak meandered from the dressing room to the locker room. Sliding his hands into his jeans pockets, Bessette looked as nonchalant as he could manage.
"Well, hello there," he said.
Laska just stared at him, eyes narrow. "We have..." Laska began slowly. "You and me, we have, what you say, a problem." The tone of his voice, measured and careful, made it obvious the "what you say" had nothing to do with Laska's ability to navigate English grammar, but was meant as his own kind of "fuck you" to Bessette.
"Yeah," said Bessette. He rubbed his face, feeling the bruises surfacing there from where Laska had shoved him into the ice. "You want to tell me what this shit is about?"
Laska tipped his head a little. His blond hair was still damp from his post-game shower, sticking up in a plethora of directions as if he hadn't bothered to get a comb within a yard of it. His ice blue eyes regarded Bessette passionlessly. "I," he said, very slowly. "Hate. You."
"Nice," said Bessette. "We can call the feeling mutual and get on with our lives."
He started to move past Laska out of the room, but Laska stopped him with a hand to Bessette's shoulder. What the fuck? was all Bessette had time to think before Laska shoved him, hard.
"The fuck?" said Bessette as his back slammed into the locker doors behind him. "You really want to do this, Laska?"
"Yes," said Laska. "Yes, I do."
He lunged at Bessette. Bessette tensed, ready to take a blow, but then he realized that wasn't where Laska was headed.
Good God, Laska was going to kiss him.
But he didn't. Instead, he bit Bessette, hard, on his lower lip.
Bessette jerked back. "Shit!" He wiped at his mouth, his hand coming back with blood on the tips of his fingers. "What the fuck?"
And then Laska did kiss him, hard and very much like he didn't want to. When Laska drew back, he had Bessette's blood on his mouth.
"You motherfucking son of a bitch," said Bessette in French. "Fucking piece of fucking shit," he added in English, and wished he knew how to say something equally vile in Slovak.
And then he kissed Laska back...
Copyright Notification: All Changeling Press LLC publications and cover art are copyright and may not be used in any AI generated work. No AI content is included or allowed in any Changeling Press LLC publication or artwork.