Page 95 of The Pucking Arrangement

“What’s just the beginning?”

The deep, sleep-rough voice slides over my skin like a physical touch. My whole body recognizes it before my brain catches up.

I jump.

Dmitri stands at the bottom of the staircase, barefoot, shirtless, and looking entirely too fucking good for a man who just woke up. There’s nothing soft about the way he’s looking at me. His eyes—black as midnight, sharp as a blade—lock onto my face, then drop to my phone. The sound of Luka’s voice still lingers in the air between us.

And just like that, all my carefully constructed career plans dissolve into pure want. I can’t remember a single thing Luka just said.

I clear my throat. “Luka, I’ll see you Monday.”

But Luka doesn’t let himself be dismissed that easily. “Ah, there’s the hockey star himself.” His tone is all smooth amusement. “I was just arranging a recording session with Erin. The Bach duet we did last night is taking off. Check out my channel.”

Dmitri doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But the muscle in his jaw ticks once, sharp and telling.

“I’ll be ready for Monday,” I intercept quickly. “Text me the details.”

I end the call, but the air stays charged. The tension between us doesn’t dissolve—it thickens, wraps around us like a net, pulling tight.

Dmitri is still watching me, his stance deceptively relaxed, his hands loose at his sides. But I can feel the restraint rolling off him in waves.

“Recording session?” His voice is even.

I nod, aiming for casual. “Just a few videos. Building on last night’s momentum.” I lick my lips. “It could really help boost my visibility.”

A slow, stretching silence. Then he nods once, sharp. “Of course. This could be an incredible opportunity for you.”

Something about the way he says it makes my stomach flip. “Dmitri?—”

He cuts me off with a small, knowing smile. “You should practice,” he murmurs. “Ris and I will make dinner.”

It should put me at ease. It doesn’t.

Because there’s something wolfish in the way he says it.

“She’ll never forgive me if I start cooking without her,” he adds, eyes still locked on mine. “Weekend dinners are a whole production.”

My pulse trips. Something feels off.

I swallow. “You sure?”

“Oh, absolutely.” His voice drops. “Go play. I’ll handle dinner.”

Heat prickles my skin, and I turn toward the music room. But I don’t make it far.

Dmitri moves faster than a man his size should be able to. One second I have space, the next I’m backed against the wall, his massive frame filling every inch of my vision. His hands cage me in, one braced beside my head, the other skimming deliberately down my waist, his fingers pressing just enough to make me shiver.

I stop breathing.

Oh fuck.

He flicks a glance over his shoulder at Ris, still passed out on the couch, then back to me. His pupils are blown wide, black eclipsing brown, and when he speaks, his voice is pure gravel.

“Not so fast,solnyshko.”

My pulse slams into overdrive.

“Dmitri,” I whisper, my voice barely there. “Ris?—”

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