Page 50 of Puck Love

“Because it’s so clinical. It makes himsad.”

“It’s true. That word makes any man’s junk sad,” Eliadds.

“What is wrong withy’all?”

“Nothing,” Vansays.

“Well, plenty actually.” Elishrugs.

“Speak for yourself then, because I happen to beperfect.”

“Great. Then you can put your own damn pants on, Mr. Perfect.” I throw them at his lap and he flinches, then cries out in pain. I’m smothered in guilt, so I take pity on Van and kneel in front of him. Though I grab the cushion beside him and shove it over his lap before I perform the old switcheroo. He keeps the pillow in place, and I sigh and undo his laces, tugging off his boots one at a time and setting them on the floor. I leave his socks on, but tug the jeans over his feet and ankles and throw them to the side. His gaze burns into me, and I’d bet my last dime that he’s still as hard as diamonds under thatpillow.

“I’m only doing this because I’m starving and want to eat, and I have no doubt that Eli will withhold dinner until we don’t all have to stare at yourjunk.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Elisays.

“How starved?” Van whispers, his voice taking on a deep, gravellytone.

“Jesus, Ross, give the woman a break. You already got her on her knees in front of your dick—can we leave it at that? At least until I’m fed and have travelled far, far away fromhere?”

Van rolls his eyes, and sighs. “Fine. I’llbehave.”

“I appreciate that,” Isay.

“I think you’d appreciate it a lot more if I didn’t.” He chuckles and fingers a strand of my hair, skimming my neck as he pushes it off my shoulder. I shiver. My lady parts ache, my ovaries practically beg him to fertilize my eggs and make a whole team of tiny little hockey babies, but I pull away, out of reach. It’s the only safe move I can make when my body is determined to betray me because one look at Van Ross’s dimples and I turn into a slack-jawed yokel. There’s still the minor problem of his nudity though, and when I shift closer brandishing his underwear, Van lifts his legs off the ground one by one so that I can tug them on. “Jesus, really? You’re making me wearjocks?”

“Yes, I am,” I say, as if that should be the end of it, but this is Van, so of course, it’snot.

“I’m already in enough pain. I don’t want my balls losing circulationtoo.”

“Then by all means, you can go and remove them. Free-ball all you like, but right now, I’m the one incharge.”

Eli whistles. “That should go overwell.”

“God. No wonder you two are such good friends. It’s like you share one annoying, oversexedbrain.”

“No such thing as oversexed,” Van says. “I looked into itonce.”

I decide it’s best to just shut my mouth, so I keep quiet as I pull the boxer briefs over his thighs and finally his hips. I try desperately not to look at his penis when the pillow gets shoved out of the way, and instead I focus on his face, which is just as bad, because the longing in his gaze makes me want to give him things. I cannot give this man things. I have no things togive.

“Alright, don’t you think you’ve tortured her enough?” Eli says, as I tug Van’s sweats over hisknees.

“Probably.” Van leans forward, yanking up the fabric withease.

“You mean you could do that allalong?”

“Well, I needed a little help getting them past myknees.”

“You asshole.” I refrain from shoving him because I know that really would hurt. Instead, I storm off to the kitchen to pour myself a large glass of wine. I don’t offer to get drinks for the boys in the living room because children shouldn’t be drinkingalcohol.

When I return, I sit on the end of the sofa that Eli occupies, as far away from Van as the room will allow. Van is grinning like a fool. They both are, and I sigh and snatch up the closest box of Chinese. I don’t even care what it is. I just pick up the chopsticks and dive in. It’s a Shanghai-style noodles with no meat, and it’s good. I haven’t eaten Chinese in the longest time. Tours are typically a place where you spend months on the road eating from whatever takeout joint has a big enough lot to park a bus, or several. Mostly, the crew eat at diners. Not me, though. I have a personal chef who happens to be sleeping with my personal trainer, and the two of them oversee everything that goes in mymouth.

I swear, the last time I tasted food this good was right before my first album dropped, before the label decided to micro-manage every little part of my appearance. As a seventeen-year-old girl, being told you need to drop twenty pounds before your first album launch has a huge impact on the way you view yourself and your eating habits. But I don’t even care that I might stack on a bunch of weight here at Van’s because—childish antics aside—I’mhappy.

“So, no practice tomorrow, eh?” Eli slurps a noodle through his pursedlips.

“Nah. Doc marked me off for a whole damn week because of myhead.”

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