Cover Reveal: Pucked Over (Pucked #3) by Helena Hunting

Posted December 31, 2015 by bookstobreathe in Cover Reveal / 0 Comments

Cover Reveal: Pucked Over (Pucked #3) by Helena HuntingTitle: Pucked Over
Author: Helena Hunting
Series: Pucked #3
Publisher: Self-Published
Release Date: January 24, 2016
Genre: Contemporary Romance, Erotic Romance
More Info: Goodreads
Purchase: Amazon US
Purchase: Barnes & Noble
Purchase: Amazon UK
Purchase: iTunes
Purchase: Kobo
Purchase: Amazon CA
Lily LeBlanc isn’t versed in the art of casual sex, but after seven years in an on-again, off-again relationship, she’s definitely willing to give it a shot. And who better to try it with than her best friend’s boyfriend’s best friend? What could possibly go wrong? Nothing at all.

NHL player, Randy Ballistic, lives up to his last name on the ice and in the bedroom. His best friend and teammate has recently given up the puck bunnies and traded them in for a real girlfriend. And she just happens to have a seriously feisty, extra-hot best friend on the rebound. Randy’s more than happy to be Lily’s spring board back into the dating scene.

Casual sex is only casual until those pesky things called emotions get involved. Once that happens, someone’s bound to gets pucked over.


Cover Model: Franggy Yanez – Fracrox

Cover Design: Shannon Lumetta





[Like the character Randy, not ‘let’s get randy’… I mean, you can… you may… he does….]

If it were possible for one human being to devour another, we’d be doing that now. Lily lets go of my hair and searches for the hem of my shirt. Her fingernails scratch over my abs. I bite her tongue in retaliation. She wrenches her face away from mine, banging her head against the door.

“You okay?” I ask.

She pinches my nipple, so I bite her neck. “Do it again and I’ll suck until I leave a mark,” I warn, parting my lips against her skin. It’s salty and sweet and so very, very warm.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I definitely would.” I apply the tiniest bit of suction and she gasps, her hands going back to my hair, fingernails digging into my scalp.

I adjust my grip and grind up on her while I kiss along her throat to her jaw. I’m so hard right now. I wish she were wearing something other than tight jeans. The only way I can feasibly get inside her is to turn her around and take her from behind. It’s not my preferred position.

I know exactly what Lily’s come face looks like. If I’m gonna fuck her, I want her eyes on mine when she loses it all over my cock. A public bathroom probably isn’t the best place for this to go down anyway, even if it’s wheelchair accessible and fairly clean. Public washrooms are more of a Miller move, or a Miller-pre-Sunny move, anyway.

I keep shifting against her and those little noises get louder, so I cover her mouth with mine again.

Her hands turn into fists, gripping my hair so tightly I’m almost concerned she’s going to rip it out by the roots. “Oh my God,” she groans against my lips.

I pull away, checking to make sure she’s okay. She throws her head back, hitting the door again with a low thud. We’re making an awful lot of noise in here, but at least it’s an out-of-the-way bathroom.

I push her firmly against the door with my hips so I don’t have to use both hands to hold her up. That way I can stop her head from smacking against the door. If she keeps it up, she’s going to have a bruise. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was coming—which should be impossible since I haven’t done anything but grind on her.


Her eyes roll down to meet mine, her shock replaced by ecstasy. Her mouth drops open. “That’s not—I can’t—”

“Are you coming?” Despite the lack of probability, I have to ask.

She shakes her head furiously and stutters out a no.

Her expression is suspect. I don’t buy it. Gripping her ass, I swing around so we’re facing the wall. Then I lower her to the ground. Her nails run down the side of my neck, and she claws at my shirt.

“Why are you stopping?” She air humps once and wobbles unsteadily.

I walk her backward until she hits the wall. She immediately starts rubbing her pussy on my thigh. There are way better places for her to do that. She tries to pull my mouth back to hers, but I have other plans. I pull her shirt over her head and hang it on the knob. Her purse is on the floor by my feet, crap strewn all over the place. Not that it matters right now.

Her bra isn’t fancy, or lacy, or anything special. It’s plain, pale satin. I can see the outline of her nipples through it. I’ll get to those later. While Lily rides my leg, I pop the button on her jeans and pull down the zipper. Her underwear matches her bra, more simple, pale satin.

I shove my hand down the front of her pants. She’s been taking care of things. I’m met with smoothish skin. But her jeans are so tight I can’t get my hand past the crest of her pelvis. I can feel how hot she is, but I can’t get to all that wetness. In her defense, my hands are big, so that only adds to the problem.

Lily fumbles with my belt buckle and then my zipper. My erection strains against my boxers. She freezes, her eyes darting to mine in shock. Not because my dick is terrifying, although it kind of is, but because she can read the TINY DICK INSIDE she wrote on the hot pink material in neat block letters with black permanent marker.

She bites her lip and makes a face, like she’s not sure if she should laugh, be embarrassed, or apologize—or maybe all three. She skims the waistband like she’s thinking about sticking her hand inside. “Why do you still have these?”

“They’re my favorite pair.”

“But—” She palms me through the fabric and rubs herself on my leg at the same time. Her lids flutter, and she shudders again.

“I think we’re both well aware that this is false advertising.” I move the hand covering my cock away and step back. Then I drop to my knees and yank her jeans over her hips, along with her panties, which are damp. It’s like they’re damn well glued to her body.

“What’re you—”

I slide a hand between her legs, cutting her words short. I glide over her clit and push two fingers inside her. I want to find out if I’m right about the spontaneous, untouched coming. She falls back against the wall and tries to part her legs, but her stupid tight jeans make that impossible. Her entire body trembles, and she cries out when I curl my fingers. That’s when I feel it: the pulse around my hand.

“You’re coming.” I look up at her, shirtless, the strap of her bra hanging off her arm instead of sitting on her shoulder, her palms flat against the wall behind her.

“No shit,” she gasps.

“I barely even touched you.”

“I’m as confused as you are.”




Oh God. He’s on his way over here. I’m not ready for this. I scan the room frantically for Sunny. I can’t see her anywhere, so I do the most logical thing in the world: I hightail it across the bar, away from Randy. There’s an exit door I’m not supposed to use on that side. The alarm has been disconnected for forever. It’ll get me out of here and on my way back to the bathroom where I hid out earlier. I can lock myself in there and figure out how to manage this.

I burst through the fire doors, relieved the alarm is still disconnected, and speed-walk down the hall. I make a quick right. Goddamn it. He’s following me. What could he possibly want? To smirk at me some more? Running away should be a sure sign I’m not interested in any kind of confrontation, or discussion, or even getting naked—on the off chance that’s on the table. Okay, the last part I totally want to do. Which is why I should keep running.

“Hey, Lily!” he calls. “Wait!”

My knees almost buckle at the sound of his voice. What does he want? I slide on a wet patch and barely avoid landing on my ass. He’s right behind me now. I clutch the bathroom door handle and skid to a stop, nearly falling again. Wrenching it open, I throw myself inside. It’s extra dramatic with a side of drama fries. But before I can pull the door closed, Randy manages to slide his massive, muscular body in the gap.

“What are you doing?” I screech as the door closes behind him, sealing us in darkness. “I can’t see anything!”

He chuckles. The light flicks on, and I blink against the sudden brightness. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

I plant my hands on my hips. “Didn’t you see me running away from you?”

He laughs again. It’s a beautiful sound. “Uh, yeah. I figured maybe you really had to use the bathroom.”

“I did. I do. Now get out, or I’ll pee right in front of you!” I’m shouting. It’s high-pitched and totally unnecessary, seeing as I’m standing about four inches away from him. I might be spit-talking at his chest. His extra-muscular chest.

His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, leaving all the tattoos on his right forearm on display. He even has one on the back of his hand. It’s almost three-dimensional in the way it’s been put on his skin: a stunning lily—ironic, I know—beaded with dew, with a tiny, intricate skull inside the falling droplet. It’s so badass. I remember how amazing it looked when the fingers attached to that hand, which is attached to the arm covered in ink, were inside of me, pumping away until I came. I make a strangled sound.

“Did you moan?”

“What? No.” My eyes shoot up to his.

That infuriating smirk makes his eyes crinkle. Even his eye crinkles are hot. “I think you did.”

“It was a groan. That’s very different from a moan.”

He leans against the door, blocking my exit. “Oh yeah? Wanna explain that to me?”

“I don’t have to explain anything to you. Now get out so I can use the bathroom! In private. Alone.” My voice is still super squeaky. I need to stop acting like an idiot. I also need him to get out of the bathroom before I do something I should regret, but probably won’t. He doesn’t seem nearly as opposed to that as I’d thought he would.

I push his shoulder in an attempt to get him out of the way. He moves maybe a fraction of an inch. He smells fantastic, like he’s freshly showered and deodorized. His arm is so solid, nothing like Benji’s was. I keep pushing, and I might give his biceps a little squeeze.

“What’s with you and busting in on me in the bathroom?” I say, not quite shouting now.

I feel my face heat at the memory of him barging in on me at the cottage with my girl parts on display and his hand in his shorts. Damn it. Now I’m thinking about the near-sexing we did, again.

Randy’s still smiling like a jackass. I think he said something and I missed it, too busy being mortified. And turned on.

“What?” I ask.

His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip. He has great lips. They’re full and soft and great for kissing. He brushes the hair out of my face, fingertips skimming my cheek. All my muscles clench. I’m pretty sure I could come just thinking about the things he’s done to me. Which is crazy, because I’ve always believed reactions like that are total bullshit.

“I was just saying that the last time we were in a bathroom together, you were wearing a lot less.” His gaze roams over me and his eyes—the color of honey, or a sandy beach, or who the fuck cares—drop below my waist. He points at my crotch. “How’s your waxer doing these days? You get your situation sorted out down there?”

My mouth hangs open. I close it quickly, then open it again, waiting for some sassy quip of retaliation, but nothing arrives. I don’t have a good comeback, or anything to say to that, because the honest answer is no. I haven’t had a chance to sort it out.

I’ve been stuck waxing my own girl parts for the last month. I’m not very good at it. I keep missing spots, and I have to go over them with a razor. My vag constantly has patches of five o’clock shadow.

“Wouldn’t you like to know!”

“Wanna show me?”

“You’re a pig!”

In reality, I kinda do want to show him, even if it’s not the best waxing job in the world. Actually, I’d like to get him on his knees, drop my pants, hike a leg up on the edge of the sink and shove his face right in there so he can have an up-close-and-personal view of the hell I have to go through in order to make my vagina presentable for no one, because I’m the only person who sees it.

I think I might need to have sex soon. With something other than my vibrator.

“I hate your perfect face!” I hiss. Literally, I sound like a snake. I grab the lapels of his button-down shirt. Then I shove my tongue in his mouth.

Shit. This is the opposite of what was supposed to happen.





Pucked (Pucked, #1)

Amazon US


With a famous NHL player for a stepbrother, Violet Hall is well acquainted with the playboy reputation of many a hockey star. So of course she isn’t interested in legendary team captain Alex Waters or his pretty, beat-up face and rock-hard six-pack abs. When Alex inadvertently obliterates Violet’s misapprehension regarding the inferior intellect of hockey players, he becomes much more than just a hot body with the face to match.

Suffering from a complete lapse in judgment, Violet discovers just how good Alex is with the hockey stick in his pants. Violet believes her night of orgasmic magic with Alex is just that: one night. But Alex starts to call. And text. And email and send extravagant—and quirky—gifts. Suddenly, he’s too difficult to ignore, and nearly impossible not to like.

The problem is, the media portrays Alex as a total player, and Violet doesn’t want to be part of the game.

Pucked Up (Pucked, #2)

Amazon US


Miller “Buck” Butterson has been banging his way through life ever since a puck to the face fixed his messed up front teeth. After five years in the NHL, deflecting goals on the ice and scoring them with puck bunnies, Miller has decided he’s ready for a girlfriend. A real, non-bunny girlfriend to take on dates, and not jump into bed with after five seconds of conversation.

Miller thinks he’s found that woman in his teammate’s sister. Except, unlike team captain and all-around nice guy Alex Waters—who happens to date his stepsister, Miller’s media reputation as a manwhore is well earned. Beyond that minor detail, Miller doesn’t know the first thing about relationships or the time and effort they require.

Miller learns—eventually—that if he wants to make Sunshine “Sunny” Waters fall for him, he’s going to have to do a whole lot more than show her his stick skills in the bedroom.

About Helena Hunting

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Pucked, Helena Hunting lives on the outskirts of Toronto with her incredibly tolerant family and two moderately intolerant cats. She’s writes contemporary romance ranging from new adult angst to romantic sports comedy.

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