A hockey star skating on the edge of a catastrophe.
A PR specialist so adept, he’s called “the Fixer.”
Working together will be the biggest challenge of both their careers.
The LA Vikings hockey team is fed up the violent outbursts of its huge, intimidating enforcer, Viktor Novak. Hounded by a homophobic and domineering father, Viktor takes out his frustrations by spilling blood—on and off the ice. Now he has one last chance to clean up his image, or his career is over.
That’s where Bowen Miller comes in.
Bo has taken on the hardest cases and succeeded—by micromanaging every aspect of a client’s life—at the expense of his own happiness. But in the stubborn, hot mess that is Viktor, Bo might have met his match—both in and out of the bedroom. One man is out of control, and one controls everything. But when sex and attraction come into play, those roles are open to negotiation.
The door opens, and I have to fight with myself to keep from openly gawking. One of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen in real life breezes into the room looking like a male model stepping off the catwalk of a runway show. Tall and lean, he’s clad in a perfectly tailored, charcoal gray designer suit, paired with a crisp white shirt and dark tie. The polished look, combined with thick, dark hair and twinkling brown eyes, makes the man my perfect depiction of a walking wet dream. As my eyes continue to roam, I notice his jawline is sharply angled, his nose straight, and his lips full and red. My dick definitely takes notice, springing into action in my jeans.
Due to my… condition, I’m thankful the man doesn’t make me stand to shake his hand. Yet I’m pissed when instead, he completely ignores me, moving to the farthest possible end of the table, where he opens an expensive-looking leather briefcase and begins removing files, setting them on the table next to the case. I shift in my chair, uncomfortable from both getting a hard-on and the newcomer’s silent treatment. For the second time in five minutes, I’m thrown completely off-balance. First Rhonda and her over-the-top flirting, now this gorgeous man in a three-thousand-dollar suit moving around as if I’m not in the room while I’m sitting here sporting wood like a teenager in heat.
“Um, hello?” I say, clearing my throat.
The man continues sorting paperwork, not stopping or even glancing in my direction. Any attraction I had comes to a screeching halt at this blatant display of rudeness and my dick deflates in seconds. He may be hot, but the guy is a total douche.
What the hell is his problem?
I’m about to get up and teach this asshole some goddamn manners when Rhonda enters the room carrying a tray laden with dishes. She places the tray on the table and hands me my cup of coffee.
“Here you are, sweetie,” she purrs, making sure to drag a blood red fingernail across my hand when I reach out to take the drink. A shudder goes through me, and not in a good way.
Rhonda must have asked the other guy’s drink preference in the hall, because she goes about making a cup of coffee for the asshole, holding it out when she’s done. I chuckle under my breath when she receives the same stony silence and lack of acknowledgement from him that I did. The jerk doesn’t move to accept the cup. Confused, Rhonda places it on the table and leaves with what I assume is a scowl on her frozen face.
I leave my mug untouched, still working the hard candy in my mouth. Coffee plus sour apple isn’t a combination that is in any way appetizing.
Since Mr. Asshole still hasn’t addressed me, I decide to take charge of the situation. “If you’re not going to talk to me, or even look at me, I see no point in being here. I’m a busy guy and don’t have time for bullshit games. On that note, I guess I’ll see you later.” I push back my chair to leave.
Who does this fucker think he is, anyway? Coach won’t bench me—he can’t. Despite all the posturing, I’m the team’s leading scorer, so fuck this meeting and fuck this asshat in a suit.
When I begin to rise, piercing brown eyes land on mine, pinning me in place. With one pointed stare, this guy has rendered me not only speechless, which is a rare feat in itself, but immobile. Even though he’s clearly a massive douche, my hard-on returns with a vengeance. Bewildered by my body’s reaction, I stare into the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re a medium brown with flecks of gold around the pupil. I swear my heart trips as our eyes lock.
Then the fucker speaks… once again crushing his good looks under the hefty weight of a shitty personality.
“I suggest you stay exactly where you are, Mr. Novak. If you want to keep your job, that is.” His voice is rich and smooth, like honey or fine bourbon, but his words combined with the cold, calculated expression on his face make me want to show him how my knuckles taste by slamming them right into the center of that luscious mouth.
“Now you’re going to speak?” I ask, my tone incredulous and dripping with condescension.
Mr. Asshole places his palms on the table and leans toward me, his gaze unwavering. “I’ll speak when I’m ready, and you’ll listen. That’s how this works. You make messes, and I clean them up.” He pushes off the table and strides closer, his eyes never leaving mine. My throat constricts, and my pulse kicks up a notch. His confidence is resolute, and I feel as if I’m being stalked by a predator. The thought is unnerving, and as disgusted as I am with this guy’s attitude and his egomaniacal power trip, it’s still a complete fucking turn-on.
I open my mouth to speak, and for the second time in mere minutes, I have nothing to say. I’m too busy being mesmerized by the vision in front of me. Six feet of lean muscle and perfect features clad in a fitted gray suit have my mind spinning with fantasies, most of which involve Mr. Dark, Rude, and Sexy bent over the table with my cock in his ass as I teach him some goddamn manners.
“So,” the guy says, placing one hand on the table in front of me and one on the back of my chair. On an inhale, I catch a whiff of his expensive aftershave, and my mouth practically waters. “Do you understand why we’re here?” Without thinking, I nod, my brain still conjuring filthy images starring the two of us tussling, all naked and sweaty.
“Good,” he says, smiling as he thrusts out a hand. “I’m Bowen Miller. Call me Bo”