I Pucking Love You – The Copper Valley Thrusters Read Online Pippa Grant

Categories Genre: Romance, Sports Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 106005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
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Read Online Books/Novels:

I Pucking Love You - The Copper Valley Thrusters

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Pippa Grant

Language:
English
ISBN/ ASIN:
B091P5TKQG
Book Information:

A hockey/fake date/not-quite-a-virgin very wrong romantic comedy
You know those stories where an adorably misunderstood clumsy girl needs a fake date to a wedding so she asks her brother’s best friend and they accidentally fall in love?
I wish that was the kind of life I lead, but it’s not.
I don’t need a date to a wedding. I need a date to a funeral. Clumsy sometimes fits, but then, that’s true for all of us, right? But adorable? No. Misunderstood? Nope again. I’m just your average girl, standing in front of a funeral invitation, asking it to be a winning lottery ticket instead.
And I don’t have a brother, or a best friend with a brother available, which means I’m stuck with Tyler Jaeger.
Sure, he’s a professional hockey player who also knows advanced calculus, but let’s say we’re not compatible and leave it at that. I should know. I am a matchmaker.
Not a very good one, but that’s beside the point.
I know a mismatch when I see one.
Still, Tyler’s what I’ve got, and I am not going to this funeral solo, so he’s what I’ll take.
After all—what could go wrong at a funeral?
****I Pucking Love You is a hilariously wrong romantic comedy about the world’s worst matchmaker, a hockey player with a problem he doesn’t want to talk about, and an awkward date-of-convenience that everyone would prefer to forget. It comes complete with a cat working his way through his nine lives, all the sexy times, fish and chips, and a swoony happily-ever-after.
Books by Author:

Pippa Grant



1

Tyler Jaeger, aka a dude in total and absolute hell

Two.

Chicks.

There are two chicks in this room. When Sparkle Hair invited me to sneak away from the bunny bar and upstairs to her friend’s apartment, I thought we’d be playing hide-the-salami in the slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of way.

All the makings of a good night. This should be heaven.

But Sparkle Hair is smiling a pouty smile and pulling me to the king bed in the bedroom adorned with Thrusters mementos where her friend, let’s call her Super Tits, is reclining on her side and petting the black sheet under the Thrusters comforter while the Rocky theme song plays softly in the background. “Oooh, you found a rough one,” she purrs, pushing her cleavage out.

I pinch myself, and it hurts.

Not a dream.

This is actually happening.

I thought I was picking up a puck bunny who can quote Aristotle for the night, and instead, I’m getting the Wrigley’s Doublemint package.

Double the pleasure.

Double the fun.

Except for the part where my dick has died and is hanging in my pants like limp roadkill.

C’mon, Jaeger. Get it up. Get. It. Up.

“What’s wrong, baby doll?” Sparkle Hair presses her boob to my arm. “Surprised?”

“In the best way,” I croak out.

Super Tits climbs across the bed to press her boob against my other arm. “Have you ever had two chicks at once?”

Work, Wonder-Wood. Please work. “Ladies, all I care about is here and now. And here—” I wiggle my brows at Sparkle Hair “—and now—” I make kissy lips at Super Tits “—is my favorite place to be.”

Sparkle Hair’s hand drifts up my thigh. “Athena, he knows differential equations.”

“Oh, god, that’s so hot.” Super Tits slides her knee over mine. “We only double up on the smart guys. Do you know why you should never talk to pi?”

Dammit. I love the smart bunnies. “Because he’ll go on forever.”

“Oh my god, I think I just came.” We’re all still clothed. Super Tits—Athena, apparently—is riding my thigh, her head thrown back. Sparkle Hair is doing a thing to my ear that would usually have me hard as marble while she plays with the button on my jeans.

But my dick yawns and rolls over.

Fuck.

I wish I could say it was fear that one of my teammates would catch us and kick my ass for being out past curfew, but let’s be real.

I’m the youngest of six.

Pissing people off by doing what I want is what I do best. If I want to screw around with two bunnies when I’m supposed to be heading home after a game, I’m gonna screw around with two bunnies.

Curfew doesn’t help my game. Breaking it doesn’t hurt my game.

Ergo, on a normal night, when my junk works, staying with the bunnies is what I should do.

“Why don’t mathematicians ever throw keggers?” Sparkle Hair purrs in my ear.

“Because you shouldn’t drink and derive,” I reply.

“Touch my pussy, you sexy beast.” She rips my pants open, which is hot as hell, except for the part where Mr. Lazy Ass Disappointment in my jockeys has completely disconnected from reality.

Two chicks.

Two smart chicks who like math jokes and know what to do with their hands and I need a urologist, because there is zero movement happening south of the border, which—

“Oh.”

“Hm.”

Yeah.

Which they’re both noticing.

Right now.

Sparkle Tits pulls my boxer briefs back, peers inside, and then both women scurry off me while I try to find words to convince them that what they’re seeing isn’t what they’re seeing and that I’m into this.

That I am so into this.

“Sorry, Tyler,” Sparkle Hair stutters. “We thought—”

“We don’t take advantage of guys,” Super Tits finishes.

“We can take no.”

“We really can. No harm, no foul.”

“When you came up here with me, I thought—”

“I mean, that’s half of what you guys come to our bar for, right?”

“But if you’re not into it, we get it.”

“Totally.”

“Completely.”

“Two women at once is intimidating sometimes.”

“Do you want one of us to leave? Or are you…?”

“No!” Shit. I drop my head in my hands. The weight of reality about the state of my lack of woody is making my head hurt, and I almost wish one of my teammates would come looking for me. “You didn’t—I’m not—I want—”

I want my damn dick to work again like it used to.

“Too many hits to the head,” I mutter.

“Oh, poor boo.” Super Tits appears on the floor in front of me, looking up so I can’t avoid her gaze without looking like a total asshole, and no, having a woman kneeling in front of me is still doing nothing in the crotch area. “Did it start after your concussion? That’s not uncommon.”

“No! That was—No. No, it didn’t start after the concussion.” Jesus. Am I really discussing this with these two?

And the concussion was eighteen months ago. Not yesterday.

I need a wingman.

I need a wingman more than I need my dick to roar to life.


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