When a health issue ends Christina’s dancing career, she finds herself on a new path as a co-owner of an NHL team. But, when a friend needs help at her dance studio, the last thing she expected was for the hottie taking private lessons to wind up on her brother’s hockey team. Readers who love secret, workplace romances will enjoy Dances with Pucks by Debbie Charles, a steamy, sports romance.
Cam
Guarding the net is not my only goal
While other players relax on the golf course, my off-season is spent in the ballroom. Dancing keeps me limber and the memory of my mom alive. My father dismissed hockey as a career and moved on to a new family. Joke’s on him. I’ve made it to the NHL, and I’ll clear close to a mil at age twenty-four. The only thing left on my life plan is a family, and I have my eye on the beautiful dance instructor who keeps me on my toes.
Christina
I prefer numbers to people. They’re far more predictable.
Numbers make sense; people don’t.
After a health issue ended my competitive ballroom dancing career, I took over management of my family’s financial empire. Then my brother insisted on bringing pro hockey to Austin, so here I am, co-owner of an NHL team and agreeing to give free financial advice to the players. When a friend needs help at her dance studio, the hottie taking private lessons is more tempting than a macro-enabled spreadsheet, until his headshot pops up on my brother’s hockey roster. Talk about a conflict of interest. Worse, he wants what I can’t give him—kids. Maybe just a fling…
Dances with Pucks is a workplace romance between two incredibly flexible people, which means things get steamy, stretched, and sometimes twisted. It introduces the Texas Tornadoes, the hottest, coolest expansion NHL team in hockey.
Excerpt
Copyright 2025, Debbie Charles
As he raises me to his shoulder, my leg extended, and begins to twirl, my only thought is how close his hand is to my *****. I moan, and he inhales deeply. If he’s smelling me, I’ll be so embarrassed. That might be worse than if my arousal leaks down onto his hand.
He clutches me tight for an instant before allowing me to slide down. I wrap my arm around his back, the arch of my spine more pronounced than before. I’ve forgotten the move. My *** craves his **** against it and my legs are splayed wide to get maximum friction where I want it. I’m too high, though, so I’m splayed across his belly, his big hand inches above where I need it to be. He releases his left hand where it had moved under my knee and I slide down, leading with one tiptoe so I can slow my slide over his ****.
I am shameless and over this lesson almost before it’s begun.
I don’t spin around and instead shimmy my *** against him.
His hand tightens around my waist as he pulls me even closer. We breathe in unison. My back brushes his chest with every inhale.
“Christina?” he asks into my hair. I’m sweaty and horny and I don’t care about resisting any more.
I whisper, “Cam. Please.”
Spinning me around, he responds with a husky, “Thank ****,” as his hands go to my head and his lips meet mine.
He kisses far better than anyone I’ve ever experienced. I’m lost. My brain skitters along the hard floor under us before I remember that my bedroom is literally feet away. But I’m afraid to break the spell. I want to sink into these sensations, this pleasure, and wallow in it.
My hands roam his hard muscles. Arms, back, chest, shoulders are all explored as our lips and tongues play. I tunnel under his shirt, craving skin to skin, and he moans. I flick his nipple with a fingernail, and he shudders around me.
He also starts to explore. His fingers knead the muscles of my upper back, around the base of my spine, and my ***. He skims as far down my legs as he can reach and mutters against my mouth, “God, I want these wrapped around me.”
I nod.
He raises his head, looking a little surprised. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. It’s been a while, though, so please take it slow.” I’m not ready to share my specific worries about penetration, angle, or position, but I’m safe with him. This is a man who worries he’ll drop me a few feet from a simple lift.
Nor is this the time to talk about keeping this whole thing secret. Maybe I can get my fill of him today and then move on. I’ll worry about all that later. Right now, I need the pleasure his body has been taunting mine with for weeks.
“If you need me to do something different, tell me.” He’s done asking for permission, however, because he peels the straps of my leotard down to my hips in one move. Plucking the knot of my filmy wrap skirt open, he tosses it aside and gets me naked except my shoes in seconds.
I suck in a breath. The mirrors reflect a three-quarter view of the back of me, so he can see all of me at once. And while he’s in his prime, both age-wise and being a professional athlete, I’m no longer the lithe competitive dancer I once was. I’ve filled out, although I stay fitter than most thirty-year-old women.
“God, you’re gorgeous. Even more beautiful than I imagined.” His voice is reverent, allaying the few worries my thoughts had room for. It’s time to bask in this experience.
He lowers to his knees; I assume to take my shoes off. But no, he runs his hands up and down my legs, testing the muscles with light squeezes. “Your legs are my greatest fantasy.”
Well, that’s hot. And original. I brace my hands on his shoulders. Even with him kneeling before me, the power dynamic of me naked and him clothed is a little overwhelming. I tug on his shirt. “Off, please.”
He does that young guy thing, grasping it behind his head with one hand and yanking it up and off, flinging it aside.
My hands return to his shoulders. Warm, smooth skin covers muscles that are hard even at rest. I could fondle him all day.
He has other ideas. Tucking a hand behind my knee, he braces me by holding my other hip and slides my knee over his shoulder, opening me to him.
About Debbie Charles
A lifelong romance reader, I cut my teeth on Johanna Lindsey, Jude Deveraux, and Kathleen Woodiwiss, along with Silhouette and Harlequin for palate cleansers. Opting for a career that provided both a food and travel budget, I earned a BA, CPA, and MBA, and spent far too long being a corporate drone, then consulting other corporate drones. Along the way, I was one of the few 1990s NBA season ticket holders never to see Michael Jordan play (’93-’94). I also attended a few NFL games, the Belmont Stakes, the NHL playoffs, the World Series, and managed to see more than 20 MLB parks, several of which have since been demolished. More recently, I’ve enjoyed the Texas Stars, the AHL affiliate of the Dallas Stars. Throughout those years, I made sporadic attempts to write my own romance. I now have 9 spicy Regency romances under the pen name Maggie Sims (www.maggiesims.com), and am ready to tackle contemporary romance, starting with hot hockey romances set in Austin, where I now live with my husband and three furbabies.
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