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Jude Bessonette is living his dream. After years of toiling in the lower ranks, he's finally landed a roster spot with the Detroit Cougars. Playing for one of the most storied franchises in the NHL means he has to stay on top of his game - no distractions allowed. But when he finds his personal assistant doing a Goldilocks in his bed... who wouldn't be distracted?

Brynn Cates didn't mean to get caught squatting in her boss’s apartment—he was supposed to be on vacation for the next six weeks. Now she's probably getting fired from the best job she's ever had on top of being broke and homeless. 

But he doesn't fire her, and instead of throwing her out, he insists she stay in his guest room. Which solves one of her problems, but oh, she’s got more. Like trying to pretend she only sees him as a boss/temporary roommate when all she wants is to ride his mustache to O Town—for the rest of their lives.

Jude knows he can't date his assistant—at best it's an optics problem, at worst a PR nightmare that could derail his career. But he likes Brynn, and not just because he wants her thighs wrapped around his head more than he wants to win a Norris trophy. He could picture forever with her…if the whole boss/employee thing wasn’t in the way.

He wants her. She wants him. She doesn’t want to lose her job. He doesn’t want to fuck up his career. Lust isn’t enough. But is love?

COPYRIGHT © 2024 solitary vice publications

Of al the books in the F.I.L.T.H. series, I found this one the hardest to put together. Mostly because I couldn't figure out how to take a smart, savvy woman and make her so horny she'd risk a six figure job for sex with a hockey player - even a really hot, sexy, hockey player. What could the answer be but love?

Chapter One

Jude Bessonette heaved himself out of his truck with a grimace. His ass was numb, he was thirsty, and the sauna-like air in the underground parking garage made him want to climb back into his efficiently air-conditioned truck and point it at the lake he’d spent the last seven hours driving away from.

Ignoring the urge—and the way sweat immediately began to dampen the back of his t-shirt—he grabbed his bag out of the back seat, shut the door, and crossed the brightly lit garage to the elevator.

He hit the button, then pulled out his phone to send his mom an I’m home safe text. She wouldn’t see it until morning, but he knew the rules. She’d been disappointed when he’d left early—training camp didn’t start for another two months, and he’d planned to stay at the family vacation home for another six weeks. But while the lake provided plenty of opportunity for exercise in the form of swimming, water skiing and games of touch football on the beach, he hadn’t hit the gym since he’d left the city. Which meant he had work to do before the season started.

So he’d left the breezy shores of Lake Superior for the humidity of Detroit in July to train, and with perhaps the most important season of his professional career looming, he didn’t want the stress of his mother’s wrath for failing to send the obligatory I’m not dead in a ditch text.

The elevator gave its soft, dignified chime, the doors slid silently open, and he stepped inside. He hit the button for his floor, and, circling his neck to work out the kinks from the long drive, ran through his mental to-do list.  He needed to unpack and do laundry, and grocery shopping was a priority—after a month away, there wouldn’t be any food in the house. His first training session was at nine, so he’d have to get breakfast out, but as soon as he was done at the gym it was off to the store—provided he could still walk. He’d engaged the services of the team’s toughest conditioning coach to get him into shape for the season, and being too sore to move was a real possibility.

He started to swipe away from his contacts to start a grocery list when a name caught his eye. He hadn’t had a personal assistant long, but he knew that grocery shopping was in her job description. Mostly because Grant kept telling him so, but his agent was used to paying someone to do everything—including suck his dick—so his perspective was skewed.

Not that there was anything wrong with paying to have your dick sucked. Your dick got sucked, the sucker got paid, and everyone went home happy. But Jude wasn’t sure he’d ever have Grant’s ease with throwing money at the simplest of problems—and he was fully capable of buying his own groceries.

He was also capable of finding someone to suck his dick, but that hadn’t happened in a while. The Detroit Cougars was one of the most storied franchises in the NHL, and playing for them meant increased scrutiny from both the press and the public. The last thing he needed was some enterprising reporter—or more likely, a fan with a phone—snapping a picture of him at a swinger’s club.

Factor in that his favorite club—the one where he could be reasonably certain no one would snap such a photo—was on the other side of the state, and it was no wonder he was in a dry spell.

He’d had opportunities, of course—willing, eager, women were always hanging around the rinks, the hotels, the clubs. And when spending yet another night in a hotel room far from home had felt too damn lonely, he’d been tempted.

The brunette in Tampa came to mind.

She’d had purple streaks in her hair, a diamond stud in her nose, and a throaty laugh that made him think of low moans and dark rooms and soft, slick skin. He’d been half a beer from taking her back to his room when he’d realized who she reminded him of.

Brynn.

He stared at the numbers above the door, silently counting floors. Brynn’s nose ring was a gold hoop, her hair had pink streaks instead of purple, and her laugh was more of a musical trill. But it was her face he saw when he’d looked at the brunette—her pale white skin with its delicate smattering of freckles and faint blush, her wide brown eyes behind glasses too big for her face. So he’d set down his unfished beer, paid his tab, and slept alone.

Because he didn’t think it was a good idea to fuck someone who reminded him of the one woman he couldn’t have.

The elevator chimed its arrival on the top floor, and Jude put thoughts of his off-limits personal assistant out of his head. 

He stepped out of the elevator, his heavy footsteps cushioned by the thick rug. Light streamed through the single window at the end of the hall, the glow of streetlamps and the steady flash of passing headlights on the street below. He winced at the glare, and with fatigue dragging at his limbs, stepped to his front door and keyed in the code.

It swung open with a beep that seemed too loud in the cushioned quiet and he stepped inside, kicking off his shoes as the door swung shut behind him. The shades were up on the ceiling-height windows on the far side of the living room, bathing the room in moonlight and neon, and for the first time since he’d started driving, he felt himself relax.

He'd only lived in the apartment for six months—and had spent half that on the road—but it felt like home. When he’d been called up to Detroit mid-season last year, it was only supposed to be for a few weeks. But when the player he’d been filling in for needed surgery and it became clear he’d be with the Cougars for at least the rest of the season, he’d wanted out of the temporary housing provided by the team. So Brynn had handled the paperwork to terminate his lease in Grand Rapids, arranged for his things to be packed and shipped, and found him this apartment.

His place in Grand Rapids had been small, a one-bedroom with less than a thousand square feet, and his sofa and two chairs had taken up all the available space. In this high-ceilinged, loft-like space the pieces almost looked like doll furniture. Still, the familiarity of his things had helped make the apartment feel like his, and being able to rollerblade circles around the sofa made it easy to get in a workout when it was too cold or wet or snowy to get outside.

He dropped his bag on the sofa and headed for the kitchen, skirting the long, narrow, stainless steel work counter that separated it from the rest of the open-concept living space and plucked a glass from one of the open shelves lining the tiled wall. He filled it from the filter spigot at the sink and drank, and for a moment there was nothing on his mind but the withering fatigue from the long drive. Then he noticed the counter.

It was clean.

Not that he’d left it a mess. He’d been raised too well—and feared his mother too much—for that. But his focus had been on making sure he wouldn’t come home to rotting garbage, vermin, and funky laundry, and after more than a month away he’d expected a layer of dust. But there wasn’t a spec—and sitting in the center of the counter was a potted plant covered in delicate white blooms.

He drained his glass, then bent to give it a sniff. The scent was pleasant and faintly sweet, and he liked the squat pot in sunny yellow. But he knew as well as he knew his own name that he hadn’t put it there.

He lifted a hand to scratch his head and muttered a curse when the glass he still held knocked against his temple. He set it down and moved back into the living room, eyes narrowed as he honed in on the details. The thick throw he’d left balled up in one corner of the sofa—a housewarming gift from his friend Esme—was artfully draped over the cushions, the throw pillows plumped and carefully placed. The ancient steamer trunk he used as a coffee table held a couple of small candles, a green glass bowl filled with shiny red apples, and another plant instead of the game controllers that usually lived there.

He frowned at that, a spurt of panic lighting up his tired brain before he saw the controllers sitting on the low shelf under his wall-mounted television, the trio of remotes that controlled his entertainment system lined up neatly next to them.

Relieved, he turned in a circle, cataloging the rest of his belongings. As far as he could tell nothing was missing—his books were on the shelves built in under the windows, his game consoles and electronics were all in place.

Did he have a housekeeper?

He had a vague memory of Brynn telling him she was going to hire a housekeeping service, but it had been during the grueling push to make the playoffs at the end of the regular season, and he hadn’t been paying much attention to anything but hockey.

A vague sense of unease stirred in his gut. He needed to pay attention to the tasks Brynn was handling, and the expenses she was incurring on his behalf—it was irresponsible not to, and he knew it. But every time he was near her he went witless with lust, and with his career on the line he’d needed his wits. The safest thing to do was stay away from her as much as possible, so that’s what he’d done. 

It had worked for a while. He’d been busy getting settled into his role with the team, and she’d been busy handling the move and getting into her own groove, and by the time all that had settled down they’d been pushing for a playoff spot and then in the playoffs, and there had hardly been time to breathe much less lust inappropriately after his personal assistant.

But now a new season was on the horizon, with new goals and new opportunities for him both on and off the ice, and he was going to need her help. Which meant he was going to have to learn how to talk to her without wanting, to work with her without yearning.

“Might as well wish to win the Norris trophy,” he muttered, and shoving aside the combination of lust and despair he’d become all too accustomed to over the last nine months, he retrieved his duffle and headed for the bedroom.

The shades on the windows were drawn tight, the bed a king-sized shadow in the middle of the room. It was the only piece of furniture he’d bought new for the move to Detroit, taking advantage of the space to get the biggest mattress he could find. The modern platform bed had a headboard with built-in shelving, eliminating the need for bedside tables and extending his rollerblading path. 

There was plenty of room for more furniture, but Jude hadn’t seen the need. He used this room for sleeping and fucking, so who needed more than a bed?

Not that he’d fucked anyone since he’d moved here, which would’ve been depressing if he hadn’t been too tired to think about it. Since he was, he just carried his bag into the closet.

Dim lights along the baseboards flickered on automatically upon his entry, and since it was enough to keep him from tripping over something, he didn’t bother with more. Like the rest of the apartment, it was much bigger than he needed—even with all the new clothes Brynn had bought for him in the last six months, it was only half full. Dropping his bag on the padded bench that ran down the center of the space—another Brynn purchase, none of his other closets had been big enough to put furniture in—he dug his phone out of his pocket, then stripped out of the shorts and t-shirt he’d worn for the drive home and tossed them at the hamper in the corner.

Wearing only his boxers and moving with the disjointed shuffle of exhaustion, he headed for the bathroom. With under cabinet lights illuminating the way, he emptied his bladder and brushed his teeth, then shuffled back into the bedroom and aimed for the bed.

He moved slowly, not sure exactly where it was in the dark room. He reached out a seeking hand, swallowing a curse when his knuckles rapped against the wood of the headboard. He set his phone down and then slid his hand lower over the soft, cool cotton-covered pillow, the fluffy duvet. With pleasure and anticipation, he pulled back the duvet with a sigh. 

Something sighed back.

Jude paused, his fatigue-fogged brain taking a beat to register the sound. He frowned, eyes burning as he tried to see in the dark, but all he could make out was the big, square shape of the bed. He waited a few moments, ears straining for a repeat of the sound, but nothing came.

He shook his head, feeling ridiculous. He was so tired he was having auditory hallucinations, he thought with a silent, self-deprecating laugh, and lifted the covers to slide into bed.

A soft snore had him leaping back.

He fumbled for his phone, panic tightening his chest. With visions of some overzealous fan having snuck into his bed—and the media nightmare that would follow—he held his breath and turned on his phone’s flashlight.

It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the bright glare. Then he just stared while the occupant of his bed blinked droopy brown eyes, yawned, and let out a soft woof while wagging its tail and rolling onto its back in a blatant bid for belly rubs.

He didn’t know what he would have done in response—besides rub the belly, rules are rules—but before he could think of something, a sleepy voice mumbled, “Shut up, Tilly,” and he realized the dog wasn’t the only occupant of his bed.

“What the fuck?” he said, his voice loud in the dark room, and aimed his cell phone flashlight at the far side of the bed just as the person in it sat up and screamed.

Covers flew, and Jude caught a flash of blonde hair and a white shirt and then it all disappeared over the side of the bed, followed immediately by a loud thump. The screaming cut off abruptly, leaving only the swish of the dog’s tail against the sheets and the hammering of his own heart to fill the silence.

He leaned over the bed, aiming his light toward the floor on the far side. But whoever was there had fallen too close to the bed, and he couldn’t see anything.

“Hello?” he called, then sputtered when a long, wet canine tongue lapped at his face. He ducked, trying to evade the affectionately aggressive slurps, then cursed when a tooth caught his nostril. Nose stinging and face dripping, he planted a hand on the dog’s nose and shoved. The dog, who had reared up on its hind legs to better cover him in slobber, fell slowly backward onto the bed and farted.

Jude would’ve laughed, but whoever was lying on his floor moaned, and he remembered he had a real problem on his hands.

With the light from the phone guiding the way, he strode over to the light switch beside the door and slapped it on, then turned to face his intruder with his best don’t-fuck-with-me-or-I’ll-put-you-through-the-boards glare, his thumb poised to dial 9-1-1.

Then he blinked. “Brynn?”

Eyes squeezed shut against the glare of the light, her pink-streaked blonde hair covering half her face, she lifted a hand. “Hey, Jude.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked, but it was automatic, knee-jerk. Because she was wearing a thin, white t-shirt, and as far as he could see, nothing else.

Treat, like the rest of the F.I.L.T.H. series, is fairly low angst. However, at the beginning of the book the heroine, Brynn, is houseless and food insecure, and though she has family and friends who would be willing and able to help, has not told them the full truth of her situation. She is scared and very stressed, and though her circumstances improve quickly, she continues throughout the book to feel the lingering effects of that stress.