Page 6 of No Pucks

“Then why do you look like it’s killing you?” I ask, more drawn in by him than I expected.

“Because now, I have to decide if I’m willing to move backhere.” His words are loaded, just like I like them.

Selfishly, I want to know. “Got a problem with New York?”

“It’s not Florida.” He taps the bar top, drawing my attention back to his hands. The tattoos are a lot more delicate than I expected, fine lines woven behind a geometric pattern radiating from an outline of the Creation of Adam on the back of one hand, the other bearing an outline of Winged Victory.

I’m surprised. He doesn’t seem the type at all, but it only makes me want him more.

I wrinkle my nose. “Oh, honey.”

He laughs, and the tension in his shoulders eases a little. “Let me guess: born and raised?”

I don’t deny it. “You can always vacation there and live longer.”

“Isn’t NYC one of the most dangerous cities in the world?” he asks.

“But we don’t have Florida Man.” I grin, earning a roll of his eyes.

“Hilarious.” He sets his glass down and looks at me, but not with lust. He’s probing. Intense. What he’s looking for, I have no idea. “I grew up here then moved away when I was fifteen. I couldn’t wait to get back, and I did for a few years, and I regret it. I swore I’d never come back.”

“I apologize,” I pause, letting him think I’m being kind. “So what you’re telling me is, they took you to Florida during your formative years and brainwashed you?”

He seems amused as he shakes his head, but the amusement reaches the lines around his eyes. “Or maybe I hate this city and everything it represents.”

“There’s the trauma. Let’s see—parents are divorced and you went back to mom’s redneck roots?”

He side-eyes me, clearly shocked. “Dad, and not so redneck. How’d you know?”

“I’m good at reading people.” I’ve played the hook-up game long enough.

His dark brow furrows. “How? You can’t be a panhandler. Your watch is too expensive for that. So, what—rich parents, used to traveling the world and reading all their rich friends?”

“Something like that.” More like fucking all their friends, but I don’t think that admission would go over so well with him. “Not so bad at reading people yourself.”

“I know the type. Like I said, I used to live here.” Which means part of his family has or had money.

Interesting.

“So you learned a little twenty years ago.” I laugh with the little jab.

“Hey now, less than. I’m not that old.” He shoots me another glare. “Might I remind you, you’re the one who came over here?”

“What’s twenty years between friends?” I finish my drink and set it aside, turning towards him, leaning my elbow on the bar.

“How old are you?” he asks.

“Old enough to be in a bar and know what I want.” I flick my tongue over my lower lip.

He swallows. “I’m old enough to be your?—”

I cut him off, dropping my attention to his dick. “My what? Father? Not even close. He’s nearly fifty, and I doubt he can get it up without help. You seem to be doing just fine.” A slight misrepresentation of the facts, but I don’t care.

He follows my gaze and lifts his hand, but he stops himself from adjusting, slipping it into his pocket instead. “This isn’t even close to hard.” His voice drops while his gaze darkens.

Heat scorches through my veins, and I lean in. “Prove it.”

“I—” His finger goes back to his ring finger.

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