Page 2 of Pucking Curves

At least their fury keeps them from trying me a second time.

I step around the group, eyes trained straight ahead. I just want to get to the damn restaurant. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently so.

Vegas is not like DC. Everyone back home has pretty much learned by now not to even bother, but here? I guess we’re still fresh meat for the tourists and bandwagon fans. We barely make it three steps before a redhead spots us and turns in our direction.

“No,” I growl, shutting her down hard before she even gets close.

Her face blanches before anger settles over her, carving lines around her mouth. “Asshole,” she mumbles, turning on her heel to storm off.

“I hate playing here,” Micah mutters as we slip away.

“He’s a born-again virgin,” the blonde mutters behind us. “What the fuck does that even mean? That he’s, like, religious or something?”

Micah chuckles.

I shoot him a death glare. “I’m not a born-again virgin, you asshole,” I mutter to him under my breath, which only makes him laugh harder. Hell, maybe I am. I haven’t been with anyone since I was seventeen.

Back then, I, naively, thought we were in love. Turns out, I was just her ticket out of the town we grew up in. As soon as I found that out, I cut ties and never looked back. Realizing I was just a meal ticket hurt like hell. Funny thing is, though, I didn’t missheronce she was gone. It was an eye-opening realization. I decided real quick that relationships weren’t for me. If I couldn’t even tell the difference between love and whatever the fuck that was…best to avoid them altogether.

And then I met Wren. It was like a damn gong striking in my soul. What I thought I felt at seventeen was fucking laughable in comparison. That shit wasn’t love. It was loneliness and sheer teenage ignorance. But Wren? I look at her, and I feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin if I can’t touch her. I want to know what she’s thinking, what she’s doing, every minute of the day. It’s getting harder and harder to keep it under control.

I’m supposed to be the perfect captain, the calm, dependable, reliable one. The one who never fucks up and never fails. And yet…I slip a little bit further into madness every damn day. Because of her.Forher.

“She left you alone, didn’t she?”

I grunt. My best friend is an asshole. “If I’m in the paper next week beside some rumor that I’m in a religious cult, I’m sticking my skate up your ass.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Graves,” he says, pulling his phone from his pocket.

I crack a smile despite myself. He’s an idiot. He’s also my ride-or-die. I’ve had a lot of teammates come and go since I joined the Carvers seven years ago, but Micah is the brother I never had. I’m fucking glad Coach added him to the roster two years ago.

“Where are we meeting everyone?” I ask as we bank a left toward the casino floor.

“What?”

“Where are we meeting everyone?” I repeat, raising my voice to be heard over the dull roar of the casino. It’s always loud in a casino, especially on a weekend in Vegas. It’s also bright as hell, with lights flashing all over the place.

He looks up from his phone, his brows furrowed. “We need to make a…”

“Micah!”

My entire goddamn body lights up as soon as I hear that voice. Even over the noise, I’d know it anywhere. I hear it in my dreams. Every fucking night, I imagine it moaning for me. Begging for me. Her voice haunts every dream I have, staring in every fantasy.

A broad grin stretches across Micah’s face, confirming what I already know. Wren is here. In Vegas.

What the fuck?

She hits him like a cannonball, plowing into his chest with laughter trailing behind her. He whoops, lifting her off her feet to spin her around in a circle.

I bite back a groan at the sight of her—gray eyes bright with happiness, blonde hair wild around her heart-shaped face, full lips curved into a bright, happy smile, porcelain skin all soft and glowing. The tops of her breasts are visible in her low-cut dress. I want to bury my face between them and die right there. I’d do it with a fucking smile, just starve for oxygen while drowning in her scent.

She looks like sex and sin in that red mini dress. It’s too short, ending right below her perfect ass. Clinging to every luscious curve. Andgoddamn, those curves.

Wren isn’t a dainty little girl. She’s maybe five foot two, but she’s all woman, thick in every way—her ass, her thighs, her belly. Nothing has ever made me harder than those curves of hers. Especially in that dress. It’s right up there with that damn bathing suit from the wedding.

I’m going to be beating off in the bathroom before the night ends.

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