Page 97 of Arrogant Puck

“Since when do I give a shit about work protocol?” The words come out harsh, but I can’t stop them.

Something flickers across her face. “I guess you don’t.”

The fluorescent light above us flickers, casting shifting shadows across her face. I can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest, hear the catch in her breathing. She’s scared, but not of me. Of this. Of whatever’s happening between us.

“Am I not good enough for you?” The question tears out of me like a confession. “Is that what this is?”

Her eyes widen. “What? No, that’s not—”

“Then what?” I slam my palm against the wall beside her head, the sound sharp and final. “Because I’m trying to figure out what I did wrong. Was it the dresser? The lunch? Trying to be the kind of man you deserve?”

“Slater, stop.”

“I can’t.” The words taste like blood in my mouth. “I can’t stop thinking about you. About that night you came on my tongue. About last night when you were fucking straddling me.”

Her clipboard trembles in her hands. “We can talk about this later.”

“No.” I lean closer, close enough to feel her breath. “I’m not waiting. I’m done pretending I don’t want you so bad it’s killing me.”

“Don’t,” she whispers, but her eyes drop to my mouth.

“Tell me you don’t feel this.” My voice is raw, desperate. “Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll walk away right now.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but no words come. Instead, her breath hitches, and I see something break in her expression—some wall she’s been holding up crumbling to dust.

“I can’t,” she breathes.

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t tell you that.”

The confession hangs between us like a live wire. She reaches up, her free hand fisting in my shirt, and pulls me down to her mouth.

The kiss is desperate, angry, and filled with need. She tastes like coffee and something sweeter, something that makes me want to devour her whole. When I press her harder against the wall, she makes a sound that goes straight to my dick.

“Slater. Not here,” she gasps against my mouth, but her body says something different, arching into me.

I grab her hand and pull her toward the equipment office, shouldering the door open. The small space smells like leather and sweat, dim except for the light filtering through the frosted window. I lift her onto the equipment table, stepping between her legs as her clipboards scatter to the floor.

She pulls me down for another kiss, her legs wrapping around my waist. When I grind against her, she moans into my mouth that makes me lose my mind.

“We shouldn’t—” she starts, but I silence her with my mouth on her neck, finding a spot that makes her breath catch.

“We should,” I murmur against her skin. “We definitely should.”

Someone clears their throat from behind me. “Excuse me.”

Sage goes rigid in my arms. I turn slowly, still caging her against the table, to find the new PT standing in the doorway. Her expression is a mixture of shock and professional disapproval.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says, though her tone suggests she’s anything but. “But this is completely inappropriate. Sage, I’m going to have to report this.”

Sage scrambles down from the table, her face flushed with embarrassment and panic. “Tanya, I can explain—”

“No explanation necessary.” The woman’s voice is crisp, authoritative. “Both of you need to come with me immediately.”

I study her for a moment—the way she holds her clipboard, the nervous energy beneath her stern facade. She’s trying to flex authority she doesn’t really have, trying to intimidate us.

I walk toward her slowly, deliberately, using every inch of my height and presence. She takes an involuntary step back.

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