Page 12 of Pucked In Vegas

I nod, already swaying to the beat. "Something that burns."

He grins, then guides me past the velvet ropes to a roped-off platform above the crowd, where a VIP booth glows under a spotlight of liquid gold. A bottle of Moët chills in a glass bucket, surrounded by half-empty tumblers, glowing sparklers, and two very loud men.

“Cassie, meet the bad influences,” Jax says, motioning to the two guys from outside.

“Donovan,” the blond one says with a wink. “And that grumpy bastard is Keller.”

“Cassie,” I say, dropping into the booth beside Jax, my leg brushing his. “Professional over-sharer and martini enthusiast.”

“She’s perfect,” Donovan announces. “Keller, marry her.”

“I don’t do weddings,” Keller grunts, then eyes the bottle. “But I do shots.”

With a click of his fingers, the waitress arrives in tight black spandex, balancing a tray that glitters under the club lights. Tequila, salt, lime—the universal language of bad decisions.

"Compliments of the manager," she shouts over the music, setting down shot glasses that catch the blue lights like tiny sapphires. "He says welcome to Nova, Mr. Holt."

I glance at Jax, who gives a casual nod like being recognized by club management is an everyday thing. Rich kid? Trust fund baby? He doesn'tfeellike that. Not with those rough hands and that working man energy.

But who the hell gets VIP treatment and free shots just for showing up?

"Salt first, then tequila, then lime," Donovan instructs me like I wasn't born knowing the ritual.

"I'm familiar with the process," I say, reaching for the salt shaker.

The room tilts like a slow-moving carousel, lights streaking across my vision as the martinis stir up a low, sweet hum in my bloodstream. Everything feels... floaty.

"Though I should warn you all that tequila makes me either dance on tables or speak fluent French. It's a coin toss."

"You speak French?" Jax asks, his thigh pressing against mine as he leans closer.

"Absolutely not." I laugh, enjoying the confusion on his face. "That's the fun part."

The waitress finishes lining up our shots, and Keller raises his glass.

"To Jax," he announces. "May your future be as bright as your—"

"To new friends," Jax cuts him off, his eyes finding mine.

Something passes between us… a current, a warning, a promise.

I lick the tender spot between my thumb and index finger, sprinkle salt over the dampness, and hold Jax's gaze. His eyes darken as he mirrors my movements, tongue sliding over his skin in a way that makes my stomach flip.

"To bad decisions," I counter, raising my glass. "May we make plenty tonight."

The tequila burns a path down my throat, and I bite into the lime without flinching. The tartness explodes across my tongue, chasing away the alcohol's fire.

Jax watches me, impressed, as Donovan whoops and Keller signals for another round.

"What?" I ask, setting down my glass. "Did you think I'd cough and sputter?"

Jax leans in, his lips brushing my ear. "I think there's a lot about you that would surprise me, Cassie."

"Dance with me," I demand, grabbing his hand.

The floor is a crush of bodies, but Jax creates space with his broad shoulders. We start with respectable distance between us, but the music has other ideas. Each beat pulls me closer until my back presses against his chest.

His hands find my hips, tentative at first, then more confident as I melt against him. I close my eyes, letting my body move against his, my ass grinding into him with delicious friction. His breath hitches against my neck.

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