Page 4 of Pucked In Vegas

No, Cassie. No.

I cross my legs tighter, feeling a telltale throb between my thighs. My nipples harden against my bikini top, and I resist the urge to adjust it.

"Earth to Cassie," Sophia's tinny voice calls from my forgotten phone.

I blink, realizing I've been staring—no, devouring—this stranger with my eyes for far too long. My mouth has gone dry despite the alcohol, and there's a heaviness in my limbs that has nothing to do with martinis.

God, it's been too long since I've been touched if I'm this worked up over a stranger's abs.

Or maybe it's just the martinis doing their job.

Should I let myself imagine more? The way those strong hands might feel gripping my thighs? How that perfectly sculpted mouth might taste against mine?

"I think these belong to you."

He holds out my sunglasses—my favorite Chanel pair with the gold accents that must have tumbled off my head during my wild hand-waving session earlier. They dangle from his fingertips, water droplets sliding down the designer frames like they're as reluctant to leave his touch as I would be.

I stare at the sunglasses, then at his hand, noticing the way his fingers are long and strong, with calluses that speak of hard work.

A real man's work.

Those hands. They're not soft like the corporate types I usually date. They're rough around the edges…weathered.

What does he do? Construction maybe? The thought of him shirtless on a job site, muscles flexing under the sun as he lifts heavy materials, sends a fresh wave of heat through me.

Or perhaps he's a gardener, those strong fingers coaxing life from the earth, patient and nurturing.

Whatever he does, it's refreshing.He'srefreshing.

The men in my orbit are usually smooth-talking executives. Or trust fund babies. All of them with soft palms and even softer ambitions.

This guy looks like he could build something solid. Fix things. Break things.

He's definitely not a hockey player, thank god.

I've spent my whole life around those overgrown boys with their superstitions and egos to know one when I see one. The last thing I need is another entitled athlete who thinks the world revolves around him.

No, this man is different.

"I'll call you back," I tell my friends, not waiting for their response before ending the FaceTime call without warning.

"Thanks," I say, fingers brushing his as I take the sunglasses. They’re warm from his touch, and suddenly I am, too.

His eyes crinkle as he offers his hand.

"I'm Jax," he says, that deep voice deep and low.

There's something careful in the way he says it. So simply. Confidently. Like he already knows tonight doesn't need last names, and he's just holding the rest back.

The moment curls through my chest, low and lazy, like the vodka making everything surrounding us soft around the edges.

Mia’s voice echoes in my head.Do something reckless. Live a little, babe.

God help me, I just might.

I’m tipsy. I’m overdue. And he smells like chlorine, summer, and very bad decisions.

So I do the only thing that makes sense.

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