Page 24 of Off-Limits as Puck

She freezes. Doesn’t ask what freckle or where. Because she knows. Knows I’m talking about the one on her inner thigh, the one I spent quality time getting acquainted with.

“Right here.” I gesture vaguely at my own thigh, watching her face flush. “Shaped like a crescent moon. Funny coincidence, right?”

“You’re imagining things.” But her voice cracks on the last word.

“Maybe.” I move even closer, until there’s barely a foot between us. “Or maybe I remember exactly how you taste when you—”

“Stop.” The word comes out sharp, desperate.

“Stop what? I’m just talking about someone I used to know. Someone who told me she didn’t dance with strangers, then spent three hours proving that was a lie.”

Her breathing’s changed, gotten shallower. I’m playing with fire here, but I can’t help myself. Two years of wondering why she left, why the number seemed fake, why she looked at me inthat locker room like I was both her salvation and her worst nightmare.

“Someone who wrote their number on my arm,” I continue, watching her face carefully. “Then disappeared while I was sleeping.”

“I need to go.” She tries to step around me, but I shift to block her path. Not aggressive, just... present.

“The number was fake.”

“It wasn’t—” She catches herself, but it’s too late.

“Wasn’t what, Chelsea?”

“Dr. Clark,” she corrects automatically, but we both know that ship has sailed and sunk.

“Tell me something, Dr. Clark.” I lean in close enough that my breath stirs the hair escaping from her twist. “Do you still make that sound when someone kisses that spot on your neck? The one right... here?”

I don’t touch her—I’m not that stupid—but I indicate the exact spot, watching goosebumps rise on her skin.

“This is harassment,” she whispers, but she hasn’t moved away.

“This is foreplay,” I correct. “Harassment would be if you actually wanted me to stop.”

Her eyes flash with heat that has nothing to do with anger. “You arrogant—”

“You called me that in Vegas too. Right before you climbed me like a tree.”

“That wasn’t—” She stops, realizing she’s about to admit it. “You’re delusional.”

“Firecracker.”

The word lands like a punch. Her whole body goes rigid, facedraining of color then flushing red. It’s the pet name I used that night, the one that made her laugh then demand I use her real name instead.

“Don’t,” she breathes, and it sounds like begging.

“Don’t what? Don’t remember? Don’t talk about it? Don’t think about you every fucking night for two years wondering why you left?”

The last part slips out without permission, too honest for this game we’re playing. Her eyes widen, something shifting in her expression.

“Reed—”

“So you do know my name.”

She closes her eyes, looking defeated. “This can’t happen.”

“What can’t happen? We’re just talking. Performance coach and client, having a professional discussion about memory and coincidences.”

When she opens her eyes, they’re bright with unshed tears. “You know what? You’re right. You must have me confused with someone else. Because the woman you’re describing? The one who’d risk her career for one night with a stranger? She doesn’t exist anymore.”

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