Page 41 of Off-Limits as Puck

We stare at each other, both breathing hard from honesty neither of us meant to share.

“Good communication,” she says weakly, then flees to check on other pairs.

I spend the rest of the afternoon pretending her confession didn’t just rewire my entire nervous system.

By evening, I’m vibrating out of my skin. Dinner is a blur. The optional movie night is torture—sitting in a dark room, knowing she’s three rows back, feeling her presence like a phantom limb.

I escape to the equipment shed behind the lodge, needing air and space and distance from her perfume. The shed is basically a glorified garage, full of hiking gear and maintenance supplies.I’m pretending to look for extra hand warmers when the door opens.

I know it’s her before I turn around. My body recognizes hers like gravity.

“We need to stop meeting like this,” I say without looking up.

“I was getting first aid supplies.” Her voice is steady but thin. “Patricia scraped her knee on the trail.”

“Bandages are on the left shelf.”

I hear her move past me, determined to keep distance. But then she makes this sound—frustrated, wanting—and when I turn, she’s staring at me with eyes that match the hunger in my chest.

“Don’t,” she whispers.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me like that. Like you want—”

“Everything? Because I do.”

One moment she’s across the shed. The next, we’re colliding like atoms splitting. Her mouth finds mine with desperate accuracy, and any pretense of control evaporates. This isn’t the exploration of Vegas or the desperation of the laundry room. This is pure need, two years of want demanding payment.

I lift her onto the workbench, stepping between her thighs as she wraps her legs around me. We’re frantic, graceless, pulling at clothes with shaking hands. Her fleece hits the floor. My shirt follows. Every barrier between us feels like an insult.

“We can’t,” she gasps even as she’s unbuckling my belt. “Someone could—”

“Don’t care.” I capture her protest with my mouth, swallowing her words and doubts. My hands find skin, relearn curves I’ve dreamed about. She arches into my touch, nails digging into my shoulders.

It’s fast, messy, necessary. Her hiking pants shoved down just enough, my jeans following. When I push into her, we both freeze, overwhelmed by the feeling of us finally connected again. Then she shifts, takes me deeper, and thinking becomes impossible.

We move together in desperate silence, swallowing each other’s moans. The workbench creaks beneath us. Tools rattle. Her legs tighten around me as I drive into her with two years of pent-up need.

I work my hips hard and fast, needing to release my pent-up energy. It’s so hot that she can’t control herself around. The thought makes me wild.

“Reed,” she breathes against my neck, and I almost lose it right there.

“I know,” I manage. “Fuck, Chelsea, I know.”

She breaks first, biting my shoulder to muffle her cry. The feel of her coming around me, the pain of her teeth, the perfect wrongness of doing this here—it all crashes together, and I follow her over, pulsing inside of her.

We stay frozen for a moment, breathing hard, still joined. Reality creeps in with the cooling sweat and distant voices from the lodge.

She pushes at my chest. “Let me up.”

I step back, watching her rebuild her walls with her clothes. Pants yanked up. Fleece smoothed down. Hair finger-combed into submission. In under a minute, she’s transformed back into Dr. Clark, except for her swollen lips and the mark I definitely left on her neck.

“This doesn’t change anything,” she says, not meeting my eyes.

“It changes everything.”

“No.” She grabs the first aid kit with shaking hands. “It was just... adrenaline. Proximity. It won’t happen again.”

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