Page 57 of The Pucking Date
I freeze. Then reach in, fingers closing around it. Smooth, cool silicone and weighty in my palm. High-end. Rechargeable.
My grip tightens. Blood floods south.
This is a woman who knows exactly what she wants.
And now I can’t stop imagining it—her on that hotel bed, sheets pushed down, legs and lips parted, back arching. The way she’d sound. The way she’d tremble. The way she’d reach for something familiar to get her there.
My T-shirt.
This.
Me.
I swallow hard, tucking it under the silk and scent andsharp edges of the woman who is completely, utterly undoing me. I step away, breath low and tight in my chest, still holding the red lace and my T-shirt.
Then I hear the knock.
Sharp. Impatient.
When I open the door, she’s standing there in the hallway, black suitcase in hand, expression hard like she’s about to file a formal complaint.
“I think there was a mix-up,” she starts, tight and clipped. “This one has your warm-up top inside—number seventeen.”
Right. The Defenders-branded crewneck Marcus insisted I toss into my bag just in case. A marketing thing, looking on-brand for media ops.
Her gaze flicks past me to the open suitcase on the floor behind me. To the tangle of lace and silk I didn’t bother to hide.
Her eyes snap to me. Narrow. Flash sharp.
Then they drop.
To my hand, holding my T-shirt. A worn, gray confession she never meant to share.
The red lace hangs beneath it. A trophy.
Her whole face changes. Color surges. Mouth sets.
I tuck the shirt into my back pocket and lift the panties higher, just out of reach, pinched between two fingers like a ribbon I’m not done playing with.
She lunges for it—too fast, too desperate—and those killer heels betray her. She pitches forward. Her palms land against my chest, breath catching as her body collides with mine. She freezes, her breath grazing my throat, her scent curling around me in a slow, dangerous fog.
One second.
Two.
Her gaze lifts.
Big green eyes, furious and flustered, blazing with heat she’s not ready to name. Cheeks flushed. Lips parted.
I lower the lace slowly and drape it over her shoulder. My fingers graze her neck, feeling her shiver.
“Is this what you packed for sponsor meetings, Red?” I murmur, voice low against her ear. “Or was this meant for me?”
Her breath stutters. The beat of her heart pounds through both of us. My hand slips to her hip. Barely there. But it roots her.
She doesn’t move.
“Give it back, O’Reilly,” she whispers, her voice in shreds. Her fingers are still knotted in my shirt like she doesn’t know whether to shove or hold on.
