Page 60 of The Pucking Date
“Don’t shy away from me now, darlin’,” I rumble, twisting my fingers inside her. “Let go, sugar, I got you.” And then her body begins to shake, her climax careening through her, while I continue to lick her, allowing her to ride the wave as long as possible.
Snarling, I manage to finally pull away, sucking air into my lungs and standing up. Gently, I kiss her breasts, then carefully adjust her bra and button up her dress.
Her eyes are wild, glassy, stunned. Then she closes them, taking a deep breath and leaning against the door. Her lips are kiss-bruised, breath unsteady. I lick my glistening fingers, her arousal sweet against my tongue.
And then I step back, wanting to see her freshly fucked and unraveled.
“To be continued,” I rasp out. Her eyes flutter open—dazed, desperate, completely undone.
I pick up her panties from the floor and put them in my pocket. I earned them. Then I press my T-shirt, the number seventeen, into her hand, along with the lace I found in her suitcase.
“Wear my shirt while you play with your toy, darlin’,” I whisper into her ear, my breath hot and heavy, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “And know that I’m right next door. Your panties wrapped around my cock, covered in my come.”
She stares, breathless, cheeks flushed, eyes wide.
Then I give her another bruising kiss, step back, open the door, and let her walk away on shaky legs.
She clutches her suitcase like a lifeline, but her composure lies in ruins at my feet. And we both know there is no turning back.
13
LET ME IN
JESSICA
Icatch my reflection in the mirror—burgundy silk, precise lipstick, the picture of professional control. My skin still hums from yesterday, from his hands and mouth and the way he unraveled me completely before sending me away wanting more.
Twelve weeks pregnant, and I’m supposed to smile through sponsor meetings while my body rebels against everything—scents, tastes, the very idea of food. Half the sponsors barely glance at the players before circling the real leverage, while the other half stare at Wesley like he’s some kind of glacial Adonis. Meanwhile, Finn doesn’t even have a contract.
The Defenders are dragging their heels, playing hardball, waiting to see how this week plays out. Meanwhile, Dallas and Raleigh are circling, flashing their shark teeth and dangling big numbers. I don’t know the exact figures—Marcus is too polished for that—but the look he gave me earlier said what I needed to know. The Defenders are running out of time. One wrong move, one missed opportunity, and Finn’s gone.
And what happens then?
If he signs with Dallas or Raleigh, it will be a fresh start somewhere else. New locker room. New apartment. New life. And I’ll be left here—we’llbe left here—trying to figure out how to tell a long-distance father about a baby he doesn’t even know exists yet.
The thought knots in my stomach, sharper than the nausea. He’s not mine. And if he walks? I don’t just lose him from the team. I lose the last chance I might have tomaybedo this the right way.
What Rothschild won’t say—but I know—is that if Finn lands the Under Armour deal we’ve been massaging, it changes the equation. National exposure. Big dollars. A campaign like that signals he’s not only marketable—he’s a franchise cornerstone. And then Rothschild will put a serious contract on the table.
But nothing’s signed yet.
Though lately, something feels...off. Meetings are getting shuffled. Brand reps are suddenly “reassessing timelines.” Under Armour is taking their time on final creative approvals. None of it is overt, but it’s enough to make me twitch.
And Finn, of course, is acting like none of it touches him. Like he’s got all the time in the world.
It’s about making sure the right people believe in the version of Finn that sells.
My phone buzzes with a text from Sophie asking if I’m alive.Barely, I want to reply. Instead, I type back that I’m fine, ignore her follow-up questions about the baby, and shove the phone in my purse. Some conversations can’t happen over text.
The ballroom glitterswith warm light and elegant chaos, all champagne flutes and calculated networking. I’m supposed to be seated next to an Apex Hydration VP; instead, I find Finn O’Reilly sliding into the chair beside mine, wearing the kind of smile that says he orchestrated this entire coup.
“Thanks again, man,” Finn says, giving him a friendly clap on the back. “I owe you one.”
The VP chuckles and moves on, leaving Finn to drape his elbow casually over the back of my chair like he belongs there.
“You needed to speak to your PR girl?” I murmur, not looking at him, because if I do, I might unravel right here in front of the arugula.
“Urgently,” he replies, voice still that same velvet mischief, but this time, it hits differently. Warmer. Deeper. Because he knows what he did to me yesterday, and he’s not done.
