Page 61 of The Pucking Date
My skin prickles. Not only from the sound of him, but the memory of his mouth, the ache between my legs, the wet heat I still haven’t shaken. And now I have to sit here, make polite conversation over asparagus, and pretend I’m not one look away from detonation.
“About what?”
“Seating arrangements. And how good you look tonight.”
I stab a piece of fish, trying to convince my stomach it’s up for the challenge. It’s not.
“No iPad tonight. I almost didn’t recognize you without your battle gear.”
I arch a brow. “Is this you flirting?” I deadpan, trying to pull air into my lungs. “Because it sounds a lot like harassment.”
“You’ll know when I’m flirting,” he rumbles, his tone rough silk, and I hate how fast my nipples tighten in response. I shift in my seat, fighting the urge to cross my legs, to press down against the low throb still pulsing there.
“And this isn’t?”
He leans in, making me forget the room exists. “Not yet.”
He’s all swagger and cheek and quiet promise, and now the ballroom feels too small, too hot, too full of air I can’t quite breathe. I sip my water and remind myself I’ve gone head-to-head with league lawyers and media execs. I can handle one hockey player with too much charm and a memory like a steel trap.
“You know, it’s a miracle I get to sit next to you tonight,” he murmurs.
“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Your dad’s got perimeter security tighter than the Pentagon. I so much as glance your way, and I swear there’s a red dot between my eyes.” He smirks playfully.
I try not to smile. Fail. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I?” His mouth curves. “He practically waterboarded Liam when he started dating Sophie.”
“Well, Liam’s still alive. And he’s been over for Sunday dinner. He’s fine.”
I stop myself before I addyou could be too. What am I doing? Offering a seat at my family table like some kind of perk?
He catches the shift in my face.
“Then sign me up for Sunday roast and medieval torture, darlin’. I’ve survived worse for far less.” He leans back, grinning and diffusing the moment. “You’re worth whatever your father can dish out.”
I roll my eyes, but I know it does nothing to hide the blush creeping up my throat.
“Flattery and enhanced interrogation techniques. You really know how to woo a girl.”
He smiles, but there’s something behind it, like he means every word. And that’s the part that undoes me. The part I don’t know how to brace for. He’s silent for a beat, sipping his drink, eyes locked on me. “You clean up nice, Red.”
“I always do.”
“And modest, too.” That devastating smile spreads over his lips. “I was hoping to catch you after the skate panel today.” His voice dips low. “Grab a coffee. But you vanished.”
“Coffee?” The word comes out sharper than intended. “It’s always coffee with you.”
He tilts his head, that maddening smirk playing at his lips. “And what’s wrong with coffee, exactly?”
“It’s safe,” I shoot back. “No expectations. No risk. Enough to say you made an effort without actuallydoingmuch.”
His smile shifts, less play, more precision.
“Is that what you think happened in Montreal?” His tone drops to that dangerous register that makes my pulse stutter. “Because I remember a night that ended with you riding my cock and leaving claw marks down my back.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, fire rushing straight to my core as the memory crashes over me.
