Page 62 of The Pucking Date
“You said it wasn’t a date,” he murmurs. “But, darlin’...it had all the pieces. The lookin’. The laughin’. The fuckin’.”
His gaze lingers, hot and unrushed, letting me feel every second of it. I swallow hard as a lightning bolt shoots down my spine. My skin prickles, remembering the scrape of his stubble on my thighs, the weight of his body pressing mine into the wall, into the mattress.
My breasts are already sore—achy and swollen fromhormones—and the way his gaze drags over me is torture. My nipples tighten beneath the silk of my dress, hypersensitive to every shift, every breath. He hasn’t even touched me, and I’m already wrecked, burning and straining and one well-placed whisper away from unraveling.
It’s more than desire now; it’s the crushing weight of secrets, of knowing that everything he thinks he wants from me comes with consequences he can’t imagine.
The truth burns in my throat; he needs to know about the baby. But right now he’s looking at me like I’m his entire universe, and I can’t bear to watch that change.
“If what you want is a real date,” he drawls, voice low, steady, “one where I actually get to know what’s underneath that armor...I’ll keep showing up. Because you keep shutting me down. But I’m not giving up. I’ll figure out what will make you trust me.”
The way he says it—suggestive, playful, full of intent—makes my skin flush all over again. I hate that he’s so good at this. I can’t tell if it’s real or just part of his usual game.
Then his fingers graze mine. A light touch. But every nerve lights up. He leans in, voice rougher now, intimate. “You know what’s funny? I finally got you alone in Montreal...and you sneaked out while I was still sleeping.”
The hit is soft, but it lands deep.
I look away. “I had a flight.”
He chuckles, low and slow. “Yeah. Right after I made you come all night long.”
I stab at my asparagus. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Too late,” he drawls, that Southern grin flashing. “You do that for me.”
I pull back slightly, needing air, needing space. He looks at me like he still wants all of me, and not just the skin. That’s what scares me most.
“Some of us don’t get to show up, score, and skate away.”
“Ouch.”
“Truth.”
“Fair.” His gaze slides over me, weighing the risk. Then, lighter, but no less pointed, “Still. You avoided me again today.”
I shrug, aiming for casual. “Meetings. Panels. Herding rookies.”
He doesn’t buy it. “But no coffee breaks?”
His tone shifts, quieter now. Not quite teasing. Like he’s noticed the space I’ve been keeping.
“Not a single one,” I reply, sipping my water, trying to hide the mess in my eyes. “A girl’s got standards.”
His lips curve, slower this time. Intentional.
“Good,” he murmurs, low and sure. “Because I’m not offering coffee anymore.” A beat. His eyes darken, heat curling in the air between us. “Next time I ask...it’ll be a real date. With all the toppings. And this time, Novak, you’d better say yes.”
Before I can answer—or deflect—a voice slices through the air behind me.
“Jessica. O’Reilly.”
Chad Vanderbilt appears like a bad omen, all tailored perfection and predatory charm. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Apex is finalizing athlete profiles, and Under Armour’s still on the fence. Maybe we could discuss projections tomorrow? Over dinner?”
I feel Finn tense beside me, coiled and ready. “I’ll check my schedule,” I say smoothly.
Chad nods and retreats, satisfied he’s made his point. The moment he’s gone, Finn’s on his feet, fingers threading through mine with quiet authority.
“Dance with me,” he says, fire in his gaze.
