Page 64 of The Pucking Date
“Liar.”
He laughs—low and dangerous—then spins me out. A tease before he drags me back with enough force to make my pulse spike. My heart slams against my ribs.
This isn’t for show.
This is a claim.
He guides me through a sequence I somehow know how to follow—a turn, a dip, his hand sliding down my spine as he pulls me back up. When the beat builds toward the chorus, he steps back, giving himself space.
That’s when he really lets loose.
His shoulders isolate, popping to the beat while his feet slide in sharp, clean lines across the floor. A quick shuffle-step that flows into body rolls so fluid they look like water inmotion. He’s not showing off, he’s performing. For me. Because of me.
The chorus hits, and he reaches for me again, pulling me into his rhythm. This time when we move together, it’s synchronized—his hand on my lower back, guiding my hips to match his movement.
“Jesus,” I hear someone behind us. “Where the hell did he learn to move like that?”
He spins me again, but this time when I come back, he’s closer than before. His thigh slides between mine, the friction making my pulse spike. His mouth is at my ear when he speaks.
“You feel that?” His words are barely audible over the music. “That’s what you do to me. Every damn day.”
He spins me again, and this time, when I fall back into his arms, I’m close to surrender. And he knows it.
“Still pretending you don’t want me?” His lips brush against my ear, electricity zipping down my spine.
“I’m tolerating you,” I manage, breathless.
“Uh-huh.” His smirk tilts. Dark. Possessive. Patient.
For a split second, I thinkmaybe. Once more. To feel it again—his hands on my skin, his mouth on mine. The way he made me feel not just wanted butclaimed.
The song ends, but he doesn’t release me. His hand stays firm at my back, possessive and sure. I’m carrying his child, falling for his charm, and completely at his mercy. The question isn’t whether I’m his; I already am. The question is what happens when he finds out exactly what that means.
The night air is cool,but I’m still flushed. From the dance. From him.
“That was bold,” I say, arms crossing defiantly. On instinct.
“Calculated,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “You think I came to Park City to play it safe?”
“And the payoff?”
His gaze darkens. “You tell me.”
Silence folds around us. He leans against the railing, his sleeve brushing mine, voice light but threaded with something sharper. “You know, Red, if you were trying to get as far from me as humanly possible, you damn near nailed it with Shanghai. You couldn’t have picked somewhere closer than, I don’t know...Nova Scotia? Or, hell, Staten Island?”
I huff a laugh before I can stop it. “It wasn’t about you.” I roll my eyes. “It was a planned trip to brush up on my Chinese.”
He leans in slightly, his tone dipping into something smoother. “Mm. Gotta love a woman who runs halfway to the moon just to conjugate verbs. But don’t worry,” he says, easy and unbothered, except I can feel the tension under the surface. “I get it. I’m a lot. Especially when I’m performing that good.”
The cocky smile he throws me is pure Finn, but something flickers beneath it, a jab that lands with precision. Not angry. Not bitter. Honest, teasing, sharp. He reaches for my hand and tips my chin up with the knuckles of his other hand, gaze steady. “You can run as far as you want. Just means I get to enjoy chasing you.”
The words are a spark in dry grass—sudden, hot, blazing.
“Finn—” I start, breath catching, the confession rising to the back of my throat.This is it.I should tell him. Right now. Before it gets harder. Before I lose my nerve. Before this becomes something we can’t recover from.
But I don’t get the chance.
Because the second his name leaves my lips, he’s leaning in, threading a hand through my hair, and claiming my mouth.
