Page 69 of The Pucking Date
Not the one she begged not to stop.
Not the guy who fell asleep with her curled against his chest.
She starts walking our way, an unreadable expression plastered on her face, and my chest constricts. Rage, confusion, lust—they all hit me in the same breath. I bite down hard on the urge to storm across the room, drag her somewhere private, and demand she look me in the eye and say it meant nothing.
“Merch showcase in fifteen,” she snaps, cool and clinical, as if she didn’t spend last night clawing at my back.
Wes gives a low whistle. “Yes, ma’am.”
Jessica doesn’t even blink. “Save it for the cameras, Cain.”
She turns on her heel, dismissing us—dismissingme. Does she think that’s the end of it?
Not a chance in hell.
I catch her wrist, not rough, but firm enough to remind her exactly who she was writhing under last night.
“Red,” I murmur, voice low and dark. “We’re not doing this again.”
She stops. Slowly turns. Her gaze flicks to where myfingers are wrapped around her skin, but she doesn’t pull away.
When her gaze lifts to mine, it’s stripped of all emotion. “Doing what?”
“Pretending you didn’t fall apart in my arms.”
Her eyes flash, her throat works, but her expression stays locked down. “Last night was a lapse in judgment,” she hisses under her breath, her words biting, informing me of a conclusion she’d apparently come to in the dark hours before dawn. “It won’t happen again.”
I step closer, my composure slipping. Close enough for her perfume to mess with my head, close enough that I hear the breath she doesn’t mean to hold.
“You can tell yourself whatever you need to, Red. But we both know…” I let it draw out slow. “You’re so fuckingmine.”
Her eyes blaze—anger, denial, need—it’s all there, pulsing beneath the surface.
“You think last night changed things between us?” she mutters under her breath. Chin high. Voice strained to match it.
I lean in, my mouth barely shy of her ear.
“No,” I murmur, heat curling around the word. “But it sure as hell reminded you of who you belong to.”
Her pulse jumps; I feel it beneath my hand. Her lips part, whether to argue, deny, or beg, I don’t know. Because before she can say a word, Chad’s voice cuts in.
“Jessica.”
I release her wrist, never breaking eye contact as she steps back, adjusting her blazer, thinking her poise is worth a damn against me. She turns toward him, professional mask back in place. He’s tailored perfection, hands in his pockets, owning the air.
“Chad.” Jessica straightens, cool and professional.
My pulse pounds in my temple.
“Quick word about the Summit Sportswear campaign?” he asks, eyes sliding from her to me and back again. “We’ve also got the Nike rep waiting.”
He nods at me, then leads her away, his hand hovering just shy of her lower back. Close enough to mark territory. Far enough that Jessica doesn’t notice.
My fists clench, muscles coiled, stance instinctive. I not only want to snap him in half, I know exactly how I’d do it. The blood pounds in my ears, the pulse of rage syncing with muscle memory.
Breathe. Hold.
A hand lands on my chest. “Easy, killer,” Wes mutters, sliding in front of me before I do something that tanks my entire career. His tone’s casual, but his eyes are cutting and focused. He seems to sense how close I am to losing it. “Drop him here, and you’ll be signing jerseys in Siberia by next week.”
