Page 3 of My Puckin' Luck
I smile sweetly and nod, grateful for the excuse to get away. No sense stopping at the kitchen for bottles. I’ll march right out the door and arrange an Uber home. I’ll send Bryce a text later to break up. Normally, I don’t like breaking up by text, but these days it’s become the norm.
Of course, my eyes scan back to the spot I last saw Saint. One more chance to take him all in, only I don’t see him anywhere.
The house is as crowded with party-goers as the pool patio was, and it takes me a few minutes to part the ways through the couples dancing and talking or making out. It’s a shame a wild party of this magnitude mars his beautiful home. When I reach the door, my phone buzzes, and I cringe in case it’s Bryce, but it isn’t.
Saint: Don’t go. Come find me. Last door on the left down the hall. Take the stairs to the roof.
I peer all around me, not seeing Saint anywhere in sight. My throat works at the offer of his words on the screen. A third proposition from him.
I recall the first time, under the moonlight with too much champagne and the salty sea air, on board a yacht at the wedding of our friends Tucker and Whitney. On the overnight adventure, I couldn’t sleep and had found Saint on the deck. I had joked we should take advantage of the situation and pair off, have a little fun as the only two singles on board. He took me seriously. Even now, recalling the words he whispered into my ear sends a thrill down my spine.
“Yes, I want to fuck you, Anastasia. But I’ll make you come three times first, earning my hat trick in bed, before I slide my cock so deep into you. I guarantee for one night I’ll take you places no man has.”
He leaves me, my chest heaving from his proposition and my cheeks blush red. Then he calls out behind him. “I’m in cabin four. Knock three times when you’re ready, angel.”
Why didn’t I take a chance and go to Saint’s cabin that night? Talk about regrets. To caress his muscles alone would have been worth it.
What might have happened between us if I’d have knocked like he suggested? I’ll never know, because I chickened out, and I could kick myself now for missing out on a good time with him. Even though it would never have led to anything more.
Despite his offer for sex on the yacht, I doubt he would ever care to be seen with me in public afterwards. I’m not his stick-skinny model type. Yes, I stalk his social media, constantly amazed at the string of women he’s photographed with.
Forget Saint. He’s anything but. He’s a blue-eyed devil, and while one night in his arms would be wild, I know better than to get involved with the likes of him.
My hand reaches out to the front door handle, an ornate piece of ironwork attached to an arched solid wood door, when another text comes in.
Saint: I could really use someone to talk to tonight.
My heartstrings constrict.
Anastasia: There are plenty of bunnies here who would probably listen.
No doubt while they suck his?—
Saint: I don’t want them. I want to talk with you.
I swallow hard again. What if he really does need someone to talk to? A roofline with someone drinking can’t be good. If I wake up tomorrow and see a news report that he’d jumped, I’d feel awful, guilty as sin.
I walk down the hall, unable to stop myself, and I give in to the tempting ways of Saint. But we’re only talking. That’s it.
3
ROOFING
SAINT
Anastasia showsup for me like I hoped she would. Her head peeks through the glass trap door resembling a large porthole that swings up wide from the floor. But she must be so stunned at finding me here she loses her grip and the door knocks her in the head.
“Ow!” she exclaims, her palm massaging her scalp from the hit.
“Shit, sorry about that. Here, take my hand.” I jump up to aid her entry. She slips her hand in mine. Sparks ignite up my arm like it’s the middle of summer fireworks, only it’s mid fall. The touch of her could inflame me into a bonfire.
We’ve never touched before now, unless you count the night Big D and I had to best-friend-sit her in Alberta. She and Misty had flown up for our game, with the sole purpose of infuriating Misty’s ex, who played for the Alberta Stampede. They’d held up funny posters that said things like,Storm’s stick is bigger than yours.It revved up a huge fight, ending in Storm kicking her ex’s ass for the things he did to her.
Then Storm got word he was traded up to the pros with the Denver team and had to fly out that very night. Misty went withhim, begging me and Big D to keep our eyes on Anastasia until her flight out in the morning.
You bet I kept my eyes on her. All of her. Every luscious inch. But there was that warning again from Storm before he left, not to fuck Misty’s friend.
All night at the hotel bar, we traded war stories about dating in L.A., laughing about it all, like it was pure therapeutic medicine. She sat between Big D and me, my chair closer to hers than his. Our knees and elbows brushed frequently. When I walked her to her hotel room later, I simply suggested that she keep the party going with me.
