Page 54
Story: Pucking His Enemy
Silence stretches—thick, weighted. Until he asks that question I knew was coming.
“I’m gonna ask you again, did anything happen between you two?”
My heart stops for a beat.
My grip tightens around the phone. The images flash too fast to stop: his hands gripping my hips, the sound he made when he came, the way I couldn’tbreatheafterward.
He doesn’t know I’ve already had Liam Steele inside me. Doesn’t know Ichoseit.
Even if he didn’t know who I was.
“No,” I lie. Flat. Clean. “Of course not.”
The part I can’t say—I was fine before that night.
Before him.
Before I let a stranger touch parts of me no one else ever has, not just my body—but the pieces I keep padlocked behind clinical professionalism.
Now I can’t even look at him without remembering how I came apart in his hands like I was built for it.
So, Liam Steele ruins more than just locker rooms.
Griffin exhales, but it’s not relief. He doesn’t believe me. “Stay away from him, Kat.”
I don’t answer. Just hang up.
Because if I say anything else, I might scream.
Ten minutes later, Riley Stevens appears in my office like some chic, corporate storm cloud. I’m still riding the residual heat of the Griffin argument, still wound tight from lying through my teeth.
“We need to talk,” she says, not waiting for me to agree.
Her voice gives nothing away, but my gut churns anyway. I grab my tablet and follow her down the hall. Whatever this is, it’s big.
She leads me into a conference room.
My heels click, echoing with each step, but it’s not the noise that has my pulse in my throat—it’s the knowledge that something’s waiting behind that door.
And when she opens it, I see exactly what.
Liam.
His eyes meet mine and hold. Hard.
Six foot four of pure temptation in a plain black T-shirt stretched across a chest that should be illegal and dark jeans that clingto thick thighs like they were custom cut. He’s leaning forward, arms braced on the table, forearms flexed, the curve of veins visible beneath tan skin and tattoos I know better than I should.
My breath catches.
His hair’s still damp from the shower—dark, tousled waves that curl slightly at the edges like he towel-dried it in a rush. It’s unfair how effortlessly good he looks, like he just stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad but with the mood of a grudge match.
And then the scent hits me.
Clean skin, soap, and a hint of cedar and spice that clings to him no matter how hard I try to pretend I haven’t memorized it. My stomach tightens. My thighs, too. Because the moment my body remembers, it doesn’t care that my brain is screaming warnings.
He glances up.
Our eyes lock.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 48
- Page 49
- Page 50
- Page 51
- Page 52
- Page 53
- Page 54 (Reading here)
- Page 55
- Page 56
- Page 57
- Page 58
- Page 59
- Page 60
- Page 61
- Page 62
- Page 63
- Page 64
- Page 65
- Page 66
- Page 67
- Page 68
- Page 69
- Page 70
- Page 71
- Page 72
- Page 73
- Page 74
- Page 75
- Page 76
- Page 77
- Page 78
- Page 79
- Page 80
- Page 81
- Page 82
- Page 83
- Page 84
- Page 85
- Page 86
- Page 87
- Page 88
- Page 89
- Page 90
- Page 91
- Page 92
- Page 93
- Page 94
- Page 95
- Page 96
- Page 97
- Page 98
- Page 99
- Page 100
- Page 101
- Page 102
- Page 103
- Page 104
- Page 105
- Page 106
- Page 107
- Page 108
- Page 109
- Page 110
- Page 111
- Page 112
- Page 113
- Page 114
- Page 115
- Page 116
- Page 117
- Page 118
- Page 119
- Page 120
- Page 121
- Page 122
- Page 123
- Page 124
- Page 125
- Page 126
- Page 127