Page 9 of Our Pucking Secret (2-Hour Quickies #4)

Logan

I arrive at Central Park just before sunset, hoping the dark clouds gathering overhead deliver on their promise. Not because I'm usually the kind of guy who wishes for rain, but because I can't stop thinking about how she might look with water darkening her hair, droplets clinging to her lashes...

Christ. I'm turning into a romantic cliché.

The lake stretches out ahead, golden light fighting through the clouds. A few ducks glide past, and I catch myself wondering if Amanda would approve of their diet. Probably not.

When she appears on the path, my carefully constructed story suddenly feels inadequate. She's wearing a blue dress that moves like water, her hair loose around her shoulders. But it's the way she carries herself—confident, amused, slightly wary—that catches in my chest.

"No ducks to rescue?" she calls out, reaching me.

"Night off. Though if I had seen someone feeding them Cheetos, I would have stopped them. "

"My hero." Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "Though you didn't bring an umbrella."

"Hoping for authenticity."

"Hoping to see me soaked, you mean."

The way she says it makes my collar feel tight. "I made reservations at Le Bernardin. Unless you'd prefer hot chocolate?"

"In July?" She steps closer, and I catch the scent of something floral and subtle. "Besides, if you're going to impress me with your billionaire hockey player status, you might as well commit."

"Is that what I'm doing?"

"Isn't it?"

"Maybe I just wanted to see if you cleaned up as well as you tail people."

Her laugh is unexpected and rich. "Keep mocking my surveillance skills, and I might just leave you standing here in the rain."

"It's not raining yet," I point out, just as the first drop hits my cheek.

"You were saying?"

Instead of running for cover, she tilts her face up to the sky, exactly like in my story. But the reality of her—the curve of her throat, the slight smile playing at her lips—is better than anything I imagined.

"We should probably..." I gesture vaguely toward shelter.

"Probably." But she doesn't move. "Scared of a little rain, LaRue?"

"Scared you'll catch a cold and blame me for ruining your vet career."

"Please. I once performed surgery during a tornado."

"Did you really?"

"No. But I like that you believed I would."

The rain picks up, plastering her dress to her curves. I should offer my jacket. Should suggest we run. Should do anything except stand here staring at her like an idiot.

"Your restaurant will give away our reservation," she says softly.

"Let them. "

"Bold move for someone who's just pretending to date me."

"Is that what we're doing?"

Her eyes meet mine, and something electric passes between us. A drop of water trails down her neck, and I have to physically stop myself from tracking it with my finger.

"We should establish our story," she says, but her voice has gone husky. "Remember? For authenticity?"

"Right. Authenticity." I step closer. "Like how you're shivering."

"I'm not—" But she is.

"Like how you're trying to pretend you're not cold because you're too stubborn to admit this was a terrible idea."

"Your idea."

"My terrible idea." I shrug out of my jacket, drape it over her shoulders. "Better?"

"Marginally." But she pulls it closer, and something primitive in my chest purrs at the sight of her in my clothes. "Though now you're the one getting soaked."

"Worth it."

"For the story?"

"For the way you look in my jacket."

Her breath catches. "That's not in the script."

"I'm improvising."

"Dangerous."

"I'm a dangerous guy." At her raised eyebrow, I grin. "You know, hockey. Very violent sport."

"Right. All that puck zooming."

"I thought we agreed to retire that joke."

"No. You’d like that—but I made no promises."

We're standing close now, the rain creating this intimate bubble around us. A strand of wet hair clings to her cheek, and before I can think better of it, I reach out to brush it away. Her skin is warm despite the rain .

"Logan..."

"Tell me something true," I say quietly. "Not for the story. Just... something real."

She studies me for a moment, rain dripping from her lashes. "I'm scared."

"Of getting pneumonia? Because I'd say that's valid—"

"Of this." She gestures between us. "Of how not-fake this is starting to feel."

The honesty hits me like a body check. "Yeah. Me too."

"We shouldn't..."

"Probably not."

"It complicates everything."

"Definitely."

"And you're still not moving away."

"Neither are you."

Her lips part slightly, and I swear I can feel her pulse racing under my fingers, still resting against her cheek. Or maybe it's my own heart hammering so hard she can probably hear it over the rain.

"We should go to dinner," she whispers.

"We should."

"Stop staring at my mouth."

"Make me."

Her hand fists in my wet shirt, but she doesn't pull me closer. Doesn't push me away. Just holds me there, suspended in this moment where everything could change.

"This isn't why I came to find you," she says softly.

"I know."

"We have a plan."

"We do."

"A good plan."

"The best." I trace her jaw with my thumb. "Very logical. Well-researched. "

"Stop making fun of my research."

"I'm not. I'm stalling."

"Why?"

"Because the second I kiss you, everything changes even more. And I want to remember exactly how we got here."

She lets out a shaky breath. "How did we get here?"

"Well, there was this crazy woman following me in a rental car..."

"I take it back. Kiss me now so you'll stop talking."

My laugh gets caught somewhere in my chest, because she's looking at me like... like I'm something real. Something true. Not the hockey star or the LaRue heir or the guy with a perfect media smile. Just me.

"Amanda..."

"I know." Her fingers relax in my shirt, smooth over my chest. "This is a very bad idea."

"The worst."

"It'll mess everything up."

"Probably."

"But you're still going to—"

I kiss her.

The elevator feels too small, too warm. Amanda's shoulder brushes mine with every breath, and I can't stop staring at the water droplets trailing down her neck, disappearing beneath the neckline of her dress.

My jacket still hangs on her shoulders, and something primitive in my chest growls at the sight.

For the first time in my life, I don't care about missing a reservation at Le Bernardin. Food is the last thing on my mind.

She slides the key card home in one smooth motion, and the door opens. When she turns to face me, the look in her eyes sets my blood on fire.

She shrugs off my jacket, letting it pool at her feet.

The sound I make isn't entirely human.

I don’t move at first. Just stand there, looking at her like she’s some kind of fever dream. Her dress is soaked, clinging to every curve like a secret being whispered into my skin. She doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t speak.

She just waits.

And fuck if that doesn’t wreck me more than any words ever could.

I step forward, slowly, like if I move too fast, the moment might vanish. My hands find her hips, and she’s warm under the wet fabric, trembling just slightly—not from cold. From this.

From me.

“You sure?” I ask, voice low.

Her eyes search mine like she’s memorizing something she’ll need to survive later. Then she nods, once. “Logan…”

It’s all I need.

I kiss her like I’ve been starving for years and just found the thing that might save me. Her lips are soft but demanding, her mouth opening for me with a sound that punches through my chest. My hands slide up her sides, feeling the slick press of fabric and the sharp ridge of her ribs.

“Take it off,” she whispers.

“Say it again.”

“Take it off.” Her fingers tangle in my shirt. “I want you.”

I reach for the zipper, slow and deliberate, dragging it down the curve of her back. The fabric slips from her shoulders and pools at her feet, joining my jacket on the floor. She stands there in damp lace and bare skin, chest rising and falling like she’s struggling to breathe.

“You’re…” I shake my head. “I don’t have words for this. ”

“Then don’t talk,” she says, stepping closer. “Touch.”

I do.

My palms glide up her stomach, over her ribs, cupping her breasts through the soaked lace. Her nipples are hard against my thumbs, and when I brush over them, her head falls back with a gasp that makes my cock throb against my zipper.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “You’re perfect.”

“No,” she says, breathless. “Just real.”

She reaches for my shirt, pulls it over my head in one rough movement. Her hands are everywhere—chest, shoulders, dragging down to my belt. She undoes the buckle, pops the button, slides the zipper down with a sound that makes my breath catch.

Then she drops to her knees.

“Amanda…”

“Let me.” Her voice is low, thick with want. “I need to.”

I could tell her no. Should, maybe. But then her hands slide into my boxers, and my cock springs free, hard and aching and already leaking for her. She wraps her fingers around me and looks up through wet lashes.

“You’re killing me.”

The first touch of her mouth is slow, reverent. Her tongue glides along the underside of my cock like she’s tasting me, learning me. Then she sucks me deeper, eyes locked on mine, cheeks hollowing as she moves.

“Shit—Amanda—” My hands find her hair, fingers fisting gently as I try not to lose it too fast. But fuck, she’s good. Hungry. Focused. Like this is hers to claim.

She pulls off with a slick pop, eyes dark. “Bed.”

I help her up, grab her thighs and lift her easily—she gasps, arms winding around my shoulders as I carry her to the bed. Lay her down and step back, just long enough to shed the last of my clothes .

She watches me like I’m something she never expected to want this badly.

I kneel between her legs, hook my fingers in her panties and drag them down. Her thighs part instinctively, hips lifting. She’s glistening. Wet and swollen and so fucking ready.

I lower my mouth. The first flick of my tongue has her gasping.

The second has her swearing. I lick her like I mean it—slow strokes, teasing swirls, then a firm suction right over her clit that makes her curse my name.

Her fingers twist in the sheets, her hips lift against my mouth, and when I slide a finger inside her, she moans so loud I think the whole floor hears.

“That’s it,” I murmur against her. “Give it to me.”

She does.

Her orgasm hits fast—sharp and sudden. Her body clenches around my fingers, thighs shaking, breath ragged. I keep licking her through it, keep coaxing every last twitch until she pushes at my shoulders, laughing breathlessly.

“Logan—fuck—”

“Not done,” I growl.

I crawl up her body, kiss her hard, let her taste herself on my tongue. Her hands scramble at my back, pulling me closer, lining me up.

“No teasing,” she whispers. “I need you inside me.”

I brace on my forearms, cock sliding through her slick heat, not quite in. “This changes everything,” I say.

“I know.” Her eyes hold mine. “Do it anyway.”

I thrust in slow—deep and steady—watching her eyes go wide, her mouth part. She’s tight, so fucking wet, and the way she clenches around me makes my whole body tense.

We move together like we’ve done this a hundred times. Like we should have. Her legs wrap around my waist, nails scraping down my back as I drive deeper. I kiss her neck, her jaw, her lips, swallow the sounds she makes.

“Harder,” she pants.

I give it to her.

The bed rocks beneath us, her moans getting louder, wetter, more desperate. I reach between us, thumb circling her clit, and that’s all it takes.

She comes with a cry, her whole body shaking around me. The heat and tightness drag me with her, and I come with a growl against her neck, hips jerking, filling her with every last drop.

For a long moment, we don’t move. Just breathing. Tangled. Quiet.

She curls into my chest, her fingers tracing slow circles on my ribs.

“This is going to ruin everything,” she whispers.

“Maybe,” I murmur. “Or maybe it’s going to make it better.”