Page 5 of Pucked In Vegas (Viva Las… Oh, Sh!t)

The words hang between us, too heavy for this neon-soaked playground where nothing is supposed to matter. His eyes hold mine, stripped of that cocky confidence from the pool earlier.

For a moment, we're just two people, two strangers, completely lost in each other, the club fading to background noise.

I should back away. I should laugh it off. I should remember that nothing good ever comes from men who look at me like I could ruin them.

Instead, I stay frozen, caught in his gaze.

His hand slides to my lower back, pulling me hard against him. The playfulness vanishes as his eyes drop to my lips, his intention crystal clear.

"Tell me to stop," he whispers, his thumb tracing the curve of my hip.

"If you're gonna kiss me, Jax," I breathe, "do it. Before I trip over my own libido."

His lips quirk. "I'm trying to be a gentleman here."

"Well don't be." I press closer, feeling him hard against my stomach. "Be my mistake."

Before he can do it, Keller materializes beside us, another tray of shots in his hand.

"Alright, alright… Drink up, lovebirds!"

Donovan appears on my other side. "Bet you can't outdrink us all, princess."

I arch an eyebrow, accepting his challenge with a smirk. The shots burn less than the first drink, and I slam each empty glass down with theatrical flair, earning whoops from the guys.

Jax watches me with equal parts amusement and concern. When I stumble slightly, his arm snakes around my waist.

"Maybe some water?" he suggests, steering me protectively toward the bar.

I shake my head. "Tonight, water's for cowards."

The music shifts to something slower, heavier with bass. My inhibitions have long since dissolved in vodka and tequila. I stare at Jax's mouth, wanting it on mine with an urgency that surprises even me.

So before we get interrupted again… I take it.

My lips crash against his, hungry and demanding. There’s no hesitation, no pretense. Just fire and hands and heat as we devour each other right there in the middle of the club.

He kisses like he means it. Like he’s starving. Like he’s been waiting his whole damn life to taste me.

We break apart for air and he freezes for a millisecond before returning to my mouth with equal fervor, his hands sliding down to grip my ass, pulling me flush against him.

I tangle my fingers in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan into my mouth.

The kiss is messy, desperate, perfect. We break apart, completely breathless. His forehead rests against mine. I can taste tequila and heat and something dangerously close to wanting more .

And I know it’s the martinis talking.

I know I should stop.

But I won’t. Not tonight.

I lean in, my lips brushing his ear. "Come on. Let's do something stupid."

The club spins as I pull Jax toward the exit, my hand firmly clasped in his. The cool night air hits my face like a slap, sobering me for approximately three seconds before the tequila reclaims control of my motor functions.

"Whoa there." Jax catches me as my ankle wobbles treacherously in my stilettos. "Maybe we should get you back to your apartment?"

I kick off my heels with dramatic flair. "These are weapons of mass destruction."

Jax chuckles, steadying me as I veer off course toward a hot dog cart.

He bends down, collecting my shoes in one hand while wrapping his other arm around my waist, steadying my wobble.

“I’m just saying,” I babble as we stumble past a woman dressed as a feathered showgirl and a man proposing with a vending machine ring, “if I don’t marry someone tonight, this dress is a wasted opportunity.”

“I think after tonight you’re already halfway married to those martinis, sweetheart.”

“ Pfft . The martini and I had a good run, but I need someone who brings more to the table. Like… emotional support. Or a private jet.”

“Setting the bar high, huh?”

“I deserve a pilot , Jax. Or a stripper. Or maybe a dolphin trainer. Actually, that feels right. Dolphins are monogamous, right?”

He laughs, a low, amused rumble that vibrates against my side. “What about a very attractive houseplant?”

I gasp. “Oh my god. That’s it. Something tall. Strong. Thrives under neglect.”

“Sounds familiar.”

We wander down the strip, passing fountains and street performers and people far more sober than I’ll ever be tonight. Jax keeps me upright the whole way, but his arm stays around me, his hand firm on my waist like he doesn’t want to let go.

My body feels like melted glitter. My brain feels like cotton candy on fire.

I stumble to a stop as something catches my eye across the street. A pink-purple glow illuminates a small storefront, the neon sign flickering against the night.

"Oh my god. That place. That's the one." I point dramatically. "That's where Britney got married, right?"

Jax follows my gaze to the chapel. LOVE ME TENDER 24/7 WEDDING CHAPEL glows in bubblegum cursive, complete with a spinning heart and a blinking sign that reads “Free Photos. No Regrets.”

“No regrets ,” I whisper. “That’s so romantic.”

He chuckles. “Cassie—”

“I mean, it makes sense. You’re hot. I’m hot. We’ve already swapped bodily fluids. Why not rings?”

Jax freezes, blinking like I just suggested we rob a casino.

“Marry me, Jax,” I say with a dramatic gasp, flinging my arms wide. “We’ll be legends .”

He looks at me, chest rising with a slow inhale. “You’re insane.”

“I’m iconic. ”

Jax draws a long, deep breath, his eyes darting between me and the chapel like he's calculating the exact mathematical probability of his life imploding.

"Madison is going to kill me..." he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

I freeze mid-twirl, my bare feet slapping against the sidewalk.

"Madison?!" I echo, my stomach dropping faster than my career prospects. "Is that your wife? Because I may be drunk, but I'm not a homewrecker."

His eyes widen. "What? No! God, no." He laughs, shaking his head. "She's my agent."

"Your agent ?" I squint at him suspiciously. "Like, for modeling? Are you secretly a Calvin Klein underwear guy? Because that would explain the abs situation."

"Not exactly." His smile turns cryptic.

I wave my hand dismissively. "Whatever. Not important." I grab his wrist and tug. "What's important is that we have a date with Elvis."

He resists for a moment, then surrenders as I pull him toward the crosswalk.

"This is such a bad idea," he says, but there's a hint of exhilarated terror in his voice that matches the fizzy, reckless energy bubbling in my chest.

"The best stories start with bad ideas." I press the crosswalk button five times for emphasis. "Besides, what happens in Vegas—"

"—ends up on TMZ," he finishes.

"Only if you're important." I poke his chest. "Are you important, Jax-with-the-agent?"

He sighs beside me. "Not yet."

The light changes, and I drag him across the street, my bare feet slapping against the warm asphalt. The chapel's neon glow bathes us in pink as we approach, making Jax look like he's blushing from head to toe.

A tiny, rational corner of my brain—the part that writes professional emails and remembers to floss—is screaming at me to stop.

But that voice is drowned out by the much louder chorus of tequila shots and the electric current that shoots through me every time Jax's fingers brush against mine.