Page 19 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

She doesn’t answer. Just turns toward the elevator. I grab my black carry-on and trail after her. We step off the elevator together and turn the same direction down the hall. She glances at the number on her keycard, then the door ahead.

Mine’s right next to it.

She pauses. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

I hold up my card. “What can I say? The universe loves a good setup.”

She exhales—sharp, annoyed, but not nearly as cold as she wants it to be. “Try not to cause a scandal in the hallway.”

“No promises,” I say, dragging my suitcase past her. “Especially if you keep wearing heels like that.”

She ignores me. Disappears into her room with another eye roll and a flick of that perfect hair.

I tap my keycard, still grinning, still thinking about the curve of her mouth when she’s trying not to smile.

The door clicks shut behind me, and I drop my luggage inside, ignoring it as I flop onto the bed with a low groan.

The room’s nice—neutral tones, five-star everything, mountain views, and overpriced bottled water—but none of it registers.

Because all I can think about is what’s right on the other side of that wall.

Jessica Novak.

Two steps to the left. Maybe three. Same floor. Same hall. Same damn gravitational pull I’ve been white-knuckling for months.

Next. Fucking. Door.

I drag a hand over my face, then through my hair, like that’ll do anything to settle the storm under my skin.

This trip was supposed to be clean. Press, sponsors, deals. All eyes on me. And I’ve been doing the work—PR-safe interviews, sponsor-ready charm, staying out of headlines and away from temptation .

But the universe apparently thinks it’s hilarious.

Because now Jessica’s near enough that I can hear the low rumble of her suitcase wheels. The quiet knock of her heels across hardwood. The sound of her voice through the wall if I listen hard enough.

And I’m supposed to stay focused?

Yeah. Right.

Having her next door is torture. A test of every ounce of self-control I’ve ever possessed. Because I want her—not just for a night, not just for the thrill. I want her in ways that should terrify me.

I sigh again, the kind that scrapes out of my chest, and finally push myself upright.

Unpack. Distract. Do something useful.

I drag the suitcase over and unzip it, barely paying attention. But the second I flip the lid open, I realize something.

This isn’t mine.

Because the first thing staring up at me?

A scrap of red lace so delicate, so sinfully precise, it could pass for ribbon—if it weren’t so clearly designed to be slipped off with intent.

I reach for it before my brain catches up, fingers tangling in the delicate fabric. That’s when I actually look at the suitcase, really look. It’s obviously the wrong one. Subtle at first, different folds, a glint of rose gold hardware on the inside zipper.

But I can’t help myself. I nudge the panty aside and examine the rest.

There’s a black bra—sleek, sheer. Structured to seduce, designed to hold nothing back.

Next to it, a silk camisole in soft ivory, edged in lace so exquisite it looks hand-spun.

Nestled in the corner, a bottle of perfume—clean lines, amber glass, minimalist and expensive.

I uncap it. One breath, and I’m gone. It’s her.

That scent. Haunting the hallway. Lingering on the plane. Etched into my fucking nervous system.

This is Jessica’s suitcase.

I glance down again.

There’s a folded navy suit—tailored, sharp, pure Novak. Beneath it, a cream blouse still holding its press and a sleek jewelry case tucked beside a zippered bag of cosmetics. But it’s what’s underneath that stops me cold.

My number seventeen T-shirt. Heather gray, soft from wear. The one she wore on Fire Island like a challenge, like her bare legs and that cocky smirk weren’t already undoing me. The one she never returned.

She packed it. Which means she sleeps in it—my number, my scent, wrapped around her skin in the dark. The thought of her curled up in something that belongs to me makes my chest tight and my blood burn.

And just as I try to pull it together?—

I spot what’s tucked beneath it.

Matte black. Sleek. Compact.

I freeze. Then reach in, fingers closing around it. Smooth, cool silicone and weighty in my palm. High-end. Rechargeable.

My grip tightens. Blood floods south.

This is a woman who knows exactly what she wants.

And now I can’t stop imagining it—her on that hotel bed, sheets pushed down, legs and lips parted, back arching. The way she’d sound. The way she’d tremble. The way she’d reach for something familiar to get her there.

My T-shirt.

This.

Me.

I swallow hard, tucking it under the silk and scent and sharp edges of the woman who is completely, utterly undoing me. I step away, breath low and tight in my chest, still holding the red lace and my T-shirt.

Then I hear the knock.

Sharp. Impatient.

When I open the door, she’s standing there in the hallway, black suitcase in hand, expression hard like she’s about to file a formal complaint.

“I think there was a mix-up,” she starts, tight and clipped. “This one has your warm-up top inside—number seventeen.”

Right. The Defenders-branded crewneck Marcus insisted I toss into my bag just in case. A marketing thing, looking on-brand for media ops.

Her gaze flicks past me to the open suitcase on the floor behind me. To the tangle of lace and silk I didn’t bother to hide.

Her eyes snap to me. Narrow. Flash sharp.

Then they drop.

To my hand, holding my T-shirt. A worn, gray confession she never meant to share.

The red lace hangs beneath it. A trophy.

Her whole face changes. Color surges. Mouth sets.

I tuck the shirt into my back pocket and lift the panties higher, just out of reach, pinched between two fingers like a ribbon I’m not done playing with.

She lunges for it—too fast, too desperate—and those killer heels betray her. She pitches forward. Her palms land against my chest, breath catching as her body collides with mine. She freezes, her breath grazing my throat, her scent curling around me in a slow, dangerous fog.

One second.

Two .

Her gaze lifts.

Big green eyes, furious and flustered, blazing with heat she’s not ready to name. Cheeks flushed. Lips parted.

I lower the lace slowly and drape it over her shoulder. My fingers graze her neck, feeling her shiver.

“Is this what you packed for sponsor meetings, Red?” I murmur, voice low against her ear. “Or was this meant for me?”

Her breath stutters. The beat of her heart pounds through both of us. My hand slips to her hip. Barely there. But it roots her.

She doesn’t move.

“Give it back, O’Reilly,” she whispers, her voice in shreds. Her fingers are still knotted in my shirt like she doesn’t know whether to shove or hold on.

I lean in, brush my mouth along the edge of her cheek.

“I don’t think you’re in a position to negotiate.” My voice is a rough purr.

She swallows. I feel it—tight and slow—against the base of my neck.

She’s going to kiss me.

Or slap me.

Or both.

And Jesus, either one will have me on my knees.

But instead, she steps forward and tries to grab the lace from my shoulder.

I catch her wrist. Not hard. But it stops her. My fingers slide down, slow and sure, and I pluck the red lace back into my palm.

She glares.

I smile.

“Not negotiating,” I croon .

She opens her mouth. Shuts it again. She’s flustered, furious, breathing uneven, cheeks flushed.

“You’re not keeping that,” she snaps, but her voice wavers. Then she lunges again.

I retreat, slow, controlled, eyes never leaving hers. Not far. But enough to make her decide how badly she wants to erase the space between us.

She freezes, chest heaving. The air between us crackles with electricity.

Instead of advancing, she watches, tense and trembling, as I move past her, deliberately letting my body brush hers. She gasps at the contact.

I crouch down, taking my time zipping up her suitcase, knowing she’s following every movement of my hands. When I rise, I’m near enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin.

“Oh,” I add, voice dropping to gravel, eyes burning into hers. “Next time you pack a toy, maybe leave room for the real thing?”

Her mouth parts, breath coming in shallow pants. No sound comes out. Just a visible clench of her thighs, her body showing me how far gone she is.

I let her have the suitcase.

But not the lace.

Her fingers curl around the handle, knuckles white, but her eyes stay locked on mine—wild, wanting, waiting.

I twirl the red lace around my finger, then slide it slowly into my back pocket. “This one’s staying with me.”

“Enjoy it,” she breathes, voice rough with need she can’t hide. “That’s as close as you’ll get.”

A challenge dressed up as dismissal. She thinks I’ll back off. She thinks I’ll smirk and step away.

But tonight, I’m not that guy .

I take her in: flushed cheeks, rapid breath, the tremble she’s trying to hide in her fingers. She’s provoking me. Testing how far I’ll go.

And I’ve been patient long enough. Now I’m done playing.

“You sure about that?” I growl, stepping in until there’s not a breath left between us.

She lifts her chin, defiant even as her pulse hammers visibly at her throat. “Positive.”

The challenge in her voice, the way she’s practically daring me to prove her wrong,

It’s gasoline on a fire that’s been burning for months.

“Wrong answer, Red.”

I catch her wrist, pull her flush against me, and crush my mouth to hers. The kiss is desire and hunger and pure fucking ruin. Months of denial detonate in a single heartbeat.

A sound breaks out of me, deep and guttural, because she’s not just hot.

She’s a goddamn wildfire. And I want to burn.

Her hands hit my chest in surprise, maybe to push me back. But they don’t. They clutch. Curl. Fist into my shirt like she needs something to hang on to.

Then she’s reaching, fingertips grazing skin, nails scraping up my spine, dragging me deeper into the inferno. Her touch is scorching, burning through my skin, until I feel it in the pit of my stomach.

She whimpers against my mouth—low, wrecked, desperate—and it undoes me. She’s not fighting this. She’s feeding it.

Feeding me.

And I take it.

My hand slides up her back, tangling in her hair, tilting her head until I can taste the yes she’s too stubborn to say out loud.

Her lips part. Her breath hitches. And I can’t stop anymore. I need a taste of her. I need it like my next breath.

“Are you soakin’ for me, darlin’?” Gravel rasps my voice as my fingers slide under her silk dress, up her leg, to the inside of her thigh, feeling the heat and wetness.

My other hand dips to the heavy weight of her breast, brushing my thumb over her hard nub in soft, small circles that pull a wrecked moan from her.

“More. I need more.”

She winds her arms around my neck, kissing me back with ferocity, licking into my mouth as if staking her claim. There are only her lips, her tongue, her hands, and the all-consuming need between us, the world drowned out around us.

My hand is caressing the nape of her neck, sliding it into her hair and tugging. “You’re so damned beautiful, Red. There’s no one like you.”

She pulls my shirt free from my pants. “Off,” she demands, yanking on it. I grin against her skin, and let her go only long enough for the shirt to hit the floor. She splays her hands on my chest, then leans back and looks at me, her eyes sparkling in appreciation.

“You are…” Her eyes lock with mine as her hands trace the dips along my abs.

“All yours, darlin’.” My dick is desperately hard and throbbing, my mouth is watering, and I can’t hold back any longer.

I unbutton her dress, swipe her red lace bra to the side, duck my head, and take her hard nipple into my mouth, feeling her nails digging into my shoulders.

The fingers of my other hand are playing in her core, her needy whimpers skittering across my skin .

“You are so fucking wet, Red.”

And then I slide to my knees, lifting the dress up and pushing her panties down. More red lace, soaked with her juices. When I look up at her, I see her chest rising, her breasts exposed from my touch. She’s fucking breathtaking.

“I’m really hungry for you,” I snarl. “Now be a good girl and let me eat you.”

Without waiting for her answer, I lift her leg over my shoulder and bury my face in her pussy. The first long lick I’ve been craving for weeks is dizzying.

“You taste sweet, sugar,” I purr, swiping my tongue up and down her opening, feeling her pulse around my tongue. Her legs are shaking, but my hands are holding her in place.

“Finn, fuck,” she sobs, shamelessly grinding her hips in my face, wild and unfiltered. “I need you, Finn, please.” Groaning, I continue eating her, inserting a finger into her soaked center, then another.

Her moans echo off the walls. Again and again, she rocks her hips against my face, setting the rhythm, chasing her high, the orgasm I can almost taste on my tongue. She holds onto my head, pulling on me desperately, while my hands are firmly planted on her hips.

I find her clit and bite, letting my teeth skate across the top of it. Her back arches, pressing herself further against my mouth. Her breath is laboring as her clit starts to pulsate.

“Oh,” she moans, her fingers gripping my hair, pulling me closer.

“Don’t shy away from me now, darlin’,” I rumble, twisting my fingers inside her. “Let go, sugar, I got you.” And then her body begins to shake, her climax careening through her, while I continue to lick her, allowing her to ride the wave as long as possible .

Snarling, I manage to finally pull away, sucking air into my lungs and standing up. Gently, I kiss her breasts, then carefully adjust her bra and button up her dress.

Her eyes are wild, glassy, stunned. Then she closes them, taking a deep breath and leaning against the door. Her lips are kiss-bruised, breath unsteady. I lick my glistening fingers, her arousal sweet against my tongue.

And then I step back, wanting to see her freshly fucked and unraveled.

“To be continued,” I rasp out. Her eyes flutter open—dazed, desperate, completely undone.

I pick up her panties from the floor and put them in my pocket. I earned them. Then I press my T-shirt, the number seventeen, into her hand, along with the lace I found in her suitcase.

“Wear my shirt while you play with your toy, darlin’,” I whisper into her ear, my breath hot and heavy, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “And know that I’m right next door. Your panties wrapped around my cock, covered in my come.”

She stares, breathless, cheeks flushed, eyes wide.

Then I give her another bruising kiss, step back, open the door, and let her walk away on shaky legs.

She clutches her suitcase like a lifeline, but her composure lies in ruins at my feet. And we both know there is no turning back.