Page 21 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

Chad Vanderbilt appears like a bad omen, all tailored perfection and predatory charm. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Apex is finalizing athlete profiles, and Under Armour’s still on the fence. Maybe we could discuss projections tomorrow? Over dinner?”

I feel Finn tense beside me, coiled and ready. “I’ll check my schedule,” I say smoothly.

Chad nods and retreats, satisfied he’s made his point. The moment he’s gone, Finn’s on his feet, fingers threading through mine with quiet authority.

“Dance with me,” he says, fire in his gaze .

“Finn—”

“I should’ve never let it get that far,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.

My pulse trips. “Pardon?”

His gaze snaps to mine. His mouth curves, but there’s no playfulness in it now.

“I never should’ve let him slide in and stake a claim on you. Watching you with him? Letting him touch you, hurt you...” His jaw flexes. “ That was fucking torture.”

He steps closer, his hand tightening in mine.

“Now give me five minutes,” he smirks playfully, back in his element, “to erase him.”

He leads me through the crowd with that lethal mix of charm and command, fielding glances and half gestures without missing a step.

A brand rep starts to open his mouth; Finn shuts it down with a look that says later . Another tries to intercept; Finn’s hand tightens around mine, guiding me past. Someone stops to compliment his panel performance.

“Appreciate it,” he says smoothly, not slowing. “We’ll talk after.”

He’s got tunnel vision now. And I’m in the center of it.

We pass a group of rookies near the drink station. One of them nudges another. I hear the question—Is that Jessica Novak?—followed by a look between them.

I try not to notice. Try not to feel how everyone’s watching us.

Even in a room full of people, he’s magnetic as hell.

In his open collar and suit jacket paired with a charismatic grin, he looks like devil dressed up for a wedding.

I really should’ve worn blinders. And now that magnetic pull is aimed entirely at me.

He stops at the edge of the dance floor and turns to face me, his fingers still laced through mine. The faintest pressure, not quite a demand, but definitely not a request.

“You know,” he says, gaze glinting under the warm lights, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted to dance with me.”

“I don’t,” I lie. But I’m smiling, grateful for the lightness he’s offering.

He spins me. It’s smooth. Effortless. I land against his chest, breath catching, the warmth of his palm skating up the small of my back, not tentative, not testing. Claiming. He remembers exactly how I feel in his arms, and he’s here to prove I haven’t forgotten it.

The truth sits heavy in my chest—our baby, growing, while he spins me around a dance floor, oblivious to how everything’s about to change. But watching him move, seeing the way he looks at me like I’m his whole world, I’m terrified that telling him will make this magic disappear.

The opening beat of “Baby One More Time” pulses through the speakers—slow, sultry, instantly recognizable. The entire room shifts with it, as if someone dimmed the lights just a little. Eyes flick our way, but Finn doesn’t notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.

He moves with dangerous calm, hips rolling into the rhythm. Slow. Sexy. He’s not dancing for the room. He’s dancing for me. Every movement is a promise. Every step is a dare. His hand lingers at my waist, the brush of his fingers enough to make my breath hitch.

He spins me—once, then twice—and pulls me back in with that same maddening control. He knows what I’m going to do before I do it. He’s not chasing me anymore...he’s waiting for me to stop pretending.

I haven’t danced like this since the rink in Montreal when we played, when I let him in. When he touched me, and I came undone in a thousand perfect ways. I told myself it was a clean break. I needed distance. But I haven’t stopped thinking about him since.

In Shanghai, I sat through Mandarin drills and translation labs with the memory of him stuck in my head.

I played that night on repeat—his hands, his mouth, the way he made me forget myself.

Every time my phone lit up, I flinched. Hoping.

Dreading. His last message sat on read like a dare: Tell me you didn’t run because of me.

I almost answered. More than once.

I even asked Sophie—too casually—if she’d seen him. If he was still in New York. Still...him.

It didn’t help.

Nothing did.

And now he’s here, body pressed to mine, sin wrapped in memory. And my body remembers.

He leans in at the chorus, his breath warm at my ear.

“Still not flirtin’,” he murmurs, words rough velvet.

“Liar.”

He laughs—low and dangerous—then spins me out. A tease before he drags me back with enough force to make my pulse spike. My heart slams against my ribs.

This isn’t for show.

This is a claim.

He guides me through a sequence I somehow know how to follow—a turn, a dip, his hand sliding down my spine as he pulls me back up. When the beat builds toward the chorus, he steps back, giving himself space.

That’s when he really lets loose.

His shoulders isolate, popping to the beat while his feet slide in sharp, clean lines across the floor. A quick shuffle-step that flows into body rolls so fluid they look like water in motion. He’s not showing off, he’s performing. For me. Because of me.

The chorus hits, and he reaches for me again, pulling me into his rhythm. This time when we move together, it’s synchronized—his hand on my lower back, guiding my hips to match his movement.

“Jesus,” I hear someone behind us. “Where the hell did he learn to move like that?”

He spins me again, but this time when I come back, he’s closer than before. His thigh slides between mine, the friction making my pulse spike. His mouth is at my ear when he speaks.

“You feel that?” His words are barely audible over the music. “That’s what you do to me. Every damn day.”

He spins me again, and this time, when I fall back into his arms, I’m close to surrender. And he knows it.

“Still pretending you don’t want me?” His lips brush against my ear, electricity zipping down my spine.

“I’m tolerating you,” I manage, breathless.

“Uh-huh.” His smirk tilts. Dark. Possessive. Patient.

For a split second, I think maybe . Once more. To feel it again—his hands on my skin, his mouth on mine. The way he made me feel not just wanted but claimed .

The song ends, but he doesn’t release me. His hand stays firm at my back, possessive and sure. I’m carrying his child, falling for his charm, and completely at his mercy. The question isn’t whether I’m his; I already am. The question is what happens when he finds out exactly what that means.

The night air is cool, but I’m still flushed. From the dance. From him .

“That was bold,” I say, arms crossing defiantly. On instinct.

“Calculated,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “You think I came to Park City to play it safe?”

“And the payoff?”

His gaze darkens. “You tell me.”

Silence folds around us. He leans against the railing, his sleeve brushing mine, voice light but threaded with something sharper.

“You know, Red, if you were trying to get as far from me as humanly possible, you damn near nailed it with Shanghai. You couldn’t have picked somewhere closer than, I don’t know.

..Nova Scotia? Or, hell, Staten Island?”

I huff a laugh before I can stop it. “It wasn’t about you.” I roll my eyes. “It was a planned trip to brush up on my Chinese.”

He leans in slightly, his tone dipping into something smoother.

“Mm. Gotta love a woman who runs halfway to the moon just to conjugate verbs. But don’t worry,” he says, easy and unbothered, except I can feel the tension under the surface.

“I get it. I’m a lot. Especially when I’m performing that good. ”

The cocky smile he throws me is pure Finn, but something flickers beneath it, a jab that lands with precision.

Not angry. Not bitter. Honest, teasing, sharp.

He reaches for my hand and tips my chin up with the knuckles of his other hand, gaze steady.

“You can run as far as you want. Just means I get to enjoy chasing you.”

The words are a spark in dry grass—sudden, hot, blazing.

“Finn—” I start, breath catching, the confession rising to the back of my throat. This is it. I should tell him. Right now. Before it gets harder. Before I lose my nerve. Before this becomes something we can’t recover from .

But I don’t get the chance.

Because the second his name leaves my lips, he’s leaning in, threading a hand through my hair, and claiming my mouth.

It’s not a kiss; it’s a statement. Bold. Possessive. The kind that says we’re not finished and you’re not going anywhere.

He slides his tongue between my lips, holding my face, moving it with a slow, lethal precision that leaves no doubt where this night is going.

The sound that comes from me is a needy whimper. I part my mouth, asking for more. His thumb presses under my jaw, tilting my head back so he can kiss me more deeply.

His touch is hungry, greedy, demanding, like he wants to put me on my hands and knees and fuck me until I can’t remember my own name.

And maybe he will. God, I hope he will.

When he finally pulls back, I’m breathless, my hands fisted in the front of his jacket.

His eyes drop to my lips—swollen, parted—and then lower, dragging down my body, already mapping out every inch he’s about to touch.

“Say no now, Novak.” His voice is wrecked but still holding that edge of control. “Or you’re coming upstairs with me.”

I should say no.

I should.

But instead, I nod.

His jaw flexes, satisfaction flashing in his eyes as he takes my hand again. He leads me back through the ballroom, a man on a mission, not caring who sees. His grip is firm, his pace unhurried but direct. He’s walking me straight into surrender.