Page 28 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

TENNESSEE HEAT

JESSICA

T he lounge is loud, too loud for thinking, which is probably the point.

It’s the last night of the summit, and the sponsors have loosened their ties while the players trade cocktails for bad song choices and worse harmonies.

The karaoke machine in the corner is already responsible for at least three crimes against music, but no one seems to care.

Ego, liquor, and adrenaline make for dangerous combinations.

I nurse a glass of club soda, perched at a high-top table safely away from the action. Away from him.

Finn O’Reilly is across the room, surrounded by players, relaxed in that infuriating way only he can pull off. The world bends around his gravity. Every time I glance over, he’s looking at me. Waiting. He knows I’m two seconds from falling.

I drag my gaze away, focusing on Wesley Cain stumbling his way through “Sweet Caroline” to a chorus of off-key ba-ba-baas and drunken laughter. He’s charming enough to pull it off—boyish grin, a little self-deprecating flair—but God, he can’t sing to save his life.

The mic squeals as Wesley finishes to raucous applause. He bows like a showman, then points, grinning.

Right at Finn.

My stomach drops.

Finn pushes off the bar, slow and unhurried. He was expecting this. Every step toward that stage feels intentional, like he’s not just walking, he’s deciding . On something dangerous.

Someone shouts, “Give us a show, O’Reilly!”

He doesn’t react. Just rolls his shoulders, takes the mic with one hand, and scrolls through the song list. The crowd buzzes. My heart stutters.

Then the opening chords drop.

Tennessee Whiskey.

A ripple moves through the room, players smirking, women perking up, a few already leaning forward like they’re ready to be seduced.

But he doesn’t scan the room or play to the crowd. He finds me . And holds. And then he sings.

The first note knocks the air out of my lungs. Smooth, low, and sin wrapped, like velvet soaked in bourbon. Not flashy or practiced.

It’s raw.

This isn’t a performance, but a confession.

Every word is a caress. A vow. A wound he’s tearing open and showing only to me. His voice wraps around my ribcage, slow and smoldering, and suddenly I’m not in a lounge; I’m in his hands. Everywhere he touches with sound, I burn.

He’s not singing about whiskey. He’s singing about need , about me. My heart punches against my ribs. Every nerve ending sparks alive. I’m hyperaware of everything—his voice, his gaze, the way the room holds still like even the air is listening.

No one moves.

Even the drunkest sponsor seems to sense they’re intruding on something sacred. But they can’t see it, not really. Because the only two people in this room right now are me and the man who’s staking his claim with every breath.

His gaze doesn’t leave mine. Not once.

The way his voice catches on certain words, like they hurt to sing. Like they matter .

Like I matter.

By the time he hits the last note—low, deep, wrecked—the entire room erupts. Cheers. Whistles. A standing ovation from the testosterone section.

He hands off the mic. Then he moves through the crowd, straight toward me. Every step pulls the oxygen thinner. My body’s locked between the urge to bolt or fall into him.

He doesn’t ask permission to slide into the seat beside me. His thigh presses against mine—hot, firm, intimate. The scent of him—cedar, sweat, something male and dangerous—wraps around me like a noose.

He doesn’t say anything. Just lets the silence stretch between us. Lets the heat of what he just did throb in the space we share. Then, voice low and wrecked, “You enjoyed the song?”

I don’t look at him. I can’t. “Nice voice,” I manage, aiming for cool. Missing. “You really know how to work a crowd.”

“Wasn’t for them.” His words are simple. Quiet. But they land like a punch straight to the chest. “I meant every word, Red. Every goddamn one. ”

My breath catches. I try for levity, but it comes out half strangled. “So you sing now, too? What’s next, fire-breathing? Sword-swallowing?”

He leans back just enough to smirk. But the heat in his eyes doesn’t ease. “That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”

“I’m trying to figure out what else you’ve been keeping quiet.” My voice wavers. “First dancing, now karaoke? What else are you hiding?”

He looks at me like he’s deciding whether to tell me something big. Then says, “When I was a kid, I used to walk my sister to dance class.”

I blink, surprised. “Seriously?”

He nods, slow and easy. “Figured I’d sit in the hallway with my Game Boy.”

“You were a Game Boy kid?”

“Mario Kart, baby.” His grin is cocky, but warm. “Didn’t last. Her teacher didn’t believe in video games or sitting on the sidelines.”

I laugh now, full and involuntary.

“You got roped in?”

“Dragged straight onto the floor. Said I had rhythm. Claimed it was good for hockey footwork.” He nudges my knee with his playfully. “Once a week after dance class, I’d walk Aoife to her singing lesson. Next thing I know, I’m in front of a piano trying not to crack on a high G.”

“Southern teachers don’t mess around.” I laugh despite myself. “Here I thought you were just hockey and bad decisions.”

“Multifaceted is the word you’re looking for.”

“Or just full of it,” I deadpan, but I can’t help a smile dancing in the corners of my mouth.

He leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts across my cheek. “What’s really bothering you, Red? That I’ve got hidden talents...or that they’re making you…wet?”

My pulse thunders in my throat. “Don’t flatter yourself,” I bite out, but the words feel thin. Wobbly.

His knuckles skim my cheek, then drift down. He presses them to the hollow of my throat, right over my pulse.

It’s racing.

“Tell me, darlin’,” his voice is a low drawl that slides over my skin, “if I slid my hand up this dress, right now…what would I find?” The hit is immediate, my cheeks on fire. He leans closer, lips near my ear, fingers grazing the inside of my thigh. “Would you already be soaked for me?”

“I’m…hot,” I mumble, weakly clinging to the lie.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, gaze locked on mine. “You are.”

His hand stops just short of the hem of my panties, his touch teasing my skin. I’m so turned on that all it would take is a light brush of his fingers against my clit to toss me over the edge. The space between us is so charged, I can’t think straight.

Then, calmly, like he’s got all the time in the world, he says, “You were jealous.”

It cuts straight through me, and I freeze. “That’s not—” I start, but he’s already shaking his head.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, my words weak. “It’s not my business.”

He leans back, enough to look me dead on.

“It is your business, Red. When you sleep with a guy, when he’s been chasing you for months, showing up for you, making it clear you’re not just another girl, yeah, you get to ask. You get to feel something. You don’t need permission for that.”

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. His voice drops lower, not less intense, just stripped bare. “Don’t you ever sell yourself short like that. Don’t act like you don’t get to claim what’s yours.”

A pause. “You think I’ve been looking at you like that…touching you like that…just to turn around and fuck someone else?”

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.

He watches me for a beat longer, then shifts, jaw tight. That glint of heat gives way to something heavier.

“I visited my folks this summer,” he says quietly. “My dad’s getting worse.”

The words land like a weight between us. I blink, the turn catching me off guard. “Your dad is sick?”

He nods, jaw tight. “Been coming for a while.”

The revelation hits me like cold water. All summer, while I was running from him, he was dealing with this alone. Guilt cuts through my desire, sharp and clean.

And something else takes root. Something softer. Something that makes me want to reach across the space between us and hold him still, even for a second.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe.

He shifts closer. His knee slips between mine, spreading my legs slightly. My skin burns under his stare, every inch of me too aware. And he doesn’t even need to touch me to know I’m already wrecked.

“That girl in the video? My sister Aoife. We grabbed drinks after I helped put her kids to bed.”

The words hit me like ice water. Sister . The video that’s been torturing me for days, it was his sister.

“You thought I was out with some girl,” he says, watching embarrassment flood my face.

I want to disappear under the table. “I didn’t?—”

“You did,” he interrupts, with a maddeningly smug curl to his mouth. “And I liked watching you lose your cool over me. It was hot.” His thumb brushes across my knuckles. “And it told me everything I needed to know.”

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

He leans closer, his voice a dark rasp that grazes my skin like a touch. “I haven’t looked at another woman since the day we were together for the first time.” The room tilts under my feet. “All I want, every damn day, is you.”

I feel every heartbeat in places I shouldn’t. The lounge noise fades. The space between us vanishes.

“What are we doing, Finn?” The words barely escape my lips.

He stands, hand extended. “We’re ending the game, Red. You’re coming with me. And we’re done starting over every damn morning. I want a continuation this time.”

My pulse misfires. He steps closer. His leg slips between mine, his hands cupping my face.

“You want me to back off? Say it.”

Silence.

“Tell me you don’t want me. That you haven’t been thinking about how good it feels when I’m between your legs.”

My mouth won’t move. He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he pulls back, meeting my gaze, tone razor-sharp. “We’re going upstairs. And this time—” his stare burns into me, “—you’re staying.”