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

He skates closer, gaze hot and amused. “You move like a figure skater.”

“That’s because I was one,” I say, gliding to the edge of my arc. I push off into a crossover, one foot slicing clean over the other, then extend my leg behind me, hips turning as I rise into a camel spin—arms outstretched, body elongated, the world blurring as I gather speed.

He whistles low, still watching me. “Why don’t you skate anymore?”

I let the spin come to a halt naturally, lowering my leg with control and gliding out of it in a long, easy line. “I had a growth spurt in high school,” I say, coasting to a stop beside him. “Got too tall for the lifts.”

His eyes trail down, then back up, lingering. “Too tall for the lifts, maybe. But damn, Novak, you fill out just fine.” Something in his voice fires every nerve ending in my body. I glance away, hiding the smile. “Explains the balance.” He grins. “And the way you drive me crazy.”

His eyes are raking over me, heavy and charged, and I swallow, my heart hammering in my ribcage. “And the grace,” I try to lighten the mood, skating a wide arc.

His mouth curves. “Keep moving like that, darlin’, and I’m gonna forget how hard I’m trying not to touch you.”

“You’re about to.”

Before he can respond, the speakers hum to life, a low, thumping bass vibrating through the rink. I blink, surprised.

Lizzo. “2 Be Loved.”

I laugh, then lean into it. Let the rhythm melt into my muscles. Hips swaying. Shoulders loose. I slide backward in sinuous, teasing curves, arms lifting lazily above my head before rolling them down the side of my neck.

His gaze locks on like I’ve flipped a switch.

It’s not a striptease, but it might as well be, judging by the way he’s watching me.

I playfully skate a tight circle, matching the beat.

My fingers trail along the edge of my jaw, then dip slowly to brush the curve of my waist. Just for fun.

Just for him. Just to see if I can make him roar.

I don’t need to look to feel the shift in the air. The snap of tension between us, humming electric. His voice is a snarl—low, rough, barely human. “Just when I thought I couldn’t burn for you more than I already do…you go and do this.”

The words are a vibration at the base of my spine.

I pivot. Skate straight toward him, the music a leash pulling me closer. “Show me how much you burn.”

Then I dart, fast and fluid, spinning through the center of the rink. My lungs pull sharp, freezing air that doesn’t cool anything.

But he doesn’t chase. He’s pacing me instead. Long, stalking strides—easy, lethal—cutting through the ice. He savors the hunt, allowing the space between us. Little by little, he’s closing in.

And I feel it. Every inch of him. A current. A pull. Like his need is magnetic, and I’m already halfway gone. My skin is buzzing. My core clenches tight.

The heat of him behind me is intense, unwavering. I can feel his eyes dragging down my back. He’s mentally stripping me bare, probably deciding where he’ll put his hands first. Where he’ll make me come apart.

A man with a plan and patience, slow only because he wants me to feel it coming.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

My pulse slams. I want to slow down. I want to be caught. Because being wanted like this, like he’s starving and I’m the only thing that’ll satisfy him, it’s unraveling me.

Then the song shifts, heavier bass now. Tiesto’s “The Business” kicks in, dark and electric. Built for the pull. Built for the kind of need that simmers between almost and too late.

Finn strides forward smoothly, his eyes locked on mine. I could swear we’re the only two people in the world. It turns into a game.

I skate a wide arc. He mirrors me. I cut across the center. He shadows, a breath behind.

He’s not trying to catch me.

He’s just watching me fall.

Every glance he throws my way is a promise. Every glide, every deliberate shift of his body says, “I see you. I want you. And I’m not letting you get away.”

Finally, he starts to close the distance. His shoulder brushes mine, his breath warm as he passes.

My pulse jumps. My body hums. I slow near the edge of the rink, chest rising fast. He glides in behind me, his presence curling around me like smoke. For a second, I think he’ll grab my waist. Pull me against him. But he just hovers. And then, low and rough:

“You done makin’ me crazy yet?”

The words slide under my skin. I don’t turn right away, letting the weight of him settle behind me like gravity.

Then I glance over my shoulder, voice soft, teasing. “This is just a warm-up.”

He laughs, quiet and wrecked.

“Is that what this is?” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine. “Teasin’ me? Dancin’ for me?”

“I’m skating,” I say, backing away a step.

“Not anymore, you’re not,” he says, voice molten. “Now you’re runnin’. And darlin’…” his gaze drops, loaded, “I love a chase.”

I turn, breath catching. And then I do the only thing I can.

I push off toward the exit. Legs shaking, heart in my throat.

At the edge, he helps me down without asking. His hand brushes mine, steady and warm and strong.

I don’t thank him. Because if I say anything now, it’ll come out wrong.

He walks beside me, fingers lightly on my wrist. “Hell of a first date, darlin’.”

I snort, still breathless, trying to mask it as confidence. “This wasn’t a date.”

“No?” he asks, tilting his head.

“No,” I say, firm. “This was a...detour.”

He lets the silence sit there, heavy and amused. “Right,” he finally drawls, low and easy. “A detour.”

But his eyes say something else entirely. Because he knows damn well we’re not going back the way we came.

We trade skates for shoes in silence, the cool night air curling around us as we step back into the Montreal night. Finn reaches for my hand again, and I don’t even hesitate.

The city is quiet. Streets hushed. Lights low. But every brush of his fingers against mine feels loud. Every step he takes closer, every slow slide of his thumb along the inside of my wrist liquefies me.

Something shifted between us on that ice. Not just attraction; that’s been simmering for months. This is recognition. Like we’re finally seeing each other without all the noise, all the reasons why we shouldn’t. And for the first time, the reasons why we should feel stronger.

When he finally speaks, it’s a low rumble. “You’re awfully quiet, Novak.”

I keep my eyes on the sidewalk. “Just tired.”

“Mmhmm.” That sound again—half laugh, half challenge. “Or maybe you’re trying to talk yourself out of what happens next.”

My pulse flutters. “What makes you think something happens next?”

He looks over, all lazy smirk and midnight confidence. “Because your body’s tellin’ me everything your mouth won’t.”

Words are stuck in my throat, my pulse thundering so loud I think he must hear it.

We reach the hotel, the glow from the awning casting long shadows across the pavement. Finn pulls the door open, guiding me inside, walking me through the lobby. We reach the elevators, and he presses the call button. The gold doors part with a soft chime.

“I’m on the fifth floor,” I say, voice barely above a whisper as I step forward.

He doesn’t blink. Just lifts our joined hands…and presses eight.

“Fifth floor,” I repeat.

“You really think I’ll let you walk away?”

I go still, my heart thundering. “That’s…presumptuous,” I manage.

“Mmhmm,” he hums, not even bothering with a response, the doors closing behind us. He moves in slow, backing me against the wall of the elevator. One hand curves around my waist, the other braces beside my head. The heat radiating off him wrecks my breathing.

My hands fist in his jacket. “You don’t get to just decide.”

He dips his head, voice rough at my ear. “I decided the second I saw you for the first time. It’s just that you’re finally saying yes.”

He slides his thumb along my cheekbone, stroking my skin, memorizing the feel of me. My breath stutters. He lingers there. Then draws it down, tracing the curve of my jaw, brushing the corner of my mouth, dragging it lightly beneath my chin.

My eyes flutter. My knees buckle. But he doesn’t move in. Doesn’t kiss me. He just watches with that devastating calm, like he has all the time in the world to ruin me.

His hand slides to the base of my neck, fisting my hair, pulling just enough to tip my head back. To hold me exactly where he wants me. And then, in a voice that’s more smoke than sound—low, Southern, and utterly lethal—he murmurs, “Ask for it.”

That undoes me.

All of it—the closeness, the fire, the maddening restraint. The way he holds my body like it’s already his but won’t take a damn thing until I offer it.

His thumb brushes just beneath my bottom lip, slow and rough, his grip tightening slightly at my scalp.

“Ask,” he says again, slower this time. “Say it, darlin’.”

I can’t breathe. I can barely think. And maybe that’s why I give in completely. A whisper. Wrecked. “Kiss me.”

He holds me there, mouth inches from mine, eyes locked, savoring the sound of my surrender. Letting it echo. Letting it settle in my bones.

And then…

He crashes into me.

There’s nothing slow about it. No tenderness. No hesitation. Just teeth, tongue, want.

His mouth claiming mine, starved. And it’s not tentative. Not teasing. It’s possession in motion—deep, devastating. Showing me he’s been waiting for this moment and he’s going to draw out every second.

His thigh slides between mine. Hands everywhere—jaw, waist, tangled in my hair. My hands fist in his shirt, dragging him closer, needing more, needing all of it.

His grip stays tight in my hair, guiding, commanding.

The elevator dings softly. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then he extends his hand, not grabbing, but offering. A choice. I take it, and he leads me down the hall, each step bringing me closer to surrender.

His keycard clicks. The door swings open. Inside, it’s dark and quiet and pulsing with tension. Slowly, he tips my chin up with one knuckle, looks at me like I’m already bare.

“You want me?” he asks, voice all velvet and unshakable control.

It’s not a taunt. It’s a gift. And it breaks something open in me.

I nod. Swallow hard. “I do. Desperately.”

He smirks because he already knew. Kisses me again, deeper now. Slower. One hand under my blouse, the other fisting my hair, holding me there while he tastes me.

“You’ve been dancing around this for months,” he murmurs.

“Pullin’ back. Temptin’ me. Saying no while lookin’ at me like you’re saying yes.

” His voice darkens, thick with everything he’s been holding back.

“I’ve been waking up hard every damn morning, thinkin’ about you.

Wantin’ you so bad it hurts. Burning’ up my sheets night after night, my cock aching and hard. ”

My fingers tangle in his shirt, yanking it up, needing to feel skin.

He pulls back just long enough to rip it over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him, then he’s on me again, hands at my waist, my ribs, dragging me closer like he can’t stand even an inch between us.

“Finn.”

It’s a gasp, a plea, I don’t even know. His mouth finds my neck, open and hungry. He bites just below my ear, then soothes it with his tongue.

His grip tightens in my hair again, pulling my head back so he can look at me. He groans low, then lifts me, hands under my thighs, carrying me across the room. Like he’s carried me in his thoughts every damn day.

We finally fall onto the bed, the rest of our clothes disappearing in a blur of tugging and friction. A tangle of limbs, breathless and laughing and burning all at once.

It’s rough at first. Desperate. Teeth and need and months of held-back want.

But later, when he pulls me back to him in the dark, when he touches me, already familiar with every inch of me, it’s soft. Slow. Real.

And I let him have all of me. Every edge. Every secret. Every piece I usually guard. Because for one night, I’m not the coach’s daughter or the PR director or the girl with something to prove.

I’m his.

And the way he moves, like he has all the time in the world, it undoes me.

Piece by piece.

If only I knew how much this one night would change me.