Page 30 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

MARKED

FINN

T he first thing I register is the scent of her—sweet, feminine, unmistakably Jessica. It’s soaked into the sheets, clinging to the air, wrapped around my body. The second thing is the weight of her leg draped over mine, her bare thigh warm on my skin.

I don’t open my eyes yet. I don’t want to break the spell.

She’s still here.

I let that settle for a second, let my body catch up to the reality of hers curled into mine.

Her breath fans soft across my shoulder, her arm slung carelessly over my chest, fingers twitching in a dream.

Her hips are tucked close, and all I have to do is shift slightly, and I’m flush against her, hard and aching.

Jesus.

She’s killing me. And she has no idea.

I turn my head, careful not to jostle her, and finally open my eyes. She’s on her side, the sheet riding low across her hips, hair spilling wild across the pillow. Her mouth is parted, pink and kiss-bruised. She looks peaceful. Vulnerable. Mine .

But I know her.

And I’m not giving her the chance to run again.

I move slowly, propping myself on one elbow, brushing a lock of hair from her face. She stirs, not quite awake, and I lower my mouth to her bare shoulder, letting my lips drag across her skin. My hand grips her thigh, slowly trailing higher.

Her chest rises fast. Not asleep anymore.

“Morning,” I whisper into her skin. Heat spreads from where my hand rests on her thigh, my arousal a steady throb.

She stretches a little, her leg shifting higher over mine, her body pressing closer. But she doesn’t open her eyes yet.

“Are you always this smug in the morning?” she murmurs, words thick with sleep.

“Only when I wake up with the girl I’ve been chasin’ for months.”

That gets me a laugh, and I kiss her again—shoulder, neck, below her ear—each one slower than the last, each one meant to remind her how last night felt. I want to sink into her again, lose myself until I’m finally sated, until there’s space in my head to think about something other than her.

She shifts, enough to press closer, gasping when she feels my hard on.

One eye cracks open, lazy and amused. “You’re insatiable.”

“No, Red. Just obsessed with you.”

My hand moves beneath the sheet, gliding over the curve of her hip and between her thighs. She’s already wet for me.

“Barely touched you,” I murmur, voice gone thick.

She exhales, eyes narrowing. “You talk too much. ”

Then she rolls onto her back, slow and unhurried, dragging the sheet down with her. No hesitation. No shame.

Fuck me.

Her skin catches the morning light—golden curves, lean strength, the soft swell of her stomach that makes my throat tighten.

She stretches languidly, arms overhead, spine arching slightly, and the motion does something violent to my self-control. Her nipples pebble in the cool air, her legs shifting lazily apart.

She’s breathtaking.

I brace myself above her, catching her wrists in one hand and pinning them gently overhead. My mouth finds her collarbone, then trails lower, across the curve of her breast, over the flutter of her pulse.

“Let’s see how many times I can make you beg before breakfast,” I murmur against her skin. Then lower, darker, “And for once, we’re picking up right where we left off.”

We don’t make it to breakfast.

Or the shower. Or out of the bed, really.

By the time I’m finally spent—head buried in her neck, her nails dragging lazy patterns down my spine—my body’s wrecked, and my heart’s not far behind.

She’s beneath me, flushed and sated, that smug little smirk back on her lips.

I kiss it off her face, slow and deep, then roll to the side and drag her with me—limp, breathless, pliant.

I keep her there. Order smoothies and eggs, espresso and tea, and half the damn menu. Feed her in bed between kisses and mouthfuls, between the covers and my hands roaming. I wipe mango from her chin with my thumb. Slide it past her lips and watch her suck it clean.

She laughs. Tries to get up. I don’t let her.

The shower’s next. She makes it halfway in before I pin her to the glass, kiss her until the steam fogs the mirror, until her fingers claw my shoulders and her thighs shake around my hips.

We don’t talk much. Not in words.

I set the pace—unhurried, deep—and she follows. Surrender suits her. Tastes even better.

When I pull her back into bed, her legs are trembling and her voice is shot. I drag her beneath me again, press her wrists into the sheets, and murmur filth into her ear, exactly what I’m going to do to her. Exactly how she’s going to come.

And she does. Again. And again.

We’re drowning in lazy silence—her cheek pressed to my chest, my hand stroking her back—when reality intrudes. A sharp knock at the door.

I groan. “Ignore it.”

The knock comes again. Then Wesley’s voice.

“Yo, O’Reilly, you trying to hit the gym before we head to the airport?”

Jessica stiffens slightly, face burrowing into my neck.

I shout back, “Little busy, man.”

A pause. Then a low whistle. “Respect.”

His footsteps retreat. Before the elevator dings, “Wrap it up, sex god!”

Jessica shakes with laughter, her body warm against mine.

She sighs. “Great. Now the whole team will know we hooked up by the end of the hour.”

I grin into her hair. “Good.”

Her head lifts. “Seriously? ”

I nod, lazy and unapologetic. “They’ve known I’ve been smitten with you since the day you walked into Rothschild’s office.”

She lifts a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“I had dibs on you before you even sat down.”

She laughs. “So that’s why no one ever asked me out. I could’ve walked into the locker room naked, and the guys would’ve just offered me a towel and asked if I was cold.”

I grin, smug as hell. “Guess I made myself clear.”

She rolls her eyes. “Subtle.”

“Never claimed to be.” I kiss her temple. “Besides, it’s not like we’ve been discreet this week. I’m pretty sure the whole league has a betting pool going.”

She laughs again, but it softens into something quieter. “I still have to deal with my father.”

I shift, turning her chin until her gaze meets mine. “Let me be real clear about something, Red. I don’t give a damn about his feelings.”

She opens her mouth, but I cut her off.

“This thing? Us? It’s not up for debate. Not with him, not the team, not anyone. We’re not hiding. You can get that out of your head right now.”

Her expression softens, but I’m not done.

“I’ve spent too long letting other people’s opinions run my life. Not anymore. And especially not when it comes to you.”

Then I lean in, brushing my mouth against hers. “Now, do I need to drag you into the hallway and make a bigger announcement? Or are we good?”

She laughs again, the tension cracking open. “We’re good.”

“Good,” I echo, flipping us so she’s sprawled on top of me. “Because next time Wes knocks, I’m answering the door naked. That’ll really give the team something to talk about.”

Eventually, we surface. Barely.

What’s left of breakfast is cold by then. Her skin’s flushed. Her eyes are glassy.

She lies across my chest for a while, fingers tracing the ink on my ribs, lips brushing my jaw when she thinks I’m not paying attention.

And then, when I think she might fall asleep on me again, she shifts.

Pulls the sheet around her, sits up, bare back to me as she reaches for her phone. My heart stumbles reflexively. That gut-clench panic that maybe she’s about to ghost again.

I stay quiet. Watching.

She dials and then waits. Someone picks up.

“Hey, Joy, it’s Jessica… Yeah. Listen, I need you to ask Travel to rebook my flight. And Finn O’Reilly’s.”

I arch a brow and sit up.

“No, not tomorrow,” she continues. “Push it to Sunday. Tell Rothschild, Vanderbilt is running additional sponsor-facing events. I want to keep Finn in the spotlight a little longer.”

“Nope. No need to tell Coach.”

She ends the call and sets her phone down casually.

I sit up, propping myself on one elbow. “So…sponsor events, huh?”

She shrugs, eyes on the ceiling. “Figured Rothschild would want you out shaking hands. Flashing that smile. Flexing those insane abs.”

I narrow my eyes. “That’s funny. I don’t remember ‘abs’ being on any of the official player profiles.”

Her mouth curves. “Well…I didn’t want to cut your we ekend short. You’ve been very committed to your role as my personal sex toy.”

I huff a laugh, shaking my head. “High praise, Novak.”

She stretches, smug as hell. “No batteries required. And definitely no warranty necessary.”

I toss the sheet off her. “Bold talk from someone who was begging thirty minutes ago.”

Her eyes spark. “That was purely performance testing.”

“Oh yeah?” I press a kiss to her inner thigh, and murmur, “Good thing I run on espresso alone.”

She laughs and swats at my shoulder. “And the occasional protein shake.”

I nip at her skin, then pull back, still grinning. “Guess we need to check you out of your hotel room…so we can continue testing your sex toy’s performance.”

She props herself on her elbows. “You can come with me and help. But if you swipe another pair of my underwear, I’m calling hotel security.”

I climb out of bed, letting her look her fill. “Lead the way, Novak. And as long as I’ve got the real deal in my bed, I promise I’ll let you keep your red excuse for panties.”

The afternoon sun dips low, slanting amber light across the hotel bed where she lies tangled in my arms, a goddess in nothing but a twisted sheet and a freshly fucked smirk. I bury my face in her hair, inhale deep.

“Let’s go into town,” she says eventually, stretching like a cat.

“And let you out of my bed?”

She laughs, then stands up, swatting my arm as I try to pull her back. “We’ll be boring tourists. Walk around. Pretend we’re normal people who do things besides have sex.”

I watch her get ready with the kind of focus usually reserved for game tape. She pulls on jeans and a simple T-shirt, and I have to grip the sheets to keep myself from dragging her back to bed.