Page 7 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

She sighs dramatically, then rises like a queen being summoned for battle—long legs, sun-warmed skin, and not a single attempt to reach for a cover-up. Not even a sarong. Just that red strap of fabric and a flick of her hair, trying to kill me dead on the sand.

Jesus Christ.

“She’s really not gonna throw something on?” I rumble, unable to stop watching her stride across the beach toward Liam.

Dmitri, standing beside me, claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. “This is your hell, my friend. We’re just here for the show.”

“Focus, Romeo,” Nate chimes in. “Try not to serve the ball into your own face.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I groan, shaking them off. “If you guys are trying to chirp me, at least be creative about it.”

Dmitri glances around, counting heads. “Still short one,” he mutters, then turns toward the shoreline.

“Melissa!” he calls, waving a hand.

She’s sitting beneath a striped umbrella a few feet away, legs curled under her, sunglasses perched on her head, watching the kids dig sand trenches.

She looks up, surprised. Dmitri pantomimes bumping a volleyball. “We need one more!”

Melissa turns to her husband laid out on a towel with a paperback, and points to the kids. “Can you watch them for a bit?”

He nods, waving her off.

She beams, jumps up, and jogs toward the net, brushing sand off her legs. “Okay, but I haven’t played since college,” she says breathlessly.

“Perfect.” Dmitri grins. “We’re all equally mediocre then.”

Laughing, she takes her place on the sand, glowing just a little. Liam finishes splitting the teams—him, Wesley, me, Nate, Sophie, and Jessica on one side. Adam, Jenna, Erin, Dmitri, Kieran, and Melissa on the other. We scatter to our positions. I claim the center. Jessica ends up left side.

Right next to me.

She’s stretching now. Hands above her head, back arching, that weapon she’s wearing doing nothing to protect me from the full, glorious view. The competitive fire in her eyes has officially replaced the calm from earlier. Now she’s in it to win.

The first few volleys are smooth, everyone laughing, shit-talking, trying way too hard for a game that means nothing. Sophie’s surprisingly good. Dmitri plays with Stanley Cup intensity. Jessica moves with the sharp focus of someone chasing a point.

She’s relentless, diving for impossible saves, calling plays, ponytail whipping as she cuts across the sand.

Every jump sends heat straight through me.

I try to look away. Fail every time. My gaze keeps dragging back to her legs, the curve of her waist, the sunlit flush blooming across her chest and shoulders.

I’m fucked.

“Jesus, you’re dying out here,” Nate mutters after a point. “You gonna survive? ”

“She’s just playing volleyball,” I lie.

“She’s playing volleyball in that bikini,” Liam adds, grinning. “Which is less volleyball and more slow-motion destruction.”

“Shut up,” I hiss under my breath. “Let me suffer in peace.”

Jessica shoots me a glance. A raised brow. Because she knows .

Of course she does.

The next serve flies. I move to intercept, but so does Jessica. She swerves at the last second, gives me the point, but not before our arms collide. Fire races through me, instant and electric.

Resetting, she glances over. A flicker sparks in her eyes—heat, challenge, a collision of memory and dare that hits straight in the chest.

Game point.

Liam calls a huddle. “Novak, left. O’Reilly, center. Don’t kill each other. Sophie up front. Cain, block the net like your life depends on it.”

Jessica nods, sharp and focused. But as we break, she throws me one last glance. A smirk.

She’s trying to kill me. I swear to God.

I dig into the sand. “Focus,” I mutter. “It’s just volleyball.”

The serve comes in low and fast.

“Mine!”

We both call it, then leap. Time slows. My shoulder clips hers mid-air and instinct takes over.

I twist, arms wrapping around her as we fall.

She lands on top of me, and every cell in my body ignites.

My hand splays across sun-warmed skin without permission.

Her back pressed to my chest, her leg caught between mine, the scent of coconut and salt and pure Jessica floods my system .

And God, the feel of her.

Toned muscle, soft curves, warmth and skin, that crimson temptation offering no protection. She fits against me with a familiarity that doesn’t need explaining. Her body knows mine. Remembers exactly how good we were together.

I know I should let go.

But I don’t. Because in that second—messy, gasping, all wrong and too damn right—she’s exactly where I’ve needed her. Dreamed about. Come undone over.

She exhales, a quiet sound, soft and shaken. And I feel it everywhere. The body I’ve touched. Tasted. Memorized.

She’s hot. Slick. Scorching my skin through that barely-there coverage. And when she doesn’t pull away, I damn near lose it.

Her head tilts just enough to glance back—green eyes dark under thick lashes, lips parted, cheeks flushed that dangerous sun-kissed rose.

“Red,” I murmur against her ear, voice rough with want.

“Seven weeks of thinking about this.” For one perfect, torturous moment, neither of us moves.

Just breathe together, burn together, remember together.

“You’re killing me. Slowly. Thoroughly.” I let my hand slide and press lightly, letting her feel me.

Still, silence. But I hear her gasping for air—shallow, rapid, teetering right on the edge with me. Then reality crashes back, and she bolts like I’m on fire. She scrambles to her feet, brushing sand from her legs in frantic sweeps, eyes locked anywhere but on me.

I stay flat on my back, pulse hammering, cock hard and impossible to hide and pretend I wasn’t seconds from tossing every ounce of control straight into the fire.

Because if that was a game, I just lost .

Hard.

“Yo,” Nate calls, strolling past. “You good, Romeo?”

“Totally fine,” I lie, voice in shreds.

“You were draped over her like a security blanket.”

I glare. Dmitri just shakes his head. “O’Reilly, you keep playing like this, we’re gonna start calling you Penalty.”

“Why?” I snap, standing.

“Because everything you do around that girl is so goddamn illegal.”

I flip them both off. And that’s when Liam steps in beside me, quiet but solid. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches Jessica disappear down the beach, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Then he murmurs, “Let her walk.” I shoot him a look. “She’s not running,” Liam says, voice low. “She’s breathing.”

I watch her put distance between us again. And I want to follow. But I let her go.

This time.