Page 35 of Chasing the Puck

“Then let’s go?—”

“No,” I interrupt. “Here.”

I can’t believe I just said that.

I open my eyes to see Tuck staring down at me, his gaze burning with desire, his jaw muscles flexing with intensity.

“I think I know what you want,” he says with gravel in his voice. “You want my fingers, don’t you?”

A sharp ache throbs between my thighs. “Yes.”

“Shit,” Tuck groans. “When did you become such a dirty girl?”

I wish I knew.

He glances behind him. “Come on,” he says, his voice low and conspiratorial. He takes me by the hand and leads me through the thick throng of gyrating bodies.

I don’t know where he’s taking me. All I know is I’m going to follow him anywhere right now. I’m missing him between my thighs, missing the friction of him brushing against my clit so much that a fierce ache is hammering between my legs.

My spine tingles with anticipation. Being brought to climax by the deft fingers of the guy I’ve been trying to stay away from, at a popular club on a Friday night—something I shouldn’t even be considering.

It sure as hell feels good to do something I shouldn’t for once. Something irresponsible. Something indecent.

We arrive at two stanchions and a velvet rope blocking off access to a dark hallway at the edge of the dancefloor. Tuck throws another glance over his shoulder before stepping over it. I do the same as he tugs me with him.

“They have private rooms you can book for events back here, but they’re not using them tonight,” Tuck explains. He tries two of the door handles, but they’re locked.

He shrugs, then grips my waist and pulls me close to him, flush against his chest. Through my dress and his shirt, I can feel the stark outlines of his defined, rippling physique.

“Think this is privacy enough?” he asks. In the shadows I can just barely make out his plush lips curling into a dark, devious grin.

I turn around. We’re shrouded in darkness down this hallway. None of the overhead lights are illuminated. We can still see into the main room, but no one out there could spot us. Even if someone stood right behind the rope and peered down, they’d only be able to barely make out the vague shapes of two people. They’d never be able to tell what we’re doing.

“Yeah,” I answer. “I think so.”

“Good,” he growls, the word a savage rasp.

He wraps his arm around me, the thickness of his corded forearm tight against my tummy. He pulls my back against his chest. My breath hitches as I feel enveloped in him. Here in this hallway, away from other people, his scent hits me. It’s like sandalwood with hints of cinnamon, and a musky, masculine edge. Deep and overwhelming.

His smell combined with his touch makes me lightheaded. I get a lot more lightheaded, so much that my knees wobble, when I feel his right hand hot on my exposed thigh, torturously crawling up until he passes the hem of my dress.

“This is a one-time thing,” I say, my head swimming as my thighs tense with anticipation, yearning for his touch.

“Fine,” he breathes.

I suck in a gasp as the tip of his middle finger grazes the very peak of my thigh, right next to my pussy. The pressure of his finger is so tantalizingly close that my body goes taut. My clit throbs, and the whimper I release is so desperate it’s almost a sob.

“You’re fucking dying for it, aren’t you?” Tuck taunts. He drags his other hand up my body and squeezes my breast through my dress.

I let my head fall back against his chest. “Yes,” I admit. I’m a quivering mess, and I’ve lost all ability to be coy, all ability to engage in any push-and-pull with him. “Please,” I whisper.

My eyes snap open when his finger grazes over my panties, up the length of my slit. I buck my hips forward as he ghosts his thumb over my clit. He teases me like this for what feels like ages, light touches and grazes of pressure exactly where I want it, but not nearly firm enough to satisfy the throbbing ache.

The low rumble of his laugh is warm on the shell of my ear. I’m bucking my hips forward, trying to get more contact, more friction than he’s giving me, and he’s clearly loving the way he’s playing my body like an instrument.

“You’re so wet. Even through your panties,” he says, the thickness in his voice making it clear that he loves that fact. “You’re fucking soaked.”

“I want your fingers inside me,” I plead.

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