Page 13 of Pucking Never

The sight of her, the sound of her voice saying my name with such aching need, ignites a fire in me. I know this isn’t going to be enough. It’ll never be enough. Never was. Not with her.

"Grace," I murmur as I pull away from her lips to look at her. She blinks at me, her eyes glazed over with desire. "You're mine."

She lets out another soft whimper at my words and buckles against me as an orgasm ripples through her body. Her back arches off the hood of the car as she climaxes against my hand. I don’t stop stroking her, drawing out her orgasm for as long as she lets me. It’s only when she starts to push at my hand and tries to wiggle free that I relent.

Chest heaving, she gazes up at me with a dazed expression and I grin, as I take in her flushed and satisfied appearance. She looks just like she did in Miami. Relaxed, satiated, and peaceful.

“God,” I murmur, “Lynn, you’re beautiful.”

Instantly, the air around us goes cold. She gasps. It takes me a second to realize my mistake, but before I can apologize, she’s already scrambling off the hood of my car, fumbling to get her pants buttoned again. I’m such a goddamn idiot.

“That… that shouldn’t have happened,” she murmurs.

I try to ignore the crushing disappointment settling on my chest.

“Why not?” I ask, stepping closer. She steps back again, tripping slightly over a crack in the pavement. I reach out to steady her but she shrugs off my hand.

“Because…” she starts, shaking her head as if to clear it. “Because this isn’t Miami. This isn’t some beach vacation where we can just…just…”

“Just what?” I press, stepping closer again. This time she doesn’t move away.

“Just…just take me back to the arena,” she insists. “I need to go home.”

My hands clench at my sides. I can still feel the heat of her body seared into my skin, the taste of her lingering on my lips. My chest tightens with a feeling I don’t quite recognize. Is it frustration? Anger? Desperation? Or is it something deeper, something raw and resolute?

"Fine," I mutter, reaching for the car door. "I'll take you back."

The drive to the arena is fraught with tension, the silence in the car heavy and oppressive. I can see her from the corner of my eye, her posture stiff, arms crossed over her chest as if she’s trying to shield herself from me.

When we finally pull up in front of the arena, she’s out of the car before I can say a word. The moment she closes the door behind her, a sense of cold settles over me. I watch as she walks away without a backward glance.

I sit there in the car for what seems like ages, staring at her retreating form until she gets into her own car. A bitter smile tugs at my lips. She’s right; this isn’t Miami. This is real life, where actions have consequences and feelings aren’t so easy to unravel.

One thing is clear: I still want her – need her – despite everything.

Her memory has haunted me. She’s the only woman who’s ever had such a lasting impact on me. She’s gorgeous, but it’s more than that. That week in Miami, she made me laugh and she made me feel things I’ve never experienced before. I felt whole when I was with her, and I hadn’t even realized any part of me was missing before.

With a growl of frustration, I slam my hand against the steering wheel and pull away from the curb, tires screeching against the asphalt.

Grace might not be ready to face our past or admit to what burns between us, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to step aside so easily. We are far from being done with each other.

Chapter Eight

GRACE

The moment I get into my apartment, I pull out my phone and dial Skyler’s number. I need to talk to her. I need to talk to someone! This is too much for me to process right now. Not only running into Jensen again, but feeling his kiss again, his touch…

Holy shit! Getting fingered on the hood of his car was one of the hottest experiences of my life. But it's also one of the most confusing. How did I go from being icy toward Jensen at the arena to melting under his touch?

My phone rings several times before Skyler answers. “What's up buttercup?” she asks, her voice light and cheery.

I let out a sigh as I kick off my shoes and walk toward my kitchen.

“You're not going to believe this,” I start, reaching for the bottle of wine on my kitchen counter. “You’re not going to freaking believe this.”

“Try me.”

Pulling out the bottle’s cork, I pour myself a glass.

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