Pucked Off (The Pucked Series)

by Helena Hunting

  Poppy is perfectly feminine, curvy and lush. She’s exactly the opposite of Tash, who’s all hard muscle. That could be a factor in why I’m so into Poppy too.

  I want to get my hands on all of those curves. I want to get inside her and feel that softness against my body. I want her to look at me the way she did when her sister dragged her out of the closet all those years ago: like leaving me was the last thing she wanted to do.

  She took more of me with her than she’ll ever really understand. Maybe more than I’ll ever understand. And even after all the shit I’ve pulled, all the ways I’ve fucked up, she’s still willing to give me a shot. So handing control over to my dick isn’t an option. But man, the last thing I want in this moment is to get back in my car and go sit in a restaurant to be civilized and have conversations that might mean talking about myself.

  Poppy runs her palms over her hips self-consciously. “Lance?”

  “Huh?”

  She clasps her hands in front of her. Her grip is tight, like maybe she’s trying not to fidget. “Do you want to come in?”

  Yes. And then I want to get you naked and screw you on the closest surface. I stuff my hands in my pockets so I don’t do something I shouldn’t with them. “I can wait here if you want to grab your purse.”

  Her pretty pink tongue touches her plush, glossed lips. I wonder if they taste like strawberries, or maybe something sweeter, like vanilla.

  A small furrow appears between her brows. “I thought dinner reservations weren’t until seven thirty.”

  “They’re not.”

  “It’s not even seven. You could come in for a drink before we go.”

  “I thought you didn’t drink.”

  “Not usually, but I have a bottle of wine someone gave me as a gift.”

  It will only take twenty minutes to get to the restaurant. There are a lot of things I could do between stepping through her doorway and the time we have to leave, a lot of ways I could fuck this up. “Sometimes it takes a while to get parking. We can have a drink at the bar if we’re too early.”

  She drops her eyes, and her cheeks flush pink. “Oh. Okay, just give me a minute.”

  She leaves the door open, allowing me to watch her legs as she disappears up the stairs. Her bedroom is probably up there. I wonder if I’ll ever get to see it. I fucking hope so.

  I glance to the right, at the closet where I kissed her the last time I was here. I try not to think about how good she felt pressed up against me. How much I liked her hands on me. How much I want them on me again.

  I back up and turn away, looking at the street instead. It seems to take forever before Poppy comes back down the stairs. She’s wearing a thin, pale sweater thing that doesn’t button, but covers her shoulders and arms. Her purse is a muted gold, as are her shoes. She locks her door and turns to me, her smile strained. I worry something I’ve done is the reason for that.

  I slip my arm through hers and walk her down the stairs. Shit. The flowers and candy I bought for her are on the counter in my kitchen. I suck at this. I can drop them off at her work tomorrow and do better next time—if there is a next time.

  “Wow. This is nice,” Poppy says as I open the car door for her and help her in.

  “Thanks. I figured it’s a little classier than the Hummer, and maybe easier for you to get into.” I wink.

  If I’d driven the Hummer I would’ve had to pick her up to put her in it.

  I close the door and round the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. I’m right about the trip not taking long. Poppy asks me questions, but I’m distracted, trying not to focus on how good she smells, or how much I want to put my hand on her bare thigh.

  There’s a line at the valet, so we have to wait while the cars filter through. I tap on the steering wheel, impatient.

  “We don’t have to do this,” Poppy says quietly.

  I stop staring at the taillights of the Porsche in front of me to look at her. “What?”

  “I don’t want you to feel obligated to take me out for dinner.”

  “Obligated?”

  She looks down at her lap. “If you’ve changed your mind, or you’re not interested anymore.”

  The car in front of me moves up. “Whoa. Hold up. Why would you think this is a pity date? Or that I’m not interested anymore.”

  She fidgets with the strap of her purse. Her hair is in her face, so I can’t see her expression.

  “Poppy?” I tuck her hair back, and she shies away. I drop my hand. I won’t touch her if she doesn’t want me to. “Why would you think this is a pity date?”

  She lifts one shoulder. “Because of what I told you. You didn’t want to come in for a drink, and now it seems like you can’t wait to get out of this car. You’ve hardly said a thing since you picked me up. I’m not stupid, Lance. I don’t want to sit through two hours of strained conversation because you feel some sense of duty to follow through.”

  Here I thought I was doing everything in my power to not fuck this up, and in doing so, I’ve managed to screw myself anyway.

  A knock on my window prevents me from answering right away.

  I roll down the window a few inches. “Hold on.”

  “If you exit the vehicle, sir—”

  “Hold the fuck on.” I grab the valet ticket from him and close the window, slamming my finger on the lock button, despite his protest. “Let’s get something straight.” I shift the car into park and unbuckle my seatbelt. “This isn’t a pity date. The only reason I didn’t want to come in for a drink is because I’m pretty low on restraint, and this is the only thing I can think about right the fuck now.”

  I slide my hand into her hair and angle her head to the side. I don’t do what I want to—which is fuck her mouth with my tongue. Instead I stop half an inch away. “Tell me no if you don’t want me to kiss you.”

  “I want you to kiss me.”

  I brush my lips over hers, soft, sweet, and then I suck her bottom lip between mine. She tastes like vanilla and perfection.

  She grabs the sleeve of my jacket, so I figure I’m good to keep going for now. I slip my tongue into her mouth, all slow and easy. At least at first, but the second she starts responding and that hot, satin stroke meets mine, I kind of lose control. I lean in closer and rest my palm above her knee, squeezing so I keep it where it is and don’t go on a search-and-rescue mission to discover what kind of panties she’s wearing.

  Aware my semi-good behavior isn’t going to last very long, I start to move my hand away, but Poppy grabs it and squeezes. I want her to drag it higher, up under that pretty, silky dress, but we’re sitting in front of the valet, so taking this further isn’t an option. Instead, I flip her hand over and bring it up to rest against the side of my neck, groaning when her warmth meets my skin. She makes a matching, but much more delicate sound.

  I ignore the honk behind us and the knocking on the window until Poppy pulls away.

  Then I drop my hand and sit back in my seat. “Did that feel like pity to you?”

  She brings her fingers to her lips. “No.”

  Valet guy knocks on my window again. Which is a good thing, because I’m about to reconsider this entire part of the night in favor of ordering in.

  “Good. Let’s go have dinner with my really blue fucking balls. ”

  CHAPTER 16

  DESSERT

  POPPY

  Lance has his arm threaded through mine as we navigate the uneven walkway to the restaurant. I’m not used to heels, so he’s supporting me a lot more than he might realize.

  The host shows us to our table. It’s in a private, secluded area of the restaurant, right beside a fireplace, so I shed my shrug. Like last time, Lance pulls his chair closer so he’s perpendicular to me rather than across the table.

  When the waiter comes to take our drink order, I flounder, looking to him for guidance. I don’t know why. I’ve never needed help ordering a drink before. Especially not on a date.

  “Can I have sparkling water for now
?” I ask Lance, not the waiter.

  He picks up my hand and kisses my knuckles. “You can have whatever you want, precious.”

  “Would you like to look at the wine list?” the waiter asks.

  “Um—” The question seems to be directed at me.

  “Sure, you can just leave it with us.” Lance takes it from him without even glancing in his direction. “You want anything other than water to start?”

  I bite my lip and decide to order what I want without worrying about looking silly. “May I have a Shirley Temple, please?”

  The smile that spreads across Lance’s perfectly kissable lips is as breathtaking as it is sweet. “Make that two.”

  The waiter nods and disappears.

  “Living on the edge, aye?” Lance bites my knuckle through a grin.

  “Watch out. I’m a real wild one.”

  “Not even a little, eh?”

  My answering smile is all mischief. “I’ve always been a good girl.”

  “Then what’re ya doin’ here with me?” The accent that’s barely noticeable most of the time gets heavier, along with his gaze.

  “I don’t think you’re nearly as bad as you make yourself out to be.”

  “I’m probably worse.” He’s still smiling, but for a second it goes dark. Then his expression grows serious. “You look so beautiful.”

  I tip my chin down. “Thank you.”

  He fingers the strap at my shoulder. “I love this dress.”

  Green is his favorite color. I already knew that when I pulled it out of the closet the night he asked me out. I smooth out the skirt, feeling self-conscious and overheated. The kiss he laid on me in his car lingers on my lips. I want him to do it again. Over and over.

  There’s something about him that draws me in. It’s the same something that pulled me in when I was a girl.

  I want to understand how he can be so sweet with me and so hard on the ice. And why his reputation is so incredibly deplorable. I want the rumors not to be true, even though I know they must be. At least some of them. But it doesn’t make sense with how averse he is to touch.

  I don’t ask any of those questions, though, because I don’t want to ruin the perfect bubble we’re in right now.

  “Would you like me to order wine?”

  He keeps brushing his lips across my knuckles. My stomach is fluttering so much it’s hard to focus on anything but the feeling. “I’d have a glass.”

  “To go with your Shirley Temple?”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  He uncurls my fingers and drags the index one across his bottom lip. “I think it’s precious, just like you.”

  That name sends a sweet shiver down my spine and raises goose bumps along my arms. “You’re full of lines tonight.”

  “You think I’m feeding you lines?” I see his hurt even though he’s still smiling.

  I hate that I don’t know whether to trust my gut with him. I want to. But I’m not sure what he wants out of this. “I don’t know. Are you?”

  He releases my hand, setting it on the table and propping his fist under his chin, as though he’s contemplating my comment. “Why would you think I need to feed you lines?”

  “I don’t think you need to do anything. I think you’re used to getting whatever, or maybe whoever, you want.”

  “But you’re not whatever or whoever, Poppy. You get that, right?”

  “I’m not?” I’m pushing now, but I want something from him. Some kind of reassurance that he’s not going to play me like he does other women.

  He takes my hand again and presses my palm against the side of his neck. I feel the heavy thud of his pulse beneath my palm. “I want this. You.”

  “Why?” I still don’t understand why me. What makes me so different from everyone else? What makes me special?

  “This.” His fingers caress the back of mine, still pressed against his cheek. “Feels nice.” He opens his eyes slowly. The weight of them on me is almost suffocating. “It’s never felt nice before.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s never been you before.”

  “But it has been me before.”

  “You mean in the closet?”

  “Mmm. Was it nice then?” I remember the sound he made when he kissed me, the way his arm tightened around me, the hard lines of his body as he pulled me closer and his tongue swept my mouth.

  “It was. So I had to work really hard to forget it for a long time.” Lance flips the wine list open.

  I want to ask why he wanted to forget something I spent most of my teen years replaying over and over like some kind of dirty Disney love story, but he seems to be done talking about that.

  “Do you like red or white?” he asks.

  “I prefer white.” Of all of the alcohol options out there, white wine is the one that doesn’t give me an immediate hangover.

  “And you’re sure you’ll have a glass if I order a bottle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you want to or because you’ll feel obligated?” He’s reclaimed my hand and is kissing the tips of all my fingers now. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as his tongue touches the pad of my thumb.

  “Both.”

  He smiles. “I like how honest you are. Why would you feel obligated?”

  “Because this is a date, and that’s what people usually do on dates.”

  “So you want to drink wine because it’s conventional?”

  “No.”

  “Then why?”

  “Because I’m nervous.”

  Lance frowns. “Why?”

  “Why?” I echo.

  “Why are you nervous?”

  “Because you’re you.”

  Lance blinks a few times, releases my hand again, and leans back in his chair. The floor vibrates with the bounce of his knee. “And what exactly does that mean?”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “I’m not offended. I’m curious.”

  The waiter chooses that moment to return with our Shirley Temples. He gestures to the open wine list. “Have you made a selection?”

  Lance gives me a tight smile. “I think we’re okay for right now.”

  At my murmur of agreement the waiter turns back to Lance.

  “Would you like to start with appetizers?”

  “We’ll need a few more minutes, please.” Lance’s voice is as tight as his expression.

  The waiter leaves us alone again. I don’t like the sudden change of mood. Lance has gone dark.

  “You’re a professional hockey player; I’m just a massage therapist.”

  “You’re not just anything,” Lance replies.

  “You know what I mean. People know who you are, even if they don’t actually know you. No one knows who I am.”

  “I do.”

  “To a certain degree, yes, but we only give the part of ourselves we’re comfortable with, right?” I motion between us. “Being here means we must be willing to give a bit more, doesn’t it?”

  “And that makes you nervous?”

  “Of course. You have an idea of who I am, an ideal even. I’m the girl who gave you her first kiss in a closet.” I look down at my napkin. “I won’t lie and say I haven’t romanticized that memory, even if it’s a silly, naïve thing to do.”

  Lance adjusts his silverware, his knee still going under the table. “So what’s the part that makes you nervous? That I’m not gonna be the romanticized version you’ve built me up to be?”

  I don’t tell him I already know that part of him has been buried for a long time. Based on what happened in the closet after we went out for dessert earlier this week, I’m aware that the boy I knew is definitely still in there, even if he’s been hiding. But there are years of time and experiences creating a barrier between us now.

  “And that I’m not the same version of the girl you remember.”

  He nods, like maybe this makes sense.

  “Sorry. This got heavy fast.”


  He runs his finger around the rim of his glass. “I don’t mind. No girl ever gets real with me. It’s kinda nice for a change.”

  I laugh. “I can’t imagine how much lip service you get on a regular basis.”

  “A lot more than I want, actually. I don’t like being played with by people.”

  It’s a loaded statement. I can almost taste its bitterness.

  The waiter returns to ask after our order. I decide on a glass of sauvignon blanc, and Lance requests a bottle instead, checking with me for the brand. I point to one in the middle of the row, but I won’t know the difference between a high-end bottle and the cheap stuff from the local liquor store.

  He also orders appetizers since we haven’t even opened the menu. When the waiter leaves, I look it over. They have all of my favorite things with a classy twist. Everything sounds amazing, and I decide to go for the spaghetti Bolognese.

  Once the waiter returns with the wine and takes our dinner order, Lance settles back in his chair, his knees brushing mine under the table.

  “So, I gotta ask how a good girl ends up at a high school party at the age of twelve. I can’t imagine your parents actually let you go.”

  “Absolutely not. My parents went out, and my sister was babysitting me. She didn’t want to miss the party, so she took me with her.”

  “That wasn’t very responsible.”

  “I could’ve stayed home by myself, but my sister isn’t known for her responsible tendencies.”

  “Sounds like there’s a story there.”

  “She was always a little wild. Fun, but she pushed the boundaries a lot. Sometimes I wanted to be more like her. The night we went to that party, I felt so cool.” I shake my head at the memory. “She never really grew out of that rebellious phase. She’s better than she used to be, but she still struggles with things like keeping a job for more than six months.”

  “Does she have a name?”

  “Oh! Cinny.”

  “Like Cinnamon?”