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I’m fully naked, standing under a stream of hot water, and he’s just there, dripping moonlight and confusion, staring at me like I’m something he forgot he wasn’t supposed to touch. I freeze, eyes snapping open, heart slamming against my ribs, just as someone steps into the outdoor shower. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Tugging a fitted gray T-shirt over his head, the fabric sliding up to reveal golden skin and a ridiculous stretch of abs. Faded across the back just visible in the moonlight is the number seventeen. Finn O’Reilly. The shirt clears his face at the exact moment our eyes meet, and for one charged, electric second, neither of us moves. Of course he’s here. And of course he looks like he stepped off the cover of Sports Illustrated: Sin Edition. My chest tightens. All those weeks convincing myself it was just a meaningless one-night stand, crumble in an instant. He’s pure hockey sin, designed specifically to wreck women’s resolve—defined abs, a devastating V disappearing into board shorts, cut obliques that short-circuit my brain. I’ve traced those lines with my mouth. Tasted every inch of skin between them. And now, just looking at him—at the body I remember far too well—all my synapses go offline and my knees forget how to function. I’m fully naked, standing under a stream of hot water, and he’s just there, dripping moonlight and confusion, staring at me like I’m something he forgot he wasn’t supposed to touch. My body remembers him before my brain catches up. I force myself to look away, but it’s too late. He’s already seen the want in my eyes. He removes his ear buds, his gaze dropping, slow, assessing, remembering. My stomach flips. My pulse forgets its job. “Are you freakin’ serious, O’Reilly?” I snap, crossing my arms, only to immediately regret it as it pushes my breasts up like a goddamn display window. I want to sound confident, but my voice cracks on the last word He stops cold, sucks in a breath. “Jesus, Novak. Seven weeks of nothing, and this is how I find you?” His voice is low, rough around the edges. I glare. “The door was locked.” “Not locked enough,” he mutters, eyes dragging over me. His jaw flexes. His eyes drop, and it’s not curiosity on his face. He looks like he’s about to burst into flames. Seeing him again, in this light, with that look in his eyes, I know exactly what’s racing through his head. Because it’s tearing through mine too. The feel of his hands. The weight of his mouth. The way he touched like he had all night but no time to waste. My brain starts short-circuiting; cue the dirty highlight reel in full HD. The first time he touched me, it was like a live wire in a thunderstorm. Desperate. Rough. Possessive in a way that had no business feeling as good as it did. In a few hours, he erased every man who came before and left nothing behind but him. Later that night, his hands got gentler. His mouth slower. He kissed me like he’d waited months for the chance and wasn’t about to rush a single second. Like we were already something. It didn’t feel like a one-night stand. It felt like home. And that’s when I knew I had to run. Because he didn’t just f**k me. He made love to me. And I felt it. Which is also when the panic kicked in. Men like Finn don’t stay. They burn bright and leave you ash. And women like me don’t survive being left twice. Not when it feels like that. Now, standing here, dripping wet, his eyes all fire and memory, and I’m unraveling all over again. What if I stepped closer? Would he touch me the same way? Would it be rough again, or slow? Would he look at me like he did then, like I was the only thing in the world he wanted? “You need to stop staring,” I manage, or at least I think I do, my voice barely scraping past my throat. I shift behind the spray, trying to use the water like a curtain, wishing I’d picked literally any other time to rinse off the damn beach. But he doesn’t move. “I will,” he says, voice low and even, like he’s talking to a wild animal he doesn’t want to scare. “But it’d be a lot easier if you weren’t standing there like a fever dream.” He lets that hang for a second, then adds, softer now: “Just grab a towel, Novak. Or I’m gonna forget how good intentions work.” Right. The towel. The one I left hanging on the hook, not having foreseen that my dirty fantasy starring a shirtless Finn O’Reilly would actually show up tonight and ruin me in real time. He follows my gaze, then takes a step closer. My heart stops. “I’ll hand it to you,” he says, lifting his hands, trying not to spook me. “No funny business.” “I swear to God, if you—” But he’s already reaching for it. Before I can object, he’s in front of me, turning off the water. Then he wraps the towel around my shoulders, his fingers brushing against bare, wet skin as he pulls the edges closed at my chest. My heart stutters. My breath stops. It’s not creepy. It’s not pushy. It’s…tender. And somehow, that makes me want him even more. “There,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “You’re decent.” But I’m not. Not even close. Not in my head. Not in my body. Not with the way his eyes are blazing, fire simmering beneath the surface as he drinks me in, knowing exactly how I taste. “This is so far beyond inappropriate,” I mutter weakly, clutching the towel, the only shield I have right now. Finn raises both hands in surrender, but there’s a flicker in his eyes—amused, knowing, hungry. “Want my shirt?” he offers, lifting it from his waistband. “It’s clean. You can use the towel for your hair.” A pause. Then his voice drops into that slow Southern drawl that always gets under my skin. “I just wanna see you in it, darlin’.” I should roll my eyes. Try to snap something sarcastic. Instead, I say, “Turn around.” He lifts a brow but obeys, unhurried, having no problem with letting me think I’m in control. I wrap the towel around my hair and pull on the shirt—soft, worn, still warm from his skin, smelling of salt and comfort and him. “You can look now.” He turns. And when his eyes land on me—bare legs, damp hair, his shirt on me—he stops. Just stands there, like someone knocked the breath clean out of him. His gaze drags over me, blazing and desperate. His jaw tightens. His nostrils flare. His hands curl into fists at his sides. Then he lets out a breath—harsh, wrecked, guttural. “Damn,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “That’s not helping.” For one reckless second, I want to close the distance. See what would happen if I didn’t keep pretending that night didn’t ruin me. But guys like Finn, they get in deep. Under your skin. Into your head. Make you believe you’re the only thing they see. Until they change their mind and move on. So I do what I’ve gotten good at. I swallow the want. I straighten my spine. And I fix a tight smile on my lips. Armor I haven’t taken off in years. “Say one more word,” I bite out, “and I’ll have your next sponsorship deal pulled so fast you’ll be modeling protein powder in your mom’s basement.” He huffs a laugh, totally unfazed. “Is that your way of saying I look good shirtless?” I glare. He winks. “Don’t push your luck, O’Reilly,” I shoot back, grabbing my stuff. The snark is my armor, but it feels thin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” His voice is easy, but there’s that glint in his eyes again, familiar and maddening. “Though technically…you are wearing my shirt. Which, if I’m being honest, is further than I thought I’d get this weekend.” I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle I stay upright. “In your dreams.” “Constantly.” He smirks without missing a beat. 💕 Hockey 💕 Coach’s Daughter 💕 He Falls First 💕 One Night Stand 💕 Secret Baby 💕 A Whole Lot of Heat 🔥 If you love he-falls-first obsession, slow burns that explode, and a man who hunts until he claims his prize… you need Finn O’Reilly. Read The Pucking Date FREE in KU >>https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F8W348LC