Pucked Off (Pucked #6)(62)

Once I’m parked in front of her house, I take a few deep breaths before I get out of my car and walk up the front steps. The door is painted deep green. The mat on the front step says WELCOME. It’s homey—not like my place.

I ring the doorbell and wait, listening to the sound of pattering feet coming down the hall. The only time I’ve been more nervous was my first official NHL game.

The last time I tried to do this kind of thing I was fifteen years old. I went out with this girl in high school before I really understood my extreme aversion to physical contact from the opposite sex—before I got how badly my mother had fucked me up, how she’d made it impossible for me to have anything resembling a normal relationship. There I was, trying to be normal when I wasn’t.

The door swings open, and my dick starts crying. Maybe a third whacking session would’ve been a good idea based on where all the blood has redirected itself in my body. I don’t plan to let the head below my belt govern my actions tonight, but Poppy is my goddamn wet dream.

She’s wearing a silky emerald green dress. It’s the perfect color for her hair and her peachy, pale skin. The straps are two inches wide, showing off a light dusting of freckles on her shoulders—the only sign she’s been out in the sun recently. Her dress cinches at the waist and flares at the hip, stopping above her knee. It’s classy, pretty, and sexy all at the same time.

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?”