Page 5 of Her Pucking One Night Stand
I watch Leighton gracefully brush off the ones she’s not into and flirt with the ones she is. She handles these men so much better than I do. But then again, I haven’t been single since I was eighteen. That’s what happens when your high school boyfriend dumps you, only for you to end up with a husband who’ll belittle and cheat on you.
Obviously, I don’t have the best track record.
Still, I can’t lie. I’m enjoying the attention. Especially when the typical bros with their slicked-back hair and tight T-shirts aresubtly replaced by a group of three guys. Or maybe I should say men. There’s nothing whatsoever boyish or bro-ish about this trio. They’re each muscle-bound, but not in a way that screams I have nothing better to do than play in the gym all day.
No. These men are something else entirely. More mature than what I’m used to. Not just older—I’m guessing mid- to late-thirties, compared to my twenty-one—but they each carry this undeniable aura of power. It’s hard to put into words, but I can feel it. They strike me as the type to take charge, the kind I’ve caught myself watching swagger down the sidewalk outside Dean’s massage business and thought, 'Now that’s someone I’d love to call Daddy.'
I’ve never said those words out loud, but with my inhibitions flipped off like a light switch, they’re the first words that come to mind. Deep down, I know my life is in full-on shambles, that no matter where I turn, I’m up shit creek without a paddle. But with their smoldering stares locked on me, it's so damn easy to forget all of that.
I can’t remember the last time Dean—or anyone—looked at me the way they do, like I’m the only woman in the world they want. They move toward me like a pack of predators, but on the dance floor, it’s something else entirely. Each one takes his turn holding me close, spinning me around, while the others stay nearby, never straying too far. It’s undeniably a group vibe, but oddly, there’s no intimidation.
There’s nothing threatening about these men.
If anything, I feel… safe with them. And I haven’t felt safe in a very long time.
The oldest of the group, the only dirty blonde, with hair streaked by a touch of gray that adds a distinguished edge. He has that Scandinavian look—chiseled features and an aura of quiet strength. While the other two drift in and out around us, he’s the first to break the silence. “You a local, or just visiting?”His voice is low and smooth, carrying the kind of confidence that makes it sound like he’s already savoring whatever answer I give.
“Born and raised.”
“We’re tourists,” he explains. “Anything we should know about this city?”
I decide to play it safely. “The bars are good.”
He chuckles, the sound as deep and rich as his voice. “Yeah, they are. Know my favorite part so far?”
“What?”
“You.”
My cheeks burn, and it’s not just from exertion. I’m not used to being showered with compliments or flirted with so boldly. His grin is slow, sly, and dangerously captivating, pulling me in with a magnetic force I can’t seem to resist. It’s intoxicating, he doesn’t even have to try. Yet, not once has he crossed that line. Not even while dancing. It’s like he’s teasing me, drawing me in with every smile, every word, never once touching me inappropriately, never making a move. Not once has he tried to kiss me or claim my body—but somehow, it feels like he’s doing both. And damn, it’s hot.
Unlike the regular Jersey Bro brigade, he and his friends have remained polite and respectful. Yet, my nipples are peaked just the same. It’s so flattering to have a man’s sincere and enthusiastic attention.
His taller—and by tall, I mean a foot-and-a-half over my head—and bulkier buddy steps in next, taking the reins. “You’re such a hottie.”
Not as subtle as the first, but I can barely manage a squeak of thanks anyway.
“I’m Odds,” he adds, ruffling his short, light brown locks.
“Todd?”
“Odds. It’s a nickname. Means I beat the odds a lot.”
Like I said, not subtle. But he’s sweet and has this charm about him—something in the way his smug smile lingers that, if you look long enough, teases you with the promise of something naughty. “You mean like in Vegas?”
“I’ve done well in Vegas a time or two.”
“I’ve never been. Not big on gambling.”
“It’s not gambling if you know you’ll win.”
I’m left puzzling over our brief conversation as the youngest of the trio—the one with a babyface—introduces himself as Spandex. Spandex and Odds? Have I been catapulted into Bizarroland without realizing it? Maybe it’s because I’m this close to being plastered, I can’t help but giggle under my breath.
“Spandex? Like the material in my bra?”
His slate gray eyes sparkle, even though his lips don’t curve. “More like the kind of material you wear to the gym.”
“Not much of a gym rat.”
