Her Pucking One Night Stand (Game On Daddies #1)

3. AVA

3

AVA

I honestly don’t remember much about Leighton showing up to save me from the airport. Nor do I recall any details about the trip back across the city. In my mind, I’ve gone to a strange place where I can’t seem to retain any new information. It isn't until she drags me onto the subway platform that it hits me—we've been riding on the same underground system I've used for years, yet somehow, it feels entirely different.

“Come on.” She half-shoves me across the cement and down the block. I blink, recognizing the nearby sights.

“He’s been cheating on me, too,” I blurt out. I don’t know why.

“What the actual fuck?” she scoffs. “He’s such a little shit.”

“I know. I can’t even get into the details right now.”

“And even if I really wanna know, I don’t want you to tell me. Not today. Tonight’s only mission is to get you in a happier place, and then we can deal with the job situation tomorrow.”

“Right,” I sigh. “Are you taking me to your bar?”

“Yep.”

I peek up at the huge neon yellow letters announcing the name Bigelo’s to the block. It’s an apt enough name since her boss, George Bigelo, owns and operates the place.

“Why?”

“Why do you think?” my bestie asks me like I’m being a bonehead, and since I kind of am, I just nod.

Drowning my sorrows seems as reasonable a solution as any at the moment. Since she’s an employee, she and anyone with her get half-off drinks, so this won’t break the bank. Besides, shutting my brain off for a while sounds like the best idea ever.

My turmoil eases—or, more accurately, it gets drowned as we knock back shot after shot. I usually drink with Dean, but it’s lighter fare like beer and wine. This tequila, though, leaves my mind numb and my body floating. By the time the hour passes, I’m pleasantly polluted, dancing with Leighton like it’s the only thing that matters.

As often happens when two single women who aren’t making out with each other hit the dance floor, the supply of eligible bachelors increases exponentially. I can’t even count how many men have sidled up, pressing their bodies first behind us, then against ours. It’s amazing that, even though Dirty Dancing is practically ancient, some of these jokers still think they can win women over with the same crotch-to-ass moves.

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 are subtly 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.”

He tilts his head sideways. “I’m there often. Have to be.”

Looking at his physique, I don’t doubt it for a second. He’s got the kind of body that makes your mouth water—the kind that sends a shockwave of heat through your body with just one glance. All these men are walking, breathing works of art, but Spandex... he’s the one who steals the breath from your lungs. Lean, sculpted, every inch defined and so inviting, it makes my knees weak just standing here. Honestly, he’s so breathtakingly beautiful, it almost hurts. If I could, I’d pull out my phone and snap a dozen pictures, just so I could keep this moment, this image of him, to remember tomorrow.

Hell, I’d take pictures of all of them if they'd let me, immortalizing every perfect, delicious inch.

Not that I’ll ask. But I should. It’s not like I’ll ever see them again. They’re just passing through.

Ugh.

We share these individual snippets of small talk while dancing, and when the blonde one mentions he’d like to buy me a drink, I agree.

“Coffee, please. With a splash of milk.”

“Done.” He marches off to place an order with the bartender.

I glance around to locate Leighton and discover her making out in the corner with her customary type—the tall, dark, and handsome variety. No surprise there.

When I first started dating Dean, she teased me mercilessly about being drawn to a guy with red hair and freckles. Back then, I saw him as a harmless geek, someone safe and unassuming. I had no clue what kind of man he truly was beneath that mild-mannered facade.

The memory of those early days blindsides me, sharp and sudden, like a punch to the gut. How naive I was, how utterly unaware of what he’d become. And now, that same man—the one I once trusted—will soon know that I chose to walk away. That he no longer has the power to control me. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, a reminder of my strength.

“Cold?” Odds asks, and I shake my head. I’ve been having such a carefree time with him and his buddies. No need to bring Dean into anything.

I don’t have a plan that goes beyond tonight, except crashing at Leighton’s. We’ll probably have to share her double mattress, given the cramped conditions of her tiny one-bedroom apartment that’s barely big enough for five people. But going back to Dean, after severing all the ties and leaving behind the papers on his desk along with the keys to his house and office—that’s absolutely off the table.

Then again, I’m purposely pushing off any additional decision-making. Like a famous Southern belle, I can think about all that tomorrow.

As if taking their cues from me, my three strangers order coffee as well. Of the threesome, it’s Spandex who’s been the least talkative and most prone to keep some distance between us. He remains quiet as the other two shoot the breeze about popular attractions and activities to try while in Newark.

“Where are you from?” I ask, since they’ve been the ones shoring up any lulls in our conversation.

“Different places,” the blonde replies. “But now we’re most often in Colorado.”

“So, you’re nomadic?”

“Sorta kinda,” Odds says as he plays with the front of his hair again. No matter how much he musses it, it flutters right back into the same style, a sign of an expert and expensive cut.

“In a manner of speaking,” the blonde chimes in, though this doesn’t clarify anything. Not that I need clarification. I don’t know these men, and I don’t need to know them. As much as I’ve enjoyed hanging out and dancing with them, I can’t deny that I’m not the best judge of character. Not if the man I’m currently married to is any indication.

“Having a good time?” Spandex inquires as I swig down the dregs of my coffee. I’m still very tipsy but more sober than I was. A little.

“I am, thanks to all of you.”

He places his hand out, palm up, an invitation for me to take it. I do, but if he’s planning to ask me something specific, he hasn’t done it yet. “Would you like to continue that good time?”

I trace circles in the palm of Spandex’s hand, and so far, despite his initiating the contact, he hasn’t taken it any further.

“That would depend on what that might entail.”

“It wouldn’t entail anything you don’t want,” Spandex says, his voice low, laced with temptation. His gray eyes pierce into mine, raw and unyielding, as if he’s stripping me bare behind that gaze. Every flicker sends a wave of heat rushing through me, igniting something deep inside, something I haven’t felt in a long time.

“If you’re game,” the blonde adds, leaning back in his chair, flashing that devilish smile. He runs his tongue over his lips in a way that makes my core grow damp. “It would involve the three of us, a hotel room, and an exceptionally yummy time.”

“But only if you want it,” Odds finishes, his voice smooth as silk, adding a hint of temptation to the end of the blonde’s words.

Are they asking what I think they’re asking?

Holy shit. I think they are.

I look away from them and toward the colorful display of liquor bottles propped up in front of the mirror behind the bar. I’ve always loved this part of Bigelo’s décor, and taking it in gives me a fleeting distraction. I consider going with them because well, what do I have to lose? Or I can be smart and hunt down my bestie, interrupt her make-out sesh, and demand we go home.

I decide I need a little more data for this experiment, so I shove my nerves aside, set my coffee cup down, lean in, and press my lips to Odds'. The kiss is soft at first, then he pulls me in deeper, his lips coaxing mine open in a slow, teasing manner, ending it with a sharp nip that sends a shockwave of heat straight down to my core.

Then, I turn to Spandex. His kiss is nothing short of commanding, pouring all his concentration and dominance into it. It’s a kiss that doesn’t ask—it demands. He takes control, and I melt into him, every nerve alive, my body trembling under the force of it.

Then, I turn to the blonde guy—I need to find out his nickname—and his kiss is instant passion. His lips claim mine with urgent hunger, deep and relentless, like he’s memorizing the taste of me. His hand slides into my hair, tugging it slightly, as if he can’t get enough, devouring me until I can barely breathe.

Each kiss leaves me breathless, each one different, each one leaving me reeling for more.

“A one night fling?” I ask, still wondering when I became so bold.

“All fun and no guilt,” the blonde promises, his crystalline blue eyes locking with mine—eyes the color of glaciers, cold and unyielding, yet stoking a fire inside me that has me aching to drop his pants and hike my skirt up right there on the table.

I swallow, thinking about what it was like to witness the massage room that day a few weeks ago. I heard noises that were unusual, and worried, I knocked. No one answered, and the sounds continued. Curiosity burning, I pushed the door open just enough to peek through the crack. There she was—a pretty little blonde rising from her knees, her hands guiding Dean onto the massage table. In one fluid motion, she climbed on top, straddled him, and rode him like a cowgirl. Him being unfaithful probably shouldn’t have shocked me, but it did. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

So tonight, I need to forget about Dean—his opinions, his rules, my struggles—and just let go. I need to feel something, anything, that isn’t tethered to all the weight I've been carrying.

With that, I’m throwing caution to the wind.

“I’m in.”