Stick Tease (The Miami Blazers #2)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

~JESSICA~

The bass in this place is so violent I can feel it in my teeth.

It rattles up my legs, climbs my spine, and shakes me until I’m half-convinced my ribcage will split open just to let the beat out.

Lights slice through the haze—strobe, neon, smoke machine—rinse and repeat.

Somewhere in the back, a DJ screams something unintelligible into the mic like he’s announcing the end of the world.

Dannie and I have been hopping clubs all night, but this one is the one.

We didn’t even need the line outside to tell us.

A line we delicately skipped since, apparently, being a micro-celebrity on the internet comes with perks—not enough money to support myself and my family, but at least I’m skipping club lines, right?

Everyone inside is vibrating on some primal frequency.

Glasses slosh, sequins cling to sweaty skin, champagne sprays across the dance floor like liquid confetti.

A girl twirls by in a rhinestone corset dress, and my brain does what it always does—tears it apart.

The boning is crooked, the zipper is cheap, and the sequins will start shedding before she even gets an Uber home.

I can already see a dozen ways I’d have made it better.

“It’s chaos in here,” I yell over the music.

“That’s the point!” Dannie throws her head back and grins, eyes glassy from tequila. “Look over there!”

My eyes scan the room, trying to see how deep the club goes, but all I see are bodies under flashing lights.

The VIP section at the far end catches my eye.

It isn’t just roped off. It’s barricaded.

A human wall of broad shoulders, thick necks, and sharp profiles stands shoulder to shoulder.

Behind them, the space glitters brighter with sparklers stuck in champagne bottles, the air thick with smoke, hotter from the sheer gravity of all that testosterone in one place.

Women hover at the ropes like moths, waiting for one of the gods inside to pick them, as if a hand might shoot out of the crowd and drag them into Olympus.

“What am I looking at?” I ask, because this is not normal.

Dannie leans into me, shouting in my ear. “Miami Blazers! They just clinched the playoffs!”

“You’re gonna have to say that again in English.” I blink at her.

“They’re the hometown team, Jess. Hockey! This is their celebration.”

Ah. Hockey. The only thing I know about it is that it involves ice, fights, and big men—which, judging by the giants in VIP, checks out.

I lean on the bar and watch them, sipping the watery excuse for a vodka soda the bartender handed me. A few women have managed to make it past the bouncers and are currently rubbing against a few players.

It’s absurd.

“So that’s why Miami looks like a casting call for Greek gods tonight?” I say, deadpan .

“Perfect time for our girl date.” Dannie clinks her glass against mine, eyes glittering.

Our little “girl date” was supposed to be a night in with movies and crafts. I’m not sure how I agreed to this and ended up at a club after four slices of pizza and three glasses of wine, but I’m not mad about it.

“Pretty sure this doesn’t really qualify as a girl date,” I snort, but I don’t look away from the men in the corner.

It’s pure curiosity. Anthropological research.

Men like that don’t exist where I come from.

These guys look like they could hold up the ceiling if it fell, and ruin-your-life is written all over every single one of them.

I don’t care about hockey, but the testosterone Olympics happening behind that velvet rope and wall of bouncers might change my mind.

“I’m gonna pee myself.” Dannie puts her drink next to mine and taps the top. “Make sure I don’t get roofied.”

“On it,” I laugh, sliding her drink closer and taking my own.

Dannie disappears into the crowd, leaving me alone, drink in hand, swaying against the bar while the bass does its best to give me permanent hearing damage.

This… is fun. I don’t go out much these days. I’m too busy making social media content, which would be easy enough if I didn’t have to design and sew clothing in order to make said content.

“Good evening.”

The voice is smooth, velvety, confident. I turn to find a man beside me in a sharp suit with a sharper smile. He’s tall, brown hair slicked back—the kind of guy who probably Googles himself daily. Handsome in the way a showroom mannequin is handsome.

“Didn’t mean to intrude,” he says, leaning one elbow on the bar. “But I couldn’t help noticing you look… out of place here.”

“Out of place?” I arch a brow.

“I think you’d fit better in my bed,” he says, clearly proud of himself.

A line, rehearsed. But he delivers it with enough confidence to make me laugh. “That your opening pitch?”

“Depends. Did it work?” His grin widens.

“No.” I sip my drink .

Instead of taking the hint, he chuckles like we’re flirting. “So, what’s your name?”

“Not important.”

“You’re right.” He chuckles again, how charming. “What’s important is that you don’t waste a night like this drinking alone. One dance.”

“I don’t think so.”

His eyes glint, a little too certain, like refusal isn’t part of his vocabulary.

“Women usually don’t say no to me.” His smile falters, arrogance bleeding through the polish.

“Maybe that’s your problem,” I shoot back.

“You’re feisty.” He steps closer, his cologne suffocating. “Makes it more fun.”

I shift sideways, but his hand lands on the bar, blocking me in. Not touching me yet, but his body is a wall I didn’t agree to lean against.

“So you don’t wanna dance?” He tilts his head.

“No.”

He just stares at me like I’ve said something cute instead of final .

“Look, sweetheart,” he says, tone dropping a register, patience already fraying. “You’re gorgeous. I’m offering you my time. Why complicate it?”

“You’re not listening.”

“I’m listening,” he says, crowding me back against the bar, hand pressing into the wood beside my hip. “I’m just not happy with your answers.”

“Move.” My skin crawls.

Instead, his other hand snakes around my wrist, holding me there like I’ve already agreed. His grip isn’t rough, but it’s unyielding, confident in a way that makes my stomach turn.

“Trust me,” he says, smile thinning into something ugly. “I know what you females like.”

You females. He might as well say “you aliens.”

“Definitely not you.” My throat burns with more words I don’t get the chance to spit.

Movement catches in the corner of my eye. The crowd stirs, subtle at first, then obvious. People shift, glance over, part.

I turn just as a man steps out of the VIP section.

Tall enough to dwarf everyone around him, broad shoulders stretch a black shirt like it was sewn straight onto his skin.

His presence shifts the air—cool and heavy—and it feels like the club itself notices him.

People move instinctively out of his way; the crowd parts even more.

I no longer hear the music, no longer feel the asshole’s hand around my wrist. All I see, for one long moment, is him.

Dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes so intense they pin even from across the room. He might be the most handsome man I’ve seen in my life—intense in a way that makes it hard to breathe just from looking at him for too long.

And he’s headed this way.

The creep’s voice is still droning in my ear, some arrogant mix of coaxing and command, but I can barely hear him anymore.

Because he’s closer now. Every step eats the ground, and all I can do is stare, breath caught, chest tight. He’s so much bigger up close. His eyes are molten, ruthless, and locked somewhere just past me.

The creep laughs at something only he thinks is funny. “Don’t mind you playing hard to get, sweetheart. I like a little fight in my women.” His grip tightens around my wrist, making my skin crawl .

Panic sparks, hot and ugly.

Before I can think, I whirl around. My hand shoots out, fingers clutching the behemoth’s arm as he’s about to pass. Muscle shifts under my fingertips as he flexes his forearm.

“There you are, babe! Took you long enough.” I plaster on a too-bright smile, my voice all sugar-coated panic.

The man halts mid-step, looks down at where I’m touching him, and then his eyes slowly cut to me.

The world tilts, and my stomach drops clean through the floor.

Oh. My. God.

Dark eyes narrow, locking on mine, and it’s like being dropped into fire.

Not just a glance, but an assessment—a stripping-down.

He sees me, and the sheer weight of that gaze leaves my mouth dry and my knees weak.

It’s the most intense look I’ve ever endured, and it sears straight through me like I’ve just been branded without a word spoken.

For a breath, he doesn’t move. Then he shifts, his gaze flicking to the guy still gripping my wrist. A silent calculation. One look, and then his eyes are back on me.

Every bad decision I’ve ever made flashes through my head, because there is no way a man like him is going to play pretend. I give him the tiniest pleading look, begging him to play along, already bracing for the humiliation when he inevitably peels my hand off like it’s dirt and walks away.

But he doesn’t shrug me off.

Instead, his gaze returns to the asshole, who slowly releases my wrist. Then his arm snakes around me.

His hand settles heavy on my waist, tugging me flush against a chest that feels like solid granite under his shirt.

Heat detonates through me so violently I nearly stumble.

Every inch of contact burns, and my lungs forget how to work.

Then he dips his head, brushing a kiss against my cheek—close enough to look intimate, possessive enough to make my stomach flip. His voice is so deep that it vibrates through me, more dangerous than the music pounding overhead. “You look like you’ve had enough fun without me. ”

My pulse pounds under my skin. Flames lick every nerve ending where his body pins mine.