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theemporium · 7 months

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[5k] luke hughes swore he would never tell another soul and take his confession to the grave. that ends as an epic fail as he tells a really pretty girl his most embarrassing secret. luckily for him, she seems pretty eager to help him out.

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It shouldn’t be embarrassing, but it was. It really fucking was.

It wasn’t always a big deal. When he was in high school, everybody was just like him. Or at least, most people were. HIs friend group were. And they would always talk about how fun college would be, how everything would change, how everyone grew up and just did it.

And then he went to college and nothing really changed. It was a bit embarrassing, it made his cheeks burn bright red whenever he spoke about it. But it also wasn’t the most unbelievable thing. Between keeping his GPA up, his training regime and the countless games during the season, it wasn’t shocking to anyone that he didn’t have as much free time as movies liked to make it seem like.

But then he moved up. He went from being a kid with a dream to actually living that dream and beyond. A joke from his childhood became a reality when he found himself on the ice with his older brother, wearing the same jersey as his older brother. Suddenly, it was all real and intense and he was in it properly.

But, fuck, it was embarrassing that he was in the National Hockey League and he was a fucking virgin.

In theory, he knew it wasn’t a big deal. It didn’t change the way he played or his performance on the ice. It didn’t affect his professional life in any way, shape or form. But it still made him want to curl up in a corner and shrivel his existence away whenever he thought about it too long.

And it wasn’t like it was obvious. He wasn’t announcing it to the world and rambling on about it in interviews. But the amount of jokes people made about women throwing themselves at his feet or having a turnstile of people in his bed felt like he might as well be.

The awkward laughs and strained smiles would only take him so far before someone caught on.

And that might have been the worst part—the fact that nobody knew. Not his friends in high school nor the ones he made in college. None of his teammates. Not even his brothers (though, the idea of him even telling them whether or not he was a virgin was an experience he would like to avoid all together).

Nobody in the fucking world knew Luke Hughes was a virgin except him and, in a weird way, it was kind of fucking lonely.

Or at least, nobody else knew until he met you.

…

The night he met you had been a few days after the Devils had been kicked out of the playoffs.

Despite the loss, Nico wanted one last team celebration to sign off a good season. Because yes, it fucking sucked that they were knocked out and it sucked they wouldn’t be the ones to lift the Stanley Cup this year. But they still played well, they deserved to appreciate that, to appreciate each other.

And, on a more personal level, it was a chance to celebrate with the NHL team he could now call his home.

He was in the big leagues now. He was in the NHL and he was a professional hockey player and, by the power of some fucking superior being he did not know, he was lucky enough to share a team with at least one of his brothers.

It still felt like a dream.

And with that dream came the joys and perks of being a New Jersey Devil—like not being ID’d in the bar the team commonly visited.

“Takin’ it all in?”

He tore his eyes away from the surrounding bar to look at his brother, perched on the edge of the pool table Nathan and Kevin were currently competing on. He had been happy to just watch, observe—for lack of better terms—take it all in, like Jack assumed.

Instead, he just retorted with, “it’s a bar. Not much to take in that I haven’t seen before.”

“Okay, college boy,” Jack snorted, his cheeks flushed the same shade of red as the vodka cranberries he had been drinking all night. “I meant the big leagues.”

Luke resisted the urge to snort. “Ask me again in a year when it’s actually sunk in.”

Something in Jack’s face softened. “I’m glad you’re here, Moose.”

His throat felt a little tight but he still smiled. “Me too.”

He had assumed that was the end of the conversation, but that was Luke’s first mistake. He hadn’t paid much attention to the way Jack’s eyes roamed around the bar, narrowed like he was looking for something or, in this case, someone.

“What do ya think about her?”

Luke blinked, looking at his brother with a confused glance before he followed his line of vision to some blonde settled against the wall on the other side of the bar.

“What about her?”

Jack shot him a look. “Do you think she’s pretty?”

Luke hesitated, almost as though it was a trick question. “Yes?”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t sound convinced,” he commented. “So, blonde isn’t your type. What is then? Brunettes? Redheads? Miscellaneous?”

“No, I—” Luke frowned. “I’m surprised you even know what miscellaneous means.”

Jack punched his arm in response.

“Why are you asking about my type?” Luke questioned, something that felt a lot like uncertainty bubbling in his stomach.

Jack let out a deep sigh, prolonging it to properly encapture his annoyance. “I’m trying to help you get laid, bud.”

Luke froze.

There was no way Jack could know. He knew that. He did. Logically, it was impossible for his brother to know he was a virgin when Luke had genuinely never admitted as much beyond the age of seventeen. But here he is, seemingly trying to find him someone to sleep with. There was no way he could know, there was no way Jack knew—

“I mean, you’re in the fucking league now, bud. Milk it a little, have some fun!” Jack continued, lost in his own rambles to even notice the way Luke’s shoulders sagged with relief. “I’m sure college was fun and all, but this is better!”

Luke tried to let out a laugh. “I think I’m alright for tonight.”

Jack huffed out in annoyance. “Don’t be a bore! Luke, you’re in the NHL. You just fucking played in the playoffs! Enjoy yourself, man.”

“I am enjoying myself,” Luke countered.

“You’ve been drinking the same beer since we got here,” Jack snapped back with a knowing look. “And I know it tastes like shit because I did the exact same thing when I first ordered a drink here. I’m trying to be your guru, help you avoid the mistakes I made.”

“My guru,” Luke repeated with a snort. “More like an unwanted Cupid.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “C’mon—”

“Focus on yourself.”

“It’s my duty as a brother—”

“I am not staying to listen to this,” Luke grumbled, batting away his brother’s hands as he began to make his way to the bar. As much as he hated to admit it, Jack was right—this beer tasted horrible and not even the tiny sips he had been taking were going to save it.

He settled himself on a free spot at the bar, his elbows placed on the slightly sticky countertop as he peered over to try find a bartender. He saw a few on the other side of the bar finishing off a few drinks and accepted the small wait, a little lost in his own thoughts and whether he wanted to try another drink instead of just settling for something non-alcoholic when a hand settled on his back.

“There you are, babe!”

Luke frowned, turning around to find you staring right back at him with a grin on your face. Honestly, he was expecting to turn around and let the person realise they had made a mistake. But your smile remained on your face, though the wide eyes staring back at him were a little distressing.

“Uh, I think you—” But he was cut off by another voice, a much deeper one this time.

“This is your boyfriend?”

The man was average height and fairly built, but that was all he had going for him. His shirt was definitely a size too small to make him look bigger and the chunky chain looked nothing short of tacky. And Luke may have been in his presence for less than thirty seconds, but the body spray was overwhelming and pungent and made him want to plug his nose.

Now, Luke may be a little slow but he isn’t dumb.

He may be deeply confused by the sudden promotion to boyfriend from a stranger but it didn’t take long for Luke to realise the wide, distressing eyes were a cry for help and the walking embodiment of Axe body spray in a tight shirt was the reason.

“Uh, yeah!” Luke cleared his throat a little, his arm moving to wrap around your shoulders in the least awkward way he could possibly achieve. “She’s my girl! Uh, girlfriend! She’s my—” His cheeks burned but he couldn’t stop his mouth from moving. “She’s my babe!”

The man glanced between you and Luke for a few moments before rolling his eyes, muttering something under his breath about wasting his time before he disappeared into the throng of people crowded by the bar.

“What a dick,” you murmured and it almost made Luke jump when he remembered you were still beside him, that his arm was still around your shoulders. You turned around to look at him once you knew the other guy was gone, and your smile seemed softer now. “Thank you for that, really. You’re a lifesaver.”

“It’s no biggie,” Luke replied, cringing a little before he quickly continued. “Thanks for giving me the honour of being your fake boyfriend.”

You snorted. “Yeah, well, you have a friendly face. You looked like you would go along with it.”

His cheeks burned warmer. “Thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” you grinned before turning to settle in the spot next to him, fingers tapping on the bar counter. “Let me buy you a drink to thank you for your services?”

Luke began shaking his head. “That really isn’t necessary—”

“Please,” you insisted, a softer expression on your face. “It would make me feel better for dragging you into my scheme.”

“I—” He cleared his throat, hoping to some superior being that his face wasn’t as red as it felt. “O-Okay.”

Your grin widened. “Brilliant. What do you want?”

“A Coke.”

“Really?”

“Yes?”

“Okay, no judgement, just surprised,” you said, leaning over the bar to place your drink order along with his before you turned back to the boy. “So, do I at least get to know my fake boyfriend’s name?”

HIs lips twitched upwards. “Luke.”

“Luke,” you repeated before telling him your name, something gleaming in your eyes when you did. “So, Luke, what brings you to a bar on a Monday night to drink Coke?”

“I’m here with some work friends,” he lied easily, not really one to play the professional hockey player card (despite Trevor’s insistence that it was expected to be used for this reason exactly). “Just enjoying the night before we all head off for the summer.”

“Hm, here with your work buddies but staying sober and standing alone at a bar,” you mused. “You’re quite intriguing, Luke.”

“I think that’s a compliment,” he murmured with a frown.

“It is,” you assured him with a smile.

Luke opened his mouth to say something before the familiar voice of his brother reached him.

“LUKEY BOY IS GETTING SOME!”

He shut his eyes, muttering a list of curses under his breath before he finally looked at you with a sheepish expression. “I’m so sorry about him. Just ignore him, he’s a little drunk and—”

“Hey, it’s fine,” you assured him with a laugh. “Work buddy?”

“Mhm,” Luke confirmed with a nod. “And my older brother.”

“That sounds like an intense work environment,” you commented.

“Tell me about it,” he grumbled, but there was still a smile on his face. “I wouldn’t blame you for making a run for it now while you have the chance. Jack will only get worse.”

You waved him off, smiling. “Your brother isn’t scaring me off,” you assured him. “Plus, I said I was intrigued and I’m enjoying talking to you. Makes it seem a lot more believable that you’re my boyfriend if that other dude is lingering around.”

“Yeah, totally,” Luke agreed, something warm bursting in his stomach at the fact you wanted to keep talking to him.

And despite what Jack and the others assume, nothing more happened between the two of you than just talking. It was bittersweet, in a way. Because Luke really enjoyed talking to you that night, even if he knew he would probably never see you again.

But it was nice and it replayed in his head a lot more than he cared to admit that summer.

…

He assumed it was guaranteed that he would never see you again.

So, it was pretty shocking when he did, in fact, see you again at a house party held by one of the boys of all fucking places in the pre-season.

As the new season approached and the overwhelming realisation that he was about to enter his rookie season of the NHL hit him, Luke didn’t even hesitate to accept the invitation for the ‘small get together’ with the boys. These were his teammates, these were the people he was going to have to trust and navigate on the ice with. It seemed like a nice idea to have a few chilled hangouts whilst training dragged everyone back to New Jersey.

What Jack and everyone else had failed to mention was the fact a ‘small get together’ did not just mean the team like he assumed. It meant a house full of people that Luke certainly didn’t know or recognise, but seemed to know exactly who he was.

He was only slightly ashamed to admit that he clung onto Jack’s side as long as he could. But his brother was a social butterfly who liked to jump between different crowds and it was too much for Luke. Instead, he had settled near a couch where John and Kevin had been rambling away to each other when Jack suddenly appeared—out of thin air—with a huge grin on his face.

“Hey, Rusty, is that not your girl from the bar?”

Luke’s brows furrowed together in confusion. “Huh?”

But Jack didn’t say much, just nudging his little brother to look over his shoulder. His lips parted again, prepared to tell Jack that he was drunker than he expected him to be after a few beers, only to find the words stuck in the back of his throat when he turned around and saw you.

He had thought about you more than he cared to admit over the summer. Just random little flashes of the conversations you shared. It was stupid, and a little pathetic, but you just felt…different—in the least cliche way possible.

It was almost embarrassing how quickly his cheeks just heated at the sight of you.

No, correction: it was really fucking embarrassing.

“Aw, did Lukey invite his lil’ crush?” Jack teased, reaching out to mockingly pinch his cheeks but Luke batted his hand away just in time.

“Shut up,” he grumbled before clearing his throat, turning to faze his brother again. “I didn’t. I–I don’t even know why she is here.”

Jack shot him a look. “Go on, then.”

Luke frowned. “What?”

“You are actually clueless,” Jack grumbled under his breath before giving him a hearty shove. “Go talk to her!”

His eyes widened. “What?!”

“Go talk to her,” Jack repeated, not understanding the panic in his younger brother. “You guys were hitting it off at the bar, what’s the big deal? Maybe you can hook up with her again.”

“I—” He started before realising this was not the time to delve into the same argument they had had since the night at the bar. “It’s fine, she probably doesn’t even remember me.”

His brother scoffed. “You’re shitting me, right?”

Luke blinked. “No?”

“Dude, she was all over you!” Jack insisted, giving him another shove that had him stumbling slightly. “Go!”

Luke could feel his cheeks heating up. “Jack—”

“It’s my big brother duty to help you!”

Shove.

“Jack, fuck off. It’s not gonna happen.”

Shove.

“Yes, it will. Stop being a coward.”

Shove.

“Can you stop? I am not—”

Shove.

“Go talk to her!”

Shove.

“No—”

Except, the little shoves and lack of balance with the drinks he had been nursing through the night seemed to catch up on Luke. He stumbled back, his footing gone and his free hand reaching out to grasp Jack or something to stop him from falling. But it was too late. He was stumbling and his drink was sloshing and it went all over—

You.

It went all over you because now you were right there, right in front of him, having just walked across the room to come and see him.

“Oh shit,” Jack muttered from behind him.

You looked down at your shirt—your very white shirt that now had some atrocious red stain splattered across the front from the cocktail John had made him—and stared in shock.

Luke felt his whole body curl in on itself, his face burning and his chest feeling oddly tight. “I am so sorry—”

But, to his fucking shock (because you seemed to shock him a lot, if he was honest), you looked up at him and laughed.

“Unlucky timing, huh?” You joked but Luke didn’t feel like laughing.

“I can—” But he paused, not even sure what he was going to say.

“Liking the colour red a little too much there, Cherry!” A voice from somewhere in the crowd—Luke genuinely wasn’t sure where—called out and your face brightened.

“It’s a good thing I can pull it off!” You retorted, unfazed by the name.

Cherry.

Usually, Luke would chalk it up to his memory being fairly shit and the months that had passed since that night in the bar making him confuse your name for something else. Except, the boy had practically relived that night in his head on a constant loop. Every word. Every sentence. Every second of it.

Pathetic? Yes.

Helpful? Probably not in any way, shape or fucking form except for the fact he was certain your name was not Cherry. He was more than certain. At least, he was certain that wasn’t the name you had told him.

There were so many logical and simple reasons, he knew that deep down. But right now, Luke was embarrassed and flustered and he had this horrible inkling that you told him a fake name in case you thought he was a creep at the bar like the guy he saved you from and—

Yeah, Luke really didn’t like the idea of that. He didn’t like the idea of being paired in a category with that man. And he certainly didn’t like the idea that he made you uncomfortable enough to give him a fake name, even if he had given you no real reason to do otherwise.

Someone pushed through the crowd as Luke continued to spiral in his own thoughts, unable to even get a coherent sentence out when Nico glanced between you and him. He let out a sigh, shaking his head as he offered you an apology before he turned to Luke.

“You can show her where the bathroom is, right?”

And, fuck, he really thought this was the closest he could reach to ever feeling something close to hatred towards his captain.

Luke nodded his head, unable to get a word out and nodded towards the stairs.

You seemed to catch his hint well enough as you turned to head towards the stairs. Until your hand was reaching back, taking his in your grasp and intertwining your fingers together and Luke’s brain short circuited all over again.

“Get it, Moose!”

Jack was pretty high on that almost-hate list too.

Luke felt like his body was on autopilot as he moved towards the stairs, letting you lead him up with your hands still connected until you reached the top. You looked at him expectantly and he led you towards the bathroom—one of the larger ones because he thought he would die if he was trapped in a small, enclosed space with you after he just spilled his drink all over you.

He opened the door, flicking the light on before stepping aside and letting you head inside. Except, the world seemed to have something against him, you dragged him into the bathroom behind you, your hands still connected, and grinned at him.

“Help a girl out?”

Luke cleared his throat but nodded.

He tried not to think too hard when you eventually dropped his hand. He tried not to think too hard when you locked the bathroom door. He tried not to think too hard as you glanced at him through the mirror.

And he was doing well until you went and pulled your shirt over your head.

His eyes widened, a spluttered noise of surprise leaving his lips as his eyes instantly snapped to the ceiling. But it was useless, he could already feel his blush crawling down his neck and burning hot.

“Relax,” you laughed. “I’m not giving you the full show. Just need to get this stain out.”

“Mhm,” he hummed but his eyes remained on the ceiling.

“Luke?”

“Yes?”

“Are you okay?”

“Uh huh.”

You let out a hum, like you didn’t quite believe him but you didn’t seem to push further. Instead, he heard the tap turn on and the water started running and suddenly, the bigger bathroom didn’t feel big enough.

“I’m not a creep!” He blurted out.

You paused. “Is that why you are staring at the ceiling? To prove you aren’t a creep?”

“No, well—” He cut himself off and let out a deep breath. “No, I just…your friend called you Cherry down there. You gave me a different name. I just…didn’t want you to think you had to give me a fake name because I was a creep. Granted, you don’t owe me anything but I just wanted to assure you—”

“Luke?”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think you’re a creep. And I didn’t lie about my name either,” you said, your voice a little softer this time. “People just call me Cherry.”

And for a boy who ate, lived and breathed a sport that classically gave stupid nicknames to everyone and everything, he had never felt quite this dumb.

“Oh.”

“Are you going to look at me now?”

He waited for a moment. And then another. And then, before he chickened out of it, he lowered his gaze until he met yours—and didn’t let his eyes wander any further.

“You’re an interesting boy,” you mused, tilting your head to the side.

His brows furrowed together. “Thank you?”

You grinned at his response before you turned back to the sink, seamlessly continuing to scrub your shirt under the running tap.

Luke watched you for a few moments, trying to just stew in the silence and let you do your work. But the seconds kept ticking by and the silence was becoming more stifling and there was only so much he could handle before he wanted to rip his eyes out.

“I’m sorry about my brother, by the way,” he said when he couldn’t think of anything else to say. “He’s a lil’ enthusiastic but he means no harm.”

“He seems quite desperate to get you laid,” you noted, your eyes briefly finding him in the mirror again. “A lot of your friends do.”

His cheeks burned again. “They do that with everyone. They just like to be wingmen, you know?”

Your eyes narrowed slightly on him. “But it makes you uncomfortable.”

You say it like a fact, not a question.

Luke choked a little. “Well—”

“Why not just tell them to back off?” You questioned and Luke welcomed the fresh, bitter twinge of embarrassment that washed over him.

“Because they would ask questions,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “It’s just easier to let them mess about.”

You looked intrigued now. “Why?”

Luke shifted under the intensity of your gaze. “Because then they would ask why I didn’t want to hook up with anyone.”

You raised your brows. “Not a one-night stand kind of man?”

And honestly, he should have just cut the conversation there. He should have deflected the topic onto something else or gave some vague answer. Hell, even telling you to mind your own business was a better answer. But the alcohol made him feel buzzed, your presence was overwhelming and—for the first time in his life—Luke found himself blurting out the words he swore he would take to the grave.

“Because I’m a virgin.”

You blinked. And he fucking waited for it.

He waited for you to laugh. He waited for you to laugh and howl and cackle at his pathetic admission. To mock him, to tease him, to make him feel worse than he already felt. He waited and waited and waited.

And it never came.

“And you can’t tell them that?” You questioned.

“I, uh,” Luke shook his head, his stomach somersaulting inside him in the worst ways possible. “No, it’s a little…taboo in my line of work.”

You turned to actually look at him instead of gazing at him in the mirror. “Are you a sex worker?”

Luke spluttered, shaking his head. “What? No! No, I…I’m a hockey player.”

You frowned a little. “Hockey players can’t be virgins?”

“Well, it’s not like a set rule but like,” he paused, waving his hands around like that explained everything. But you still looked confused and Luke knew he had to keep talking. “Everyone just kinda expects hockey players to be some kind of…sex god. Or something. I don’t know. All I know is that it’s not really common to be a virgin in the league.”

“Okay,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest—where you still stood in only a bra covering yourself. “So, like, are you a virgin…by choice?”

“Oh my god,” Luke groaned, bringing his hands to cover his face before it got even more red.

“I don’t mean it in a bad way!” You assured him. “I was just curious.”

“Nobody was supposed to know,” Luke grumbled into his hands, but you seemed to understand him well enough.

“I won’t tell a soul,” you promised.

But the damage was done and Luke wanted nothing more than for the floor to open up and drag him into the depths of the Earth.

He needed to get out of this bathroom. He needed to get out and go downstairs, rush through a flurry of goodbyes to the team before he quickly escaped and headed home where he could hide his embarrassment in a large tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream that certainly wasn’t in his meal plan.

He just needed to turn around, unlock the door and slip out before you had the chance to—

“What if I helped you?”

Yeah, that was not what he expected.

His hands dropped from his face as he stared at you, his expression almost blank except for the confusion shining in his eyes. “Huh?”

“What if I helped you?” You repeated.

“Helped me with what?”

“Being a virgin,” you said with a shrug. “It seems like it’s really important to you, or something. And I think you are bigging it up in your head a little more than necessary. Maybe you just need someone to give you a helping hand, you know? Guide you through it, help you learn. No pressure, yeah?”

He blinked. “And…you would do that?”

“Yeah, why not,” you answered honestly with a shrug of your shoulders. “You intrigue me, Luke.”

“I intrigue you,” he repeated slowly, and he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“It’s not a bad thing to be intriguing.”

“It is when you make it sound like I’m some kind of experiment.”

You flashed him a softer smile and something in his chest eased a little. “You don’t have to say yes, it was just a suggestion. Just…a new friend helping her new friend out.”

New friend.

Luke swallowed. “And…what would you gain from this?”

You sighed, shrugging your shoulders again. “Honestly? I’ve had my fair share of disappointing experiences in bed by guys who think they are sex gods. Call it a gift to womankind if I help at least one guy be competent and capable in bed.”

He blinked. “Right. Gift to womankind. That’s me.’

You snorted. “Just think about it, yeah? Obviously, you can go about with whatever you are doing. Just a suggestion to make a casual thing out of it, to help take the stress away. It’s your choice, Luke.”

It was his choice.

He knew it was his choice and, despite knowing little about you, some stupid part of him trusted that you were being genuine. You were odd but you were sincere, and he knew your offer was sincere too. If he took you up on it, you would help him out. If he declined, you wouldn’t push the matter any further and just move on in your life.

No more words were exchanged after that, the offer lingering and the tap still running as the red stain showed no signs of budging under the soap and cold water. He knew he didn’t have to give you an answer there and then.

But the worst part was that Luke was pretty fucking sure he knew what his answer was the first time the offer left your lips.

And he pretty sure the remaining stain on your shirt was some sort of bad omen from the universe that already liked to tease him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

He was fucking done being a twenty year old virgin and you were his solution to the problem.

#luke hughes #nhl #new jersey devils #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes x you #luke hughes x y/n #luke hughes fic #luke hughes one shot #nhl x reader #nhl x you #nhl x y/n #nhl fic #nhl one shot

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wannabehockeygf · 1 month

Text

greedy - quinn hughes

“He said ‘I’m just curious, is this for real or just an act?’

Can’t tell if you love or hate me,

Never met someone like that.”

summary: when you’re a bartender in a popular local club, the captain of the canucks who’s also one of your regulars takes a liking to you

pairing: quinn hughes x fem!reader

word count: 9.3k. i’m so sorry.

warnings: 18+ NSFW! fingering (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, slight degradation.

notes:

- this is soooo different for me! have never written about a hughes brother before even though they’re super popular here.

- missing vancouver hockey. sorry leafs nation.

- also this is probably some of the nastiest smut i’ve ever written!

- not proof read

- the eye colour thing again… sorry if they’re green.

***

Friday nights at The Roxy Cabaret were like trying to squeeze into your favorite pair of jeans after Thanksgiving dinner—uncomfortable, chaotic, and leaving you questioning your life choices. Honestly, it felt like the entire population of Vancouver had made a pact to invade this dingy club all at once. Not that you were complaining, though—well, maybe a little. It wasn’t like you had a choice; the rent wasn’t going to pay itself.

Sure, you worked there, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t hold a deep, burning, soul-crushing hatred for the place, right? Well, okay, maybe "hatred" was a bit strong. You did occasionally wander in on your nights off, blend into the crowd, and pretend you were just another twenty-three-year-old who didn’t have to worry about the bartender recognizing you. Because let’s face it, you needed a break from serving vodka sodas to tipsy twenty-somethings trying to relive their high school glory days.

What really got under your skin, though, was the crowd that showed up when you were on the clock. And by "crowd," you meant the entire Vancouver Canucks roster, who seemed to think The Roxy was their personal post-victory playground. It wasn’t that you disliked hockey—you were indifferent to it, like you were to a distant relative’s Facebook posts. If it was on, fine, you’d watch. But you weren’t exactly lining up to buy season tickets.

Most of the guys were fine—great even. Some of them were downright charming, the kind of guys you wouldn’t mind chatting with when things slowed down. Plus, they tipped like they were trying to make it rain dollar bills in a music video, which you appreciated. But then there was Quinn Hughes.

Oh, Quinn. Captain Smug himself. He had a way of getting under your skin like an itch you couldn’t scratch.

"Another round, please, Princess," Quinn drawls, tapping his fingers on the bar like he owns the place.

You grit your teeth, mentally counting to ten as you shake up a cocktail. "Can you get Brock to order it? He isn’t an egotistical asshole."

Quinn just laughs, that infuriating smirk of his widening even though he looks like he could use a nap. "Aw, come on, Princess, don’t be like that. You know you love me."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes so hard they might get stuck. Instead, you stick to your customer service script. "That’s not my name," you say, yanking out shot glasses like they owe you money.

"I know," Quinn says, brushing a strand of hair out of his face like he’s in some cheesy romance movie. "But you act like a princess, so it suits you."

Oh great, now your jaw’s tightening. Fabulous. You grab the tequila bottle with a little more force than necessary. "What do you want from me, Quinn?" you ask, trying not to let your annoyance seep too much into your voice.

He leans in closer, his smirk practically reaching his ears. "How about a smile, Princess? Is that too much to ask?"

You force the kind of smile you reserve for customer service nightmares, tight-lipped and entirely devoid of warmth. "Is that good? Can you go now?"

Quinn chuckles, taking the tray of drinks from you like he’s doing you a favor. "Always so feisty. But I like it. Keeps things interesting."

"Fuck off, Quinn," you mutter, wiping down the counter with the enthusiasm of someone scrubbing a crime scene. "I’m not here to entertain your ego."

He leans in even closer—so close you can practically count the flecks of mischief in his eyes. "But you do entertain me. Every time you brush me off, it just makes me want you more."

You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. "You’ve got a funny way of showing it. Just because you’re some big-shot athlete doesn’t mean you can treat women however you want."

Quinn’s gaze slowly trails up from your lips, where it’s been lingering far too long, to meet your eyes. "Ah, come on, you know I always take good care of you."

And damn it, he’s right. Quinn is probably your biggest tipper out of the entire team. And while you like the money, you hate seeing his stupid messy brown hair and annoyingly pretty blue eyes at your bar every time they win.

"Sure you do," you say, swiping someone else’s card through the machine, mentally willing him to disappear into the sea of other customers.

You watch Quinn walk away, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowd like he’s parting the Red Sea. It’s infuriating, really, how someone so damn annoying can also be so… well, hot. There, you admitted it. The guy is hot. Like, "should come with a warning label" hot. But that doesn’t mean you’re about to give him the satisfaction of knowing you think that. No way. Not in this lifetime, or the next, or even if you were reincarnated as a particularly enthusiastic poodle.

Quinn Hughes is the human equivalent of a pop-up ad—persistent, unwanted, and impossible to get rid of without a lot of cursing. Every time you brush him off, he just comes back stronger, like he’s powered by your irritation. And maybe that’s what’s so maddening about him. He knows exactly how to push your buttons, and he enjoys every second of it.

The problem is, you’re starting to wonder if you enjoy it too.

Nope. Not going there. You are not going to be one of those girls who gets all flustered over a guy just because he’s got a good smile and a credit card that could probably buy out half the bar. You’re stronger than that. You’re resilient. You’re… currently mixing a drink with far more focus than necessary because all you can think about is what it would be like to grab him by the collar of that too-tight shirt and kiss that stupid smirk right off his face.

You’re shaking your head at the absurdity of it all as you pour the next round of shots, hands moving on autopilot. It’s bad enough that Quinn Hughes has invaded your workspace like some kind of hockey-playing parasite, but now he’s wormed his way into your thoughts too.

“Get a grip,” you mutter under your breath, lining up the glasses like they’re little soldiers marching to their doom. Because really, that’s what this is—a battle of wills. A tug-of-war where the prize is your sanity, and you’re losing.

A couple of your regulars wave you over, and you force your focus back to them, slapping on that customer service smile that’s become second nature by now. They’re nice guys, the kind who tip decently and don’t try to flirt with you in that obnoxious, entitled way that some customers do. They’re also blissfully ignorant of the 5’10, 180 pound storm cloud currently hovering over your head, which is exactly how you like it.

But just as you’re starting to enjoy a break from the chaos, you catch sight of him again. He’s leaning against the bar a few feet away, talking to Brock, who seems completely unfazed by the fact that Quinn has probably just sent your blood pressure through the roof.

You steal a glance at Quinn, hoping he won’t notice, but of course he does. He always does. His eyes meet yours, and for a split second, you forget how to breathe. It’s ridiculous, really. The guy’s just standing there, doing absolutely nothing, and yet he has this stupid effect on you. Like he’s some kind of gravitational force, pulling you in against your will.

You force yourself to look away, focusing on the drink in front of you like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. But it’s too late. The damage is done. Your brain has already gone down that treacherous path, imagining what it would be like if you gave in just once.

But that’s a dangerous game, and you know it. Because if you give him an inch, he’ll take a mile. Hell, he’ll probably take the whole damn kilometer. And then where would you be?

Nope. Not happening. Not tonight, not ever.

You’re not sure when exactly it started—the whole Quinn Hughes thing, that is. Maybe it was the first time he sauntered up to the bar, eyes twinkling like he knew something you didn’t. Or maybe it was the time he tipped you a hundred bucks just for bringing him a water, like he was trying to buy your affection. Which, spoiler alert, didn’t work. Or so you’ve been telling yourself.

But you can’t deny it any longer: Quinn Hughes is a problem. A major, five-alarm, get-the-fire-extinguisher kind of problem. Because somewhere along the line, your irritation with him has twisted into something… different. Something dangerous. Something that makes you wonder what it would be like to grab him by that annoyingly perfect jawline and just—

“Hey, Princess, you gonna make me another drink or just stand there daydreaming?”

And there it is. That voice, like smooth whiskey poured over gravel, cutting through your thoughts like a knife. You don’t even have to look up to know it’s him. Of course it’s him. Because Quinn Hughes has a sixth sense for when you’re starting to get a grip on your sanity, and he’s hell-bent on ruining it.

You set down the bottle of vodka you’ve been holding, turning to face him with what you hope is a look of mild disinterest. “Back so soon? Didn’t think you could tear yourself away from your adoring fans.”

Quinn grins, leaning against the bar like he’s got all the time in the world. And maybe he does. After all, what’s a Friday night without irritating the bartender who’s secretly trying to figure out what color your eyes really are because the lighting in here sucks? Not that you’d ever admit to that. “I just couldn’t stay away from you, Princess. You know how it is.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s half-hearted at best. “Again, not my name.”

He taps his fingers on the bar, a rhythm that’s almost hypnotic. “I know. But I like it. It suits you.”

“What, because I won’t roll over and worship the ground you walk on?” you shoot back, crossing your arms. You know you’re playing with fire, but there’s something addictive about sparring with him. Like a game of chicken, except you’re both too stubborn to swerve.

Quinn’s grin widens, and you can’t help but notice how his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. Damn him. “Exactly. I like a girl with a backbone.”

You open your mouth to retort, but the words get stuck somewhere between your brain and your tongue. Because for some reason, all you can think about is the way he’s looking at you right now—like you’re the only person in this crowded, chaotic club that matters.

So that’s why you decide to go for it.

“You ever had hate sex, Hughes?”

You can almost see the gears in Quinn’s head grind to a halt at your question. The usual smug smirk falters for a split second, and it’s the most satisfying thing you’ve seen all night. You’ve finally done it—left Quinn Hughes speechless. But the victory is short-lived because, as always, he recovers faster than you can blink.

“Hate sex?” he echoes, his voice dropping an octave, making you question all of your life choices up to this point. He leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear, and you suddenly realize you’re standing way too close. “Princess, if that’s your idea of a pick-up line, I’ve got to say, I’m intrigued.”

And there it is, that damn smirk back in full force. He’s trying to throw you off, but you refuse to back down. You’ve already started this ridiculous game, so there’s no turning back now.

“You didn’t answer the question,” you reply, your tone as steady as you can make it. “Ever had hate sex?”

He lets out a low chuckle that sends shivers down your spine—not that you’d ever admit it. “I don’t know. Guess we’d have to define ‘hate sex’ first.”

You narrow your eyes at him, your mind racing with all the ways this could go horribly wrong. But damn it, you’re committed now. “I’m pretty sure it’s when you can’t stand someone, but you still want to rip their clothes off.”

Quinn’s eyes darken just a fraction, and you can feel the tension between you both ratchet up to an unbearable level. It’s like the entire club fades away, leaving just the two of you locked in this absurd, heated standoff.

“Is that what you want?” he asks, his voice smooth and infuriatingly calm. “You want to rip my clothes off, Princess?”

You clench your jaw, determined not to let him see how flustered you are. This is Quinn Hughes, the guy who drives you up the wall every single time he walks into this bar. There’s no way in hell you’re about to let him get the upper hand.

So, you do the only thing that seems appropriate. You lean in, so close that your lips are almost brushing his ear, and whisper, “Maybe I just want to shut you up for five minutes.”

“You think you could handle it?” His voice is a low rumble now, and there’s something about the way he says it that’s got your stomach doing somersaults. “Because if we’re going there, I don’t do anything halfway.”

Oh, for the love of— You’re pretty sure your face is betraying you right now, showing just how much his words have affected you, but you can’t let him know that.

Quinn is still watching you, eyes glittering with amusement and something else you can’t quite place. There’s a challenge there, a dare hanging in the air between you, and you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is. Too close. Close enough that you can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his hair falls messily over his forehead, and those damn blue eyes that seem to see right through your carefully constructed defenses.

For a moment, you consider backing down, playing it off as a joke. But then Quinn would win, and that’s simply not an option. So, you double down, leaning in just a little bit closer, your breath brushing against his skin.

"Handle it? Quinn, I think you’re forgetting who you’re talking to." Your voice is steady, but inside, your heart is doing its best impression of a drum solo. This is insane. You’re flirting with Quinn Hughes. Quinn Hughes, the guy who spends his Friday nights at your bar making your life just a little bit more complicated than it needs to be. The guy who seems to take an unholy amount of pleasure in riling you up. The guy who—God help you—makes your pulse race every time he so much as glances in your direction.

Quinn’s lips curve into a slow smile, and you can’t help but notice how annoyingly perfect his teeth are. Of course they are. Everything about him is infuriatingly perfect, from his tousled hair to his broad shoulders that you really shouldn’t be noticing right now. "You’ve got a mouth on you, Princess," he murmurs, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine that you desperately try to suppress.

You swallow hard, trying to keep your composure as you stare into Quinn’s infuriatingly perfect face. Seriously, who gave him the right to look this good, especially when he’s being such a smug asshole? You remind yourself that you don’t like him. You don’t. Except maybe you do, a little bit. Okay, a lot. But that’s beside the point.

Quinn’s eyes are locked on yours, and you can practically feel the heat radiating off him. It’s like standing too close to a bonfire—one wrong move, and you’re going to get burned. But damn it, you’re not backing down. Not when he’s looking at you like that, like he’s just waiting for you to slip up so he can swoop in and… do what, exactly? You’re not even sure anymore. And that’s the most dangerous part.

“Someone’s gotta put you in your place, Hughes,” you manage to say, your voice coming out a little breathier than you intended. You’re aiming for sassy, but it’s hard to pull off when your heart is practically doing backflips in your chest.

His smile widens, and you want to slap it right off his face, but also—God help you—maybe kiss it off too. “Is that so?” he asks, voice dripping with amusement. “And you think you’re the one to do it?”

Oh, he’s good. He’s really good. And damn it, you walked right into his trap, didn’t you? Because now you’ve got to follow through, or else he’s going to lord this over you for the rest of eternity.

But before you can figure out a clever retort, Quinn’s gaze flicks past you, scanning the crowded bar. When he looks back at you, there’s something new in his eyes—something that sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

“You know,” he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “this place is a little too crowded for what I have in mind.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. He’s not suggesting what you think he’s suggesting, is he? Because if he is, you’re in way over your head. And yet… there’s a tiny, traitorous part of you that’s intrigued. More than intrigued. You want to know what he has in mind, even though every logical part of your brain is screaming at you to abort mission and run for the hills.

You tilt your head, trying to play it cool even as your heart races. “And what exactly do you have in mind, Hughes?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Quinn leans in closer, so close that you can feel his breath on your cheek. “Somewhere private,” he murmurs, “Where we can… talk.”

“Talk,” you repeat, your tone dripping with skepticism. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”

He chuckles softly, and the sound sends a jolt of electricity straight to your core. “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”

Oh, you do. You’ve got a lot of ideas, most of them involving doing things to Quinn Hughes that would definitely not fall under the category of “talking.” But you can’t just give in, can you? That would be too easy, and Quinn would never let you live it down.

But then again… maybe it’s time to stop overthinking things. Maybe it’s time to let go, just this once, and see where this crazy, ridiculous, probably-terrible idea takes you.

“Fine,” you say, surprising yourself with how steady your voice sounds. “Let’s go.”

Quinn’s eyes light up with something that looks a lot like victory, but you’re not about to let him have the upper hand. Not entirely, anyway.

“Lead the way, Princess,” he says, his voice a low purr that sends a thrill of anticipation coursing through you.

You roll your eyes—because of course you do—but there’s no denying the excitement buzzing just beneath the surface. You’ve got no idea what you’re getting yourself into, but one thing’s for sure: it’s going to be one hell of a ride.

With one last glance at the bar, you turn on your heel and start making your way through the crowd, Quinn hot on your heels. You can feel the tension between you both, crackling like static electricity, and it’s taking everything in you not to turn around and grab him by that stupidly perfect jawline right then and there.

You slip through a side door that leads to a narrow hallway, the noise from the bar muffled by the heavy walls. The air is cooler here, the dim lighting casting long shadows that dance along the worn carpet. You can feel Quinn’s presence behind you, close enough that you can practically feel the heat radiating off his body.

“Where are we going?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that makes your stomach flip.

“Storage closet,” you say, not even sure where the idea came from, but it’s out now, and there’s no taking it back. You know the staff keeps some of the extra supplies in a small room down the hall, and it’s as good a place as any to… well, whatever this is.

Quinn’s chuckle is dark and throaty, sending another shiver down your spine. “Kinky,” he murmurs, but you can hear the approval in his tone.

You reach the door and push it open, revealing a small, dimly lit room lined with shelves full of bottles and boxes. It’s cramped, barely enough room for the two of you, but that’s probably a good thing. The last thing you need is space to think about what you’re doing, because if you stop to think, you might just lose your nerve.

Quinn steps in behind you, closing the door with a soft click. The sound echoes in the quiet space, amplifying the tension that’s been simmering between you both all night.

For a moment, neither of you moves. You just stand there, staring at each other, the air thick with unspoken challenges and barely restrained desire. And then, like a rubber band snapping, the tension breaks.

You’re not even sure who moves first—maybe it’s him, maybe it’s you—but suddenly you’re pressed up against the shelves, Quinn’s body crowding into yours, his hands bracing on either side of your head as his lips crash onto yours

It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s every bit as intense and heated as the tension that’s been simmering between you from the moment you met. His lips crash against yours with a force that sends your head spinning, and for a moment, all you can do is cling to him, your hands fisting in his shirt as you kiss him back just as fiercely.

This is no sweet, romantic moment. This is raw, unfiltered desire, born from all the frustration and irritation that’s been building between you two for so long. It’s everything you never thought you’d want, and yet here you are, giving in to it completely.

Quinn’s hands are on you now, pulling you closer, as if he can’t get enough. And maybe he can’t. Maybe you can’t either. All you know is that this is happening, and there’s no stopping it.

“Damn it, Hughes,” you murmur against his mouth, trying to inject some venom into your words, but it comes out more like a plea. You can feel his smirk, the arrogant bastard. He knows he’s got you, and it only makes you want to kiss him harder.

Or punch him.

Maybe both.

“Problem?” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement as he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes. His lips are slightly swollen, his hair disheveled from your hands, and he looks annoyingly good like this. All messy and untamed, like you’ve undone him somehow, when you know it’s the other way around.

You want to tell him to shut up, to stop looking at you like that, like you’re some puzzle he’s close to solving. But you’re too breathless, too overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. So instead, you grab the front of his shirt and yank him back down to you, your lips crashing together again in a bruising kiss.

He groans into your mouth, his hands slipping under your shirt, fingers skimming the heated skin of your back. You shiver at the contact, hating how good it feels, hating that he knows it too. You can feel his smugness in every touch, every shift of his body against yours.

And yet, you don’t stop him.

Because you’re just as guilty.

You’ve been wanting this—wanting him—even though you’ve been denying it, pushing it away, convincing yourself that you despise him. But the truth is, that hatred has always been laced with something else. Something darker, more dangerous. Something you’re only now beginning to understand.

It’s infuriating.

It’s intoxicating.

“You’re such an asshole,” you mutter against his lips, your voice tinged with frustration as you nip at his lower lip. You want to hurt him, just a little, to remind yourself that you’re still in control, that this isn’t just him getting what he wants. But when he groans in response, his hands tightening their grip on your hips, you realize that maybe you’re not as in control as you thought.

“You say that like you don’t love it,” he replies, his voice husky as he trails kisses along your jawline, down to your neck. Your breath hitches when he finds that sensitive spot just below your ear, the one that makes your knees go weak. He’s too good at this. Too good at getting under your skin.

You don’t want to enjoy this. You really don’t. But your body isn’t exactly cooperating, and the traitorous warmth pooling in your stomach isn’t something you can ignore. It’s maddening how much you want this, even as every logical part of your brain screams that this is a terrible, horrible, no-good idea.

But logic be damned, because the way Quinn’s lips are moving against your skin is making it very hard to care about consequences.

“You’re such a smug bastard,” you mutter, trying to inject some bite into your words, but they come out breathy, almost like a sigh. Ugh. Could you be any more pathetic?

Quinn chuckles against your neck, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “I thought you liked that about me,” he murmurs, his voice thick. His hands slide up under your shirt, fingers skimming over your ribs, making you gasp. “Or at least, you like it enough to let me do this.”

He’s right, and that just pisses you off even more. You do like it—hate it, love it, whatever it is, you’re feeling it with every nerve in your body. You can feel his smirk against your skin, and it only fuels the fire inside you.

You yank at his hair, pulling his head back just enough so you can meet his eyes, which are dark and stormy with desire. “Don’t get cocky, Hughes,” you warn, even though you know it’s a losing battle. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

He raises an eyebrow, that damn smirk still plastered on his stupidly perfect face. “You keep telling yourself that,” he says, his voice low and rough. “But we both know you’re full of shit.”

“Full of shit?” you echo, narrowing your eyes at him, trying to keep your wits about you even as his hands roam over your body. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who’s all talk and no—”

Quinn’s lips are on yours again before you can finish the sentence, cutting off your words with a kiss that’s somehow even more intense than the last one. It’s like he’s determined to prove you wrong, to make you eat your words, and as much as you hate to admit it, he’s succeeding.

But you’re not about to let him have the satisfaction of knowing that. Not yet, anyway.

You push back against him, shoving at his chest just enough to create some distance, even though your body is screaming at you to do the opposite. His eyes flash with surprise, and you smirk up at him, a little breathless but still in the game.

“Easy there, Hughes,” you murmur, your voice laced with false bravado. “I didn’t say you could take control.”

Quinn arches an eyebrow, his lips quirking up into that infuriatingly smug smile that makes you want to both slap him and drag him closer. “Oh? I must have missed the memo where you were the one calling the shots.”

You grit your teeth, not entirely sure whether you want to punch him or kiss him again. Maybe both, but that would just be giving him the upper hand. Instead, you decide to hit him where it hurts—his ego.

“Please,” you scoff, leaning in close, your lips brushing against his ear as you speak. “You’ve been in my palm since the moment we met. Don’t flatter yourself.”

He lets out a low, amused chuckle, his breath warm against your neck. “Is that what you tell yourself when you’re fantasizing about me at night?”

Your stomach flips at his words, but you refuse to let him see the effect he’s having on you. Instead, you tilt your head, letting your lips ghost over the shell of his ear as you whisper, “In your dreams, Hughes.”

But as much as you’re trying to play it cool, you can’t deny the electric tension between you both. It’s like the air is crackling with it, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. All you can focus on is Quinn—his hands, his lips, his damn voice that keeps pulling you deeper into this mess.

His hand slides down your side, settling on your hip, and your breath catches when he pulls you closer, your bodies pressed together in the cramped space. You can feel every inch of him, the solid warmth of his body, the way he’s holding you like he doesn’t want to let go. And maybe he doesn’t. Maybe you don’t either.

Quinn’s lips are back on yours, but this time, it’s slower, more deliberate. Like he’s savoring the moment, taking his time, driving you absolutely crazy with how good it feels. You’re so wrapped up in it, in him, that you almost don’t notice the way his hands are working on rolling up your shirt until it’s halfway up.

You pull back, just enough to look up at him with narrowed eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He gives you a look that’s all innocence, but there’s nothing innocent about the way his hands keep moving, sliding under your shirt, his fingers grazing your skin. “Just making sure you’re comfortable,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough in a way that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Comfortable?” you repeat, your voice coming out a little higher than you intended as his hands roam over your bare skin. “You think this is making me comfortable?”

Quinn leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “No, but it’s making you hot, isn’t it?”

Your breath hitches, and damn him, he’s right. He’s so infuriatingly right. But you’re not about to admit that. Instead, you try to muster up some semblance of defiance, even though you can feel your resolve crumbling with every touch, every heated look he throws your way.

“You wish,” you manage to say, but the words lack the venom you were aiming for. Instead, they come out breathy, almost like a plea, and you hate how much that turns you on.

Quinn grins, and it’s a wicked, knowing grin that makes your stomach twist in the most deliciously infuriating way. “I don’t have to wish,” he says, his voice a low rumble that makes your knees weak. “I can see it in your eyes.”

Before you can respond—before you can even think of a comeback—he’s kissing you again, his lips moving against yours with a fervor that makes your head spin. You’re drowning in him, in the heat, the intensity of it all, and for a moment, you wonder if you’re going to lose yourself completely.

But then Quinn’s hands are on your hips, lifting you up onto the shelves, and you gasp at the sudden movement. You grab onto his shoulders, your fingers digging into his skin as he steps between your legs, his body pressing against yours in a way that makes it hard to remember why this is such a bad idea.

“Quinn,” you murmur, trying to sound like you’re in control, like you’re not about to fall apart at the seams. But your voice betrays you, coming out shaky, uncertain, and Quinn hears it. Of course he does.

His hands slide up your thighs, fingers teasing the edge of your shorts, and you can’t help the way your breath hitches, the way your body arches toward him, desperate for more. Damn it, you shouldn’t want this—shouldn’t want him—but there’s no denying it now.

“You can stop this anytime you want,” Quinn whispers against your lips, his breath warm and tantalizing. “Just say the word.”

But you don’t say anything. Because you can’t. You don’t want to stop, not when his hands are on you, not when his lips are trailing down your neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Not when every nerve in your body is screaming at you to let go, to give in to this insane, reckless desire.

Instead, you pull him closer, your fingers tangling in his hair as you kiss him with everything you’ve got, trying to show him that you’re not backing down, that you’re just as in this as he is. Maybe more.

Quinn groans against your lips, and you can feel the way his body tenses, the way his hands tighten their grip on your thighs. It’s intoxicating, the power you have over him, the way you can make him unravel with just a kiss, a touch.

But then his hands are slipping under your shorts, and your breath catches in your throat. It’s happening, it’s really happening, and suddenly, you’re not sure if you’re ready for this. If you can handle what comes next.

“Quinn,” you murmur, trying to sound like you’re in control, like you’re not about to lose it completely. But he’s not listening, or maybe he is, and he just doesn’t care, because his hands are still moving, still exploring, and you’re melting under his touch.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, and the look in his eyes is enough to make your stomach flip. It’s dark, intense, full of heat—and, damn it, he’s giving you that smug smile again, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice rough and breathless, a contrast to the arrogant tilt of his lips. “You good?”

Good? Is that a joke? You’re anything but good right now. Your heart is racing, your mind is spinning, and your body—well, your body is betraying you in every way possible, pressing closer to him, silently begging for more.

“I fucking hate you,” you manage to choke out, though the words feel flimsy, a pathetic attempt at maintaining some semblance of control. Quinn’s eyes narrow slightly, and you know he doesn’t believe you for a second. But instead of calling you out on it, he leans in, his lips brushing against your jawline as he murmurs, “Then why are you so fucking wet?” He punctuates the words by brushing his fingers against the damp fabric of your underwear.

Your brain short-circuits at his words. Like, did he really just—? You’re torn between the urge to slap that smug look off his face and the overwhelming desire to pull him closer, consequences be damned. The nerve of this guy, thinking he can just—

But then his fingers move, and every coherent thought you had goes flying out the window. A gasp escapes your lips, and you curse yourself for giving him the satisfaction, but, damn it, how are you supposed to keep your wits about you when his hands are doing that?

Quinn’s watching you, his eyes dark with amusement and something much more primal. “What’s the matter?” he teases, his voice a low rumble.

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to muster up some sort of retort, but all that comes out is a breathy, “Shut up,” which only makes his smirk widen. God, you want to wipe that grin off his face so badly, but every time you think you’re about to regain control, he does something that completely derails you.

Like now, for instance, when his fingers dip beneath the waistband of your underwear, and your hips jerk forward entirely of their own accord. Quinn’s chuckle is low and throaty, and you feel the vibrations of it against your neck as he nips at your skin, leaving a trail of barely-there bites that make your pulse race.

“Shutting up doesn’t seem like your style,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear, making you shiver. “But I think I can find a way to keep you quiet.”

You don’t get a chance to ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean because his hand finally dips lower, and suddenly, you’re not sure whether you want to moan or curse him out. Your body makes the decision for you, your head falling back against the shelf as a breathless moan escapes your lips, and you feel Quinn’s grin widen against your skin.

“God, you’re so fucking—” Your words get caught in your throat as he moves his fingers just right, and the sound that comes out of you is more of a whimper than anything else. It’s humiliating, really, how easily he’s reducing you to this—a writhing, desperate mess—and the bastard knows it.

“Sensitive, are we?” Quinn’s voice is laced with amusement, but there’s a huskiness to it now, a slight hitch in his breath that tells you he’s just as affected by this as you are, even if he’s better at hiding it. “That’s cute.”

“Cute?” you manage to gasp, trying to muster up some semblance of defiance, even as your body betrays you by arching into his touch. “I’ll show you—” Your words trail off into a moan as he circles his fingers just right, and suddenly, the only thing you want to show him is how quickly you can come undone if he keeps this up.

You're about to fire back with something scathing, something that’ll put Quinn in his place, but all that comes out is a breathy gasp as his fingers work a little faster, a little rougher, hitting that spot that has your entire body going slack against the shelves. God, if anyone walked in right now, they'd have one hell of a show.

"Something you wanted to say?" Quinn’s voice is thick with that damn arrogance, but there's a slight edge to it now, like he's barely holding it together himself. Good, you think. If you’re going down, you’re taking him with you.

"Y-you're…" You try to form a sentence, anything to wipe that smug grin off his face, but the words get tangled in your throat as Quinn’s other hand slides up your thigh, his touch hot and demanding. "You're such a…"

He smirks, his lips hovering just over yours, so close you can feel the heat of his breath. "Go on, sweetheart. I'm dying to know."

"Oh, fuck off," you mutter, but your voice lacks any real bite, especially when his fingers dip lower, making your hips jerk forward involuntarily. "Quinn…"

He pauses, his lips still pressed to your jaw, and for a moment, you think maybe—just maybe—he’s going to stop, give you a chance to catch your breath, to regain some semblance of control. But then he moves again, his fingers slipping past your last shred of dignity, and you let out a sound that’s somewhere between a moan and a curse.

"That’s what I thought," Quinn whispers, his breath hot against your skin. "I knew you couldn't keep that tough act up forever."

"Screw you," you hiss, but your words are cut off by another sharp gasp as Quinn’s thumb brushes over a particularly sensitive spot. "Oh, God…"

"Already there," he murmurs, his lips finding that spot just below your ear that makes your knees go weak. He presses a kiss there, soft and maddeningly slow, before pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, and you can see the barely-contained hunger in them. It sends a thrill of both fear and excitement racing through you.

"Quinn, I swear, I’m gonna—" you gasp as his fingers continue their relentless assault, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. "Or maybe I'll just—"

"Just what?" he presses, his eyes locked on yours, daring you to finish the sentence. "Come all over my fingers? Because that’s what you’re about to do, isn’t it?"

There’s a part of you—the sensible, rational part—that’s still trying to cling to some semblance of control, some dignity. But that part is losing, rapidly being overpowered by the heat pooling in your stomach and the way Quinn’s looking at you like you’re the only thing he wants in the entire world.

For a moment, you consider making some sort of last-ditch effort to regain control, to pull away and regain your breath. But then Quinn’s thumb brushes over that spot again, and all thoughts of self-control go out the window. Instead, a moan slips past your lips—loud and unrestrained, filling the tiny storage closet with a sound that’s undeniably needy.

Quinn’s smirk widens, his eyes darkening with satisfaction, and damn it, he’s enjoying this way too much. “That’s right,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. “You’re gonna come for me, yeah? Or do you want my cock instead?”

Your brain is short-circuiting, struggling to keep up with the intensity of the moment. The idea of him inside you, combined with the way he’s touching you, is almost too much to bear. You’re on the verge of losing it, and every part of you is screaming for release.

Finally, you manage a breathless, “Fuck it,” and let your hands wander lower, fumbling with his belt, your body arching against his in a desperate plea for more. You don’t care about the consequences, the logical part of your brain completely overridden by the burning need coursing through you.

“I swear, if we ever make it out of this closet,” you gasp, your fingers struggling with the stubborn belt buckle, “I’m going to have a hard time looking you in the eye.”

Quinn chuckles, his breath hot against your ear. “I’ll take that as a compliment. But right now, I think your focus should be on something else.”

You manage to loosen his belt, your hands shaking with anticipation. The urgency of the moment makes every touch and every breath more intense. “And what would that be?” you retort, trying to keep some semblance of your usual sarcasm. It’s hard, though, when his fingers are still doing deliciously wicked things to you.

Quinn’s fingers trace teasing circles, making your breath hitch and your body squirm against him. “Oh, I don’t know,” he murmurs, his voice a velvet caress against your ear. “Maybe on getting me out of these pants before I lose my patience.”

“Geez, Hughes, such a gentleman,” you manage, your voice breathless as you finally get his pants undone. The way he’s looking at you makes you feel like you’re the center of his universe. It’s a heady feeling, and it’s only adding to the feverish heat between you.

You push his pants down just enough, and as you finally free his hard length, you’re met with the unmistakable evidence of his own need. The sight makes you gasp, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.

Quinn groans into your mouth when you reach inside his jeans, his hips jerking forward as if seeking more contact, more friction. You’re both teetering on the edge now, the line between control and complete surrender blurred beyond recognition. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once, and you’re not sure if you want to keep pushing him or if you just want to let go and fall into the abyss together.

“God, you drive me fucking crazy,” Quinn breathes against your lips, his voice rough with need, and there’s a moment—a brief, fleeting moment—where you think you see something more in his eyes. Something deeper than just desire, something that sends a jolt of fear straight to your heart. But then his hands are on you again, pulling you closer, and whatever that look was, it’s gone, replaced by the raw, primal hunger that’s been simmering between you from the start.

You shudder as he grips your hips, his fingers digging into your skin with just enough force to make you gasp. You can feel him, hot and hard against your palm, and it’s taking everything in you not to just give in, to let him take what you both so clearly want. But there’s still that stubborn part of you, the part that refuses to let him have the upper hand, that wants to make him beg, make him come undone for you.

“Say please,” you whisper, your voice barely above a breath, your lips brushing against his as you speak.

Quinn freezes, his eyes narrowing as they lock onto yours, and for a moment, you think you’ve pushed him too far, that he’s going to pull back and leave you hanging on the edge of oblivion. But then a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face, and his grip on your hips tightens.

“Please?” he echoes, his tone dripping with arrogance, as if the very idea of him begging is laughable. “Sweetheart, I don’t beg.”

You raise an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips as you stroke him slowly, deliberately teasing, watching with satisfaction as his breath hitches, his bravado faltering ever so slightly. “No?” you murmur, leaning in to nip at his bottom lip, your voice low and taunting. “You sure about that?”

Quinn’s eyes darken, and for a split second, you think you’ve got him—that you’ve managed to gain the upper hand. But then he’s moving, faster than you can react, pinning your wrists behind your back with one hand while the other yanks your shorts down in one swift motion, leaving you exposed and vulnerable in a way that sends a rush of heat straight to your core.

“You want to play games?” he growls, his voice low and dangerous, the sound of it sending a shiver down your spine. “Fine. But I don’t play fair.”

Before you can respond, before you can even think to respond, he’s pressing into you, his body solid and unyielding, and all coherent thought flies out of your head as he finally, finally gives you what you’ve both been craving.

The world tilts on its axis as he thrusts into you, hard and deep, and you’re not sure if the sound that escapes your lips is a moan or a sob or something in between. All you know is that you’re completely, utterly lost in him—in the way he’s filling you, stretching you, driving you to the brink of madness with every rough, relentless movement.

Quinn’s breath is ragged against your ear, and you can feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly, threatening to snap at any moment. You’re so close, so fucking close, and it’s taking everything in you not to just let go, to give in to the blinding pleasure that’s consuming you from the inside out.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Quinn groans, his voice strained, and there’s something raw, almost vulnerable in the way he says it, something that makes your heart stutter in your chest. “I’ve been imagining this from the first moment I walked in here.”

Your hands are still pinned behind your back, your body arched against the shelves, completely at Quinn’s mercy. And damn it, he knows it. He knows exactly how to push you to the brink, how to make you lose every ounce of control you thought you had. His movements are powerful, purposeful, each thrust driving you closer to the edge, until you’re teetering on the brink of oblivion.

“Quinn—” You gasp out his name, your voice shaking with the intensity of it all, and he groans in response, the sound vibrating through you like a living thing. His grip on your wrists tightens, the roughness of his touch sending a jolt of pleasure-pain straight through you.

“You’re mine,” he growls against your ear, his breath hot and ragged, and there’s something possessive, almost desperate, in his voice that makes your heart race even faster. “You’re fucking mine.”

And you’re so damn close, so close to falling apart entirely. But there’s still that stubborn part of you, the part that refuses to give in, to let him have all the control. So, you tighten around him, just enough to pull a sharp, choked-off groan from his throat, and you feel a surge of satisfaction as his rhythm falters, just for a moment.

“Fuck, you’re—” Quinn’s voice is hoarse, strained, as if he’s holding onto the last shreds of his control by a thread, and it sends a thrill through you to know that you’re the one doing this to him. “You’re so fucking tight.”

“Yeah?” you manage to breathe out, trying to sound cocky despite the tremble in your voice. “Maybe you should—”

But you don’t get to finish the thought, because Quinn shifts his angle just slightly, and suddenly, he’s hitting a spot that has you seeing stars, that has your back arching off the shelves and a cry escaping your lips before you can stop it.

“There it is,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice, the triumph. He’s found your weakness, and he’s going to exploit it for all it’s worth. “Right there, yeah?”

All you can do is nod, biting down on your lip to keep from crying out again as he starts to focus all his attention on that one spot, his movements growing more precise, more deliberate. He’s relentless, driving you closer and closer to the brink, and you can feel yourself starting to unravel, to lose the tenuous grip you have on your composure.

“Quinn, I—” You don’t even know what you’re trying to say, don’t even know if you can say anything at all with the way your breath is coming in short, desperate gasps.

Quinn’s chuckle against your ear is low and dark, the sound a tantalizing contrast to the rough, punishing way he’s moving inside you. “What was that? Didn’t quite catch it over the sound of you moaning my name.”

The arrogance in his voice is infuriating, but it’s also the last thing on your mind right now. Every thrust he gives you is like a jolt to your system, making it harder to stay focused, harder to cling to whatever shreds of control you have left. Your head is spinning, and you’re almost grateful for the way his body is pressed against yours, anchoring you in a whirlwind of pleasure.

You let out a breathless laugh, even as your body betrays you by arching into him. “You’re insufferable,” you manage to gasp out, trying to hold onto some semblance of your usual bravado. “And you’re really bad at this whole ‘being a gentleman’ thing.”

“Is that so?” Quinn’s voice is a low purr, his breath hot against your ear. “Keep telling me how much you hate me. It makes this so much better.”

You roll your eyes, even as a moan escapes your lips, the sound muffled by the way you bite down on your bottom lip. “You’re such a jerk,” you manage to say, though your voice is shaky and breathless, betraying just how much he’s affecting you.

“Yeah?” Quinn’s breath is hot against your neck, and you feel the brush of his lips against your skin, sending a fresh wave of heat pooling in your belly. “That’s not what your body’s telling me, sweetheart.”

You grit your teeth, determined not to let him have the satisfaction of knowing just how much he’s getting to you. But it’s a losing battle, and you both know it. Especially when he starts moving faster, his pace relentless as he drives into you with a force that has your entire body trembling.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your fingers digging into the shelves as you struggle to stay upright. “You’re—” Your words are cut off by a sharp cry as he angles his hips just right, hitting that spot inside you again that has your vision going white around the edges.

You don’t have time to think, don’t have time to process the fact that you’re completely, utterly exposed in a storage closet with a man who has made a sport out of driving you insane. All you can do is feel—every touch, every thrust, every ragged breath against your ear is pushing you closer to the edge, closer to losing the last of your control.

“God, you’re so… fucking… cocky,” you manage to choke out between gasps, your voice trembling with a mixture of frustration and desire. “It’s disgusting.”

“Mm-mhm,” Quinn’s voice is a low growl, his words vibrating against your neck as his teeth graze the sensitive skin there. “And you’re just an annoying brat who brushes me off every time I say something nice. But I figured it out, you just wanted me to rail all that attitude out of you.”

You try to respond, to counter his taunts with some biting retort, but all that comes out is a breathless moan as he picks up the pace, his thrusts becoming more frantic, more urgent. “Fuck, Quinn,” you gasp, trying to hold onto the last remnants of your control. “You’re—”

He interrupts you with a sharp, possessive growl. “I’m what? Don’t hold back now. Tell me how good it feels.”

Your head is spinning, your thoughts a jumbled mess of desire and frustration. “You’re a complete—” Another moan escapes you as Quinn hits that spot inside you again, making it impossible to form coherent thoughts. “A complete… asshole,” you manage to choke out, your voice trembling.

“And you love it,” Quinn’s voice is a triumphant whisper against your ear. “You love every second of this. Don’t you?”

You can’t even respond, the pleasure overwhelming you to the point where you’re just barely able to hold onto the edge of sanity. All you can do is nod, your body arching into him, your hands still pinned behind your back, completely at his mercy.

“You’re so close,” Quinn murmurs, his voice low and rough. “So fucking close. I can feel it. And I’m going to make sure you get there. I promise.”

His words send a fresh wave of heat through you, and you feel yourself starting to unravel, your body trembling with the intensity of it all. Quinn’s movements are relentless, pushing you closer and closer to the brink, until you’re on the edge of a precipice, ready to fall into oblivion.

“Quinn, I—” You try to speak, but the words are lost in a cry as he thrusts into you with a force that has your vision going white around the edges.

Quinn’s grip on your hips tightens, his voice a rough whisper against your ear. “Come for me,” he growls, his breath hot and urgent. “Let go. Give it to me.”

And with those words, you shatter, your body convulsing with a pleasure so intense that it’s almost painful. You cry out his name, your voice echoing through the storage closet as you come apart, your entire world dissolving into a blur of sensation and release.

Quinn follows close behind, his movements growing erratic as he drives into you with one final, powerful thrust. You can feel his release inside you, hot and thick, and it sends a shiver through your entire body. He groans against your ear, his breath ragged and heavy, and you can feel the tension in his body as he finally, finally finds his own release.

The two of you are left panting in the aftermath, your bodies pressed together in the confined space of the storage closet. Quinn’s breath is hot against your ear, and you can feel the rapid beat of his heart against your back.

“God,” he murmurs, his voice a rough whisper. “That was… intense.”

You manage a shaky laugh, trying to catch your breath. “Yeah,” you agree, your voice still trembling. “That’s one way to put it. Now, get off of me. I have to get back to work.”

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