Page 125 of Double Puck

I don't stop. I keep licking through every wave until she's shaking, until she has to push my head away with a breathless laugh.

"Beck. Beck. I can't."

I crawl up her body, kiss her forehead, her cheek, her mouth. She tastes like herself on my lips.

"Best breakfast in Vegas," I say.

She laughs, still breathless, and pulls me down against her.

"You," Darcy pants at the ceiling, "have a problem."

"Several, actually. Weren't you responsible for putting them in a report?" I kiss her again, letting her taste herself, and she hums into my mouth like she doesn't hate it at all. "Now. Seriously. We need a real breakfast. What do you want? And think big, because I'm ordering like a man who might get paid Vegas money soon."

A still look flickers across her face at that. I kiss it away and reach for the room service menu. Forty minutes later, our suite looks like the best damn buffet in all of Las Vegas.

"Okay, Beck. I think, I think, you might have gone a little overboard."

She has a point. The room service cart might just be a monument to my poor decision-making skills. There's a stack of pancakes so tall it's lopsided, golden and fluffy, drowning in maple syrup that pools at the edges of the plate. Endless rashers of bacon are fanned out beside them, crispy and glistening with grease with a mountain of scrambled eggs looking like yellow clouds.

Of course, Darcy reaches for the fresh berries in a crystal bowl and pours herself a coffee that's been served in an actual silver pot.

"Good though, right?" I say, stuffing an entire rasher of bacon in my mouth.

Darcy sits cross-legged on the bed, wearing my Bellagio robe. Apparently, she's claimed it with the casual entitlement of a woman raised in five-star hotels. Even now, she's eating pancakes off my plate despite having her own identical plate six inches away.

"You have your own pancakes," I point out.

"Yours taste better."

"They're the same pancakes."

"No… They're your pancakes." She stabs another forkful. "That's the flavor."

And here's the thing that gets me. This. Right here. Darcy Madden with syrup on her lip and her hair a disaster and zero makeup...

Nobody else gets this version of her. No one ever has. Not Colin, not her parents, not even foot fetish weirdo exes.

Just me.

I lean over and kiss the syrup off her lip, and just as I'm about to tell her how fucking glad I am she chased me down last night, the door to my suite bursts open like a fucking SWAT raid just stormed into my hotel suite.

"BECK, I SWEAR TO GOD, IF YOU'RE NOT IN HERE—"

The door slams back against the wall with enough force that Darcy's coffee actually spills a little on the tray. I look over and see Declan filling the doorway like an extremely pissed-off nightclub bouncer who’s just discovered the VIP room contains his naked little brother.

Mason is barely half a step behind him, holding a coffee and my spare key card, which explains the breaking and entering.

They both stop dead.

Because I am naked except for a strategically positioned pancake plate, and Darcy Madden is sitting in my bed wearing a robe and not much else, holding a fork dripping with pancakes and maple syrup.

Nobody moves.

Mason takes a sip of his coffee. "Well. At least he's not missing."

"You gave them a KEY?" I yell at the universe.

"Rose gave us a key," Declan says, still processing the scene. "We thought you'd left. Skipped town. Nobody saw you after the game, you weren't answering your phone, your bed—" he gestures at the extremely occupied bed "—okay, your bed has clearly been used."