Pucking Forbidden Claim

Kade POV

The bass from the music vibrates through the floor beneath my feet, the heat of so many bodies pressing into me  from every direction. The club is electric, alive with the high that comes after a championship win. Most of the noise is coming from people who are shouting, then there's drinks getting spilt, as I walk through hands grab at me, pulling me deeper into the chaos.

I should be celebrating. I should be drunk off my ass, soaking up the attention, riding this high for as long as it lasts, but instead, I can’t stop looking up. Sure I'm drunk, but not enough, yet.

“Mercer!”

A hard slap lands between my shoulder blades, making me stumble forward. Turning, I  see Tyler grinning at me, his blond hair damp with sweat, his eyes already glazed over from too many shots. He's wasted already.

“Come on, man! We fucking won! You should be wasted by now,” he shouts over the music, shaking his drink at me like I’m supposed to grab it.

Forcing a smirk, I look at him. “I’m working on it.”

“Not hard enough.” He throws an arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer. “Look at this place! Look at all these girls, man. Championship winners don’t go home alone. Pick one.” He stops and groans, okay, look at all these guys, man! Pick one." 

I chuckle, shaking him off. “Not really feeling it.”

He frowns. “Dude. What’s wrong with you? You’ve been off all night.” I don’t answer, my eyes glance up again, toward the glass walls of the VIP lounge.

He follows my gaze, snorting. “What? You think you’re supposed to be up there with the suits?”

I shrug. “Maybe.” We could belong there, I just never tried before.

Tyler laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, good luck with that, man. That’s not our world.”

Maybe it's not his, but I’ve never been good at staying in my lane. Lifting my glass, I drain the rest of my drink, setting the glass down on the nearest table before turning toward the stairs.

“Where the hell are you going?” Tyler calls after me.

I don’t answer, instead I walk towards the stairs that go to the VIP lounge. I expect to be stopped, but the bouncer at the entrance barely glances at me before stepping aside.

The second I step into the VIP lounge, the air shifts instantly and the music from the main floor still has the floor vibrating beneath my feet, but up here, the actual music is quieter and smoother. The conversations of the men are low, and murmured over expensive whiskey. There's cigar smoke curling through the dim lighting, while downstairs, is a no smoking area.

I recognize some of these men, they are team owners, sponsors, and people with enough money to decide what happens to guys like me. None of them look up when I enter, clearly not caring about me.

Well, nearly all don't look up, one guy does.

He’s sitting in the corner, sprawled out on a leather couch looking far too relaxed considering he's upstairs in a club and not at home. His suit is dark is tailored perfectly to fit his broad shoulders and he has a body that doesn’t look like it belongs behind a desk. His eyes are sharp, scanning the room, landing on me with the kind of interest that makes my pulse kick up.

Darren West, I know exactly who this guy is. He's the owner of a killer team, a billionaire and a powerbroke. He's known as the kind of man that never has to ask for what he wants. He takes what he wants.

He tilts his glass toward me, his lips curling into a slow smirk. “I didn’t think you had the balls to come up here, Mercer," he says as he watches me for my next move.

Hesitating up here? It's like social suicide, so I react quickly and smirk back, even though my stomach tightens. “To be fair, I didn’t think you’d notice.”

He chuckles, taking a sip of his whiskey before setting the glass down. “Oh, I notice winners. And tonight, that’s you Mercer.” He shrugs like it's simple and nothing, but these guys up here, don't interact with us outside of the games.

Slowly moving, I walk deeper into the room, purposely moving closer to him before sliding onto the couch beside him. The leather is cold against my overheated skin. I should ask him why he knows my name, why he’s looking at me like that, but I don’t. Mainly because the way his fingers trail lightly over my knee tells me everything I need to know. He’s testing me, waiting to see how much I’ll let him get away with.

Why am I not pushing his hands away? I should smirk, make a joke, or at least brush off his touch as if this doesn’t mean anything, but I don’t. For some strange fucked up reason, I let him linger.

“Are you always this forward?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intend, but it's too late now to change it.

Darren chuckles, his hand sliding slightly higher while his fingers brush against the inside of my thigh. “I don’t waste time when I see something I want.”

His confidence is unnerving, he isn’t hesitating, and he isn’t second-guessing, it's rare I meet men like him. Then again, I'm not hesitating either. Sure I'm second-guessing but I'm not letting ti show. My body moves, and I lean into the couch, stretching my arms along the backrest, meeting his gaze with something sharp. “You scouting me or trying to fuck me?”

“Why can’t it be both?” Darren laughs, slow and deep like he's willing to push further.

I smirk, even though my chest is tight, my pulse uneven. “That’s a conflict of interest, isn’t it?”

He lifts his glass, taking a slow sip before setting it down with a soft clink. “Only if you sign with me.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I don’t belong to anyone, then, ” I say before exhaling while shaking my head.

His eyes darken slightly, and there's a flicker of something in them but it's gone quickly. I watch as he shifts closer, his thigh pressing against mine. “No?”

The air seems to thickens. I should be thinking about what this means, about how reckless this is, about how easily this could blow up in my face. But I don’t. Maybe because I'm drunk? Maybe it's because I'm bored. Or it could simply be because Darren is looking at me like he already knows how this is going to end.