Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
It’s because I don’t like people touching me out of the blue, or at all, really. That’s why I always tie the girls up during sex. If they don’t like that, we’re not compatible. Get home safe, beautiful.
But here’s the thing that’s slightly—or majorly, depending on how you look at it—disturbing. I seemed to have momentarily forgotten about that tiny, pesky inconvenience just now.
If anything, I didn’t notice he was touching me for a while.
Fuck me sideways.
“What should we do?” He feigns concern, his voice grating on my last damn nerve. Or maybe it’s the way he speaks, so nonchalant and blasé and entirely fucking irritating.
I’m the only one who gets to speak that way.
“I plan to get in the way,” he says, circling me once, before he stops in front of me again, standing so close, I have to look up.
Okay, being circled is actually a no-no—almost there with waking up and finding myself in a place I don’t remember sleeping in.
It’s so grating, I want to bash his head on the ice and watch his blood paint the white red. It would be an impressive painting to collect, in my humble opinion.
“Good luck with that.” I start to bypass him, because he’s so not fucking fun. I prefer Dicky and his friends, who get red at the merest shit I say.
Osborn is an anomaly I’d rather not deal with.
He subtly shifts in front of me, blocking my path, and just when I’m about to shove him away, he lifts my chin with his gloved index finger, tilting my head back so I’m staring up at him.
For the first time, the look in his eyes changes, light slipping through.
No, it’s not light.
It’s sadism.
A deep sense of wanting to hurt someone.
Something.
Anything.
I recognize it because I experience that need in spades. But to see it directed at me raises goose bumps all over my fucking skin.
My throat closes and a hum of static floods my brain.
His head dips, and instinct urges me to pull back, but I can’t—not when he whispers so close to my mouth.
“You’re all mine tonight, prince.”
2
PRESTON
There’s something entirely ludicrous about this fucking game.
You know, the one I’m trying to win, but as much as I hate to fucking admit it, we’re struggling.
Being the reigning champions of the college league means no one fucks with us.
Much.
No one but the asshole Wolves who seem to have set their eyes on our throne.
But fear not, I am about to save the game. The first two periods were rough, but I’m here for the rescue.
I have Dicky by the dick—figuratively, of course. Ever since I planted the seed in his head before the game, I’ve already gained easy access. To his head, I mean.
We’re on the attack, and we have to get this one in to keep our marginal advantage, but their defense is no fucking joke this game. Someone has been working on their shortcomings since the last one.
You won’t catch me saying this out loud, but they’ve become a better version of themselves.
As we exchange the puck, I square up to Dicky and make a motion for Kane to pass it.
“Yo, Dicky. Wanna know who your girlfriend’s new dick is?” I ask him, catching the puck. “Your homie number eighty-one might have an idea. Or a video.”
Even if I don’t score this one, I’ll have this clown sent to the penalty box. With their right wing wide open, I’ll score as much as I like.
Dicky’s too stunned to react, and it’s the fraction of a second I need. With a grin, I skate past him and flick my wrist, ready to score—
A shoulder slams into mine, as solid as steel, and the shock reverberates all the way down my spine. I shove back, my teeth bared, but I’ve already lost my footing, and I hit the ice with a thud.
“Ahhhh—” the crowd reacts collectively.
“Told you you’re mine tonight.” Osborn’s voice carries like a low-spoken threat.
His eyes sweep down over me, a slow smirk settling in as though I’m exactly where he wants me. His orange jersey blazes under the cold light, the wolf baring its teeth between us. “Don’t try to weasel your way out of facing me, Armstrong.”
Then he skates away at supersonic speed as the crowd roars. Fuck this shit, they have the puck now.
I jump up and skate back to defense, ignoring Jude’s watchful eyes.
The puck is nearly blurry as it moves between their offense, led by none other than the headache on skates.
Marcus fucking Osborn.
He messed with the wrong person tonight.
As he gets the puck, I square up to him. “Good evening, bitch. Your night ends here.”
“Says who?”
“The scoreboard when I’m done with your sorry ass.”
“Bet?” He tries to skate around me, but I check him so violently, he groans but still passes the puck.
I stay on him because he’s their leading scorer. Their ace, really. Freak plays defense and offense as if he cloned himself overnight, which is annoying—for us, not them. Centers aren’t supposed to be good at both. I mean, they are, but they’re usually better at one or the other. Hell, even Kane leans toward defense, and Kane’s basically a hockey Terminator. But this jackass? He shows up at both sides of the rink, acting like he’s trying to win Employee of the Month.