“Well, actually, he wanted me on top,” she jokes desperately.
“Do not”—I breathe against her neck—“fuck with me right now.” Sucking in the foul air of the room, I turn to the hockey player. “Don’t touch my stuff.”
The control is a thin thread tonight.
Carlo goes pale. “Mr. Svensson—I—I didn’t know she was yours.”
“I don’t belong to him,” she snaps, clearly furious.
It’s the wrong thing to say.
My jaw locks. I can’t look at her. Try to focus.
The anger vibrates off of me.
“I mean, she’s got a great ass! Good—nice job, Mr. Svensson—” The hockey player gives a nervous laugh.
“Tell me, Carlo, do you like your job?” My tone is quiet. Deadly.
“Oh, um—” He hunches over. Somehow, he has the wherewithal to cup his hands over his dick. “Yeah, I mean, being a hockey player is great.”
“You want to continue being a hockey player?”
He nods. Just another bobblehead on my shelf.
“Then don’t ever touch my shit again.” My voice is velvet wrapped steel. “Or I will have you out of the NHL and shipped off to fucking Eastern Europe faster than you can blink.”
Winne covers her face with her hands.
“Ye-yes, sir, yes—”
“Know this: I’m a billionaire. I own this city. I am this city. You lose the use of your knees, I can have another star forwardin here next week. Everyone forgets your name within three months.” I watch him wither in front of me. “Get the fuck out of my hotel.”
He stumbles around the room like a panicked ferret, clutching a pillow to his junk as he flees.
The instant he’s gone, she opens her mouth. “Fitz, what the—”
“Shut up, Creampuff.”
She chokes on a sound—somewhere between outrage and panic.
I drag a hand through my hair, vibrating with adrenaline, then step into her space again, so close she has to tilt her head back to keep eye contact.
“I’m sorry, Creampuff,” I grind out. “But if you keep arguing with me…” I press my face all over her skin, her throat, her cheek, her shoulder, wanting to scrub the scent of him off of her. “I really do think I might lose my mind.”
She makes a strangled noise but shuts up. I slide my hand up her back to her neck and tighten my fingers around it, feel the thready pulse. “Because the sight of him with his hands on you—touching you like you’re just another puck bunny, like you’re something disposable he gets to use—I want to kill him. You’re my woman. My stuff. My fucking obsession. He doesn’t get to put his hands where I’ve wanted to. He doesn’t get to unwrap you like a present, put his fingers where I’ve imagined. Where I’ve held myself back. All because you said you didn’t date.”
She goes rigid as my hand tightens on the back of her neck. I guide her out of the ruined hotel room, back out into the bright living area.
Like I own her.
Like she’s mine.
“Oh my god, you’re so hot!” the drunk girls slur when I come out of the bedroom.
“Wait, you’re, like, a billionaire?”
“Daddy,” they coo and giggle drunkenly.
