I lift my chin and speak in the condescending tone I reserve for peasants. “You alreadyhavetouched me.”
“No.” His low voice carries like a vibration. “I haven’t even started. Had to remove the gloves to feel you properly.”
We fall into this ridiculous dance—me skating backward, him stalking forward with staggering determination.
“You’ll feel my foot in your ass if you don’t watch it.”
He chuckles.Chuckles.I didn’t know he was physically capable of producing that sound, but there he is—laughing. Not lightly, though. Darkly.
“Your adorable defense mechanism is growing on me.”
“Don’t get attached. I bite.”
“Mmm. How hard?”
The asshole drags his tongue over his lower lip before catching the corner between his teeth.
And now, his mouth is glistening red, and I need to look the hell away because, what the actual fuck is going on right now?
“I’d bite your head off.” I grin in my usual provocative way, but he only smiles, seeming too pleased with whateverthe fuckthis is.
“Violent. I knew you were special.”
Something moves behind my rib cage, not sure what, probably an illness Dr. Fenwick hasn’t found yet, but fortunately, I don’t have to think about it.
Unfortunately, however, my back slams into the plexiglass—no, it’s the unlatched penalty box door. It swings open from the impact, and I skid on the slick ice, losing balance as my stick clatters somewhere on the ice.
Big hands grab my waist, flattening across my back. Enveloping me? Trying to keep me upright?
Whatever the fuck the intention is, it fails spectacularly because we crash through the doorway and tumble inside in a mess of skates, scraping sounds, and unholy banging.
The fall is only half controlled. Marcus’s weight pins me briefly, absorbing part of the impact with his grip. Still, my upper back smacks the edge of the bench.
I end up half sitting, my shoulder blades glued to the cold composite surface as a large, stupidly muscled body presses me down.
I blink at the rink lights spilling through the open door, ice gleaming in the corner of my vision, my shoulders throbbing.
And…something else isthrobbing.
Fucking hell.
This needs to be clinically studied, because I just fell on my ass, got steamrolled by a linebacker disguised as a hockey player, and now, my dick is…excited?
This would be peak comedy if I weren’t personally starring in a psychological horror film.
Marcus lifts his head and—fuck me sideways—he’sclose.
So close, his face might as well be fused to my helmet. Instead of air, I’m inhaling him—cedar, leather, something painfully masculine.
And my dick isaching.
Wow. This is crossing into new territory of insanity, and I’m already operating at a clinical baseline of unstable, as Grandma likes to remind me.
Because none of this adds up. Like, seriously. I love women. Hypersexual disaster here—courtesy of the fucked-up past, or so Dr. Fenwick says. The point is—Ilovesex.
I love fucking, binding, going all night until I can’t move.
So yes, it’s logical that my dick is a whore. That’s his default setting. But it is not logical that the whorish tendencies are activating in front ofMarcus.
