He’s nowhere near a girl. Nowhere near soft. All sharp lines, carved jaw, predatory eyes, and muscles that are currently crushing the air out of me.
Everything about him smells and feels unmistakably male—deep, rough, and unapologetically masculine.
Not my usual dish. Not even on the menu.
“Get off me,” I say, then press my lips together because it comes out low, almost soft, so unlike the bite I meant to deliver.
Marcus reaches toward me, and every muscle in my body tenses as he removes my helmet. The clatter it makes against the panels sounds absurdly loud in the stillness.
Everything does.
My breaths.
His.
They’re deep, audible, fogging the plexiglass like we’re trapped inside our own private nightmare.
“Hi,” he drawls, running his index and middle fingers down my cheek, slow and obscene, stopping at the healing cut on my mouth. “I did a number on you the other day, didn’t I?”
I grit my teeth. “You have a death wish?”
“Not particularly.” A low vibration threads through his voice, his eyes darkening to match it. “I love my mark on you.”
“You’ll love my fist in your face, too.”
“I already do.”
His full concentration narrows onto the fingers tracing over my features—cheek, nose, the corner of my mouth. His gaze drops there, and discomfort rips through me in a sharp, familiar blur.
Like when he touched me before.
It starts as a prickle of unease, then slices through my chest like hidden blades, deeper than anything Lenin has ever done to me with his iron fist.
“What I don’t love,” Marcus murmurs, tilting his head, “is how your beautiful face is bruised.”
He brushes his thumb over my jaw. “I won’t hurt your face again. No matter how hard you push for it.”
Something thick lodges in my throat, tightening everything inside me.
Why does this feel—fuck—intimate?
I hate it. I hatehim.
“Don’t ever get your face hurt again,” he whispers, guiding my jaw into his palm.
“What I do with my face isn’t your business.”
“Not again.” His grip firms, his voice roughening in a deliberate shift. “Are we clear?”
A shiver races down my spine, and I categoricallyrefuseto analyze that. Straight into the walk-in closet with the rest of my psychological skeletons.
“If you’re done, get the fuck off me,” I snap, except it still lacks the punch it should have—which is deeply troubling. I’d like to file a complaint with my vocal cords.
And while I’m filing complaints, my uncooperative dick is next on the list.
“Done?” His lips hover inches from mine, heat radiating between us. “I’m only getting started, baby.”
I slap my gloved hand over his mouth before he can close the distance. “Don’t fucking kiss me or I’ll slice your throat, take a bath in your blood, and rearrange your face so thoroughly, your own mother won’t be able to ID the corpse.”
