He lowers my hand with maddening calm, his fingers drifting from my chin to my throat, lingering over my Adam’s apple like it’s a button he’s debating pressing.
“Is this your idea of dirty talk?” he murmurs. “It’s starting to grow on me.”
I swallow hard—veryhard—because he keeps gliding his fingertips over my Adam’s apple. What kind of guy touches another guy’s Adam’s apple like he’s testing its texture?
Marcus, apparently.
And, of course, my brain chooses this exact moment to get distracted by the chain tattoo curling up his neck, peeking from under his shirt like a warning label.
His hand drifts lower. The grip he had on my wrist slides to my hip, pushing under my jersey and compression shirt until his large, warm palm lands on my damp skin.
Nausea coils through me the second he touches the tattooon my hip. Every pass of his hand along my side, along muscles I normally brag about, makes breathing harder.
Fuck.
Fuck.
This is why I don’t let people touch me. It summons the demon I bury deepest—my seven-year-old self.
My skin feels wrong. Too tight. Stretched in directions it shouldn’t go. He isn’t hurting me, but my body doesn’tknowthat, going rigid, sprouting goose bumps. Static roars through my head until my throat clamps shut, and I can’t breathe.
Marcus cannot see me fall apart, gasping for air like a little bitch.
“Hurt me.”
The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.
His hand stills over my rib cage, fingers pressing lightly as his eyes cut to mine. “Hurt you?”
“Yeah. Like last time. Hit me.” I force a smile that feels like glass. “We both know you want to.”
“Oh, I do.” A shadow darkens his face. “But I told you. This face is too precious to damage.”
The nausea surges forward again, and I want to curse him into oblivion, but what comes out is, “Just hit me somewhere else.”
“Anywhere?” A dangerous gleam flashes through him. “You sure about that?”
“N-not my dick.”
“Did you just stutter?” His lips part, delight slicing through the tension. “Adorable.”
“Fuck you.”
“Your wish is my command, baby.”
I expect him to hit my chest or stomach—something I can take, something I’d probably enjoy—but Marcus rises instead.
The loss of his crushing warmth lets the cold draft in the box seep straight into my bones.
He’s enormous in here. The penalty box seems tight for two large hockey guys lying down, and with him towering over me, it feels even smaller.
Before I can process whatever the hell he’s planning, he grabs my waist and flips me over. I land on my knees, scrambling for balance, facing the bench.
When I start to twist back toward him, his hand clamps around my nape and forces my head—and half my chest—onto the bench.
The sting shoots through me, and my dick throbs harder than it did earlier, and it’s ridiculous at this point.
Absolutely ludicrous.
