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)
My lips tingle, and I get distracted for a second, because his eyes flash in something bright and shiny, and I want to gouge them out, study them for a bit, blind the fuck out of him while I’m at it.
But yeah, not in my current state, because I’m wobbly, my vision is hazy, and I’m barely standing. Some would say mixing alcohol and painkillers isn’t the brightest idea, but maybe that was the whole point.
“The offer was something different, wasn’t it?” His eyes slide to mine, his voice lowering the slightest. “Focus, Armstrong.”
“Hard to do that with you breathing down my neck, jeeper creeper.”
The asshole leans down farther so that his mouth is a few inches from mine. His lips tip up an inch, as if he finds this entire tedious exchange amusing. “Do I distract you?”
“You annoy me.”
“I’m honored.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I beg to differ.” His breath dances along my jaw, over the wetness of the alcohol, buzzing in my head more than the Jack Daniels. “How about I remind you of the offer?”
“No, thanks, not interested. Speaking of interesting, RIP to your sticks, Osborn. Heard you guys struggle with funding, so who’s going to replace these for you? So sad. I can help if you get on your knees and beg me real nicely. You have to be convincing, though. No amateur acting will be tolerated. If I like the performance, I might even get you premium sticks to replace your mid ones.”
I’m talking in run-on sentences because he’s breathing down my face in a deep, controlled rhythm. His smooth exhales rush along my skin like the latest fucked-up drug on the market.
Though those little fuckers don’t do shit to me. I’ve tried them before, and they only managed to tickle my demons’ feelings.
This, however, sets me on edge.
My stomach tightens, and the rush of adrenaline shoots out from where he’s touching me, spreading all the way to my already-restricted chest.
It’s back—that loathsome, uncontrollable feeling I had during the game. The same one that made me decide Osborn looked better splattered against the boards and earned me a penalty.
There’s no game now, no crowd, no noise. And somehow, the effect is the same. Worse, actually. With only the oppressive silence and the hum of the fluorescent lights, it hits harder, like it’s trying to claw its way out of me.
As static floods my brain, I shake my head.
No.
I swore to never allow Osborn to have this type of power over me again. He will not make me lose control.
So even though I want to chop his hand off for touching me, I’m not going to pull away suddenly or fight him or betray the discomfort he’s causing me.
Bite your tongue and put up with it, little fucker. Everything ends. This will, too, eventually.
Thanks for the pep talk, demon. What a charmer.
“If you wanted to buy me premium sticks, all you had to do was bring them along,” he says in rough words that seem to be spoken into my mouth instead of against it. “But you chose to throw this tantrum to get my attention. Well, you have it, fairy prince. What comes next?”
“Wrong.” I lift the bottle to my mouth, figuring he’ll remove his face from mine—he doesn’t. “I had no plans to buy you premium sticks, and I won’t. I’m just saying, I might if you get on your knees and beg me.”
“Is that where you want me?” His smirk spreads slowly, his gaze dragging over my mouth once more. “On my knees?”
My lips part because the neck of the bottle is basically wedged between us now, and I can’t lift my hand any higher—not when his breath skims my damp lips like a curse.
My skin crawls. Or pretends to. I’m disgusted. Totally. Absolutely. So disgusted I could throw up.
Any second now.
Any second…
But I don’t, and nothing further comes.
Not the nausea or the static. Just nothing.
Actually, there is something.
His lips.
They’re lowering farther, getting closer as tension coils between us, charging the air with the force of a fiery explosion.
My breath gets caught at the back of my throat, as if I’m going to choke to death with zero pressure against it.
His mouth is about to touch mine.
Do something.
Stop it—
Osborn changes direction at the last second and wraps his lips around the bottle, his other hand sliding over mine, forcing me to tip it higher so he can drink.
His Adam’s apple bobs once, twice, and I track the movement without meaning to. I swallow hard, my throat tightening, my whole body going rigid like I’ve been stun-gunned.
The static floods my head with that noise again.
It’s as if my mind’s an old-fashioned TV stuck between channels. The sound hisses, the world flickers, and I’m trapped somewhere between too loud and too quiet.
I can’t speak—all I can do is watch as Osborn lets some of the alcohol drip from his mouth into mine, slipping past my parted lips and burning its way across my tongue.