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)
But today, I’m not moving—will be dying on this hill.
Due to the absence of the pads, I feel every coil of his muscles, the heat of his skin, and the absolute power of the brute.
Marcus leans in harder, almost taking me off my skates. His strength hits like a battering ram, stealing air from my lungs as I try to hold my position. I brace, and he bears down again, pressing in until my ribs throb.
“Give up,” he breathes out, his helmet knocking into mine, heat curling off his words. “You’ll never beat me in strength. Not when you’re used to playing so cleanly.”
“Fuck…you…”
“I’d love that.” He grins, his mouthguard gleaming. “You have no idea how much I’d love that.”
Then he throws his full weight into me, and my legs scream in protest, barely keeping me upright as he drives me back.
“Can you feel it? How much I really.” Push. “Really.” Push. “Want to touch you, baby?”
Something strange happens then.
Not strange—blasphemous—and it hits me so hard, my grip falters.
Marcus slips past me and scores.
I hear it happen, but I don’t look.
I can’t look.
I’ve already turned away, refusing to face him.
Because in that moment, when he was bracing me with every ounce of that unholy brute strength, telling me how much he wants—you know—my dick fucking twitched.
And now, it’s getting uncomfortably hard in my shorts.
Fuck.
No.
Absolutely not.
I’m going to need Dr. Duret and Dr. Fenwick to brew a whole new potion to fix this real quick. Because this cannot be fucking happening right now.
A taut arm wraps around my waist, a large, gloved hand settling on my hip.
I’m supposed to flinch.
Jump.
Punch him.
My head is supposed to explode with static, stealing my breath and short-circuiting my brain.
But it…doesn’t.
Instead, sounds dull to a low hum as the feel of his warm hand goes straight to my dick.
My whore of a dick, who lacks the ability to read the fucking room.
Or how much I hate that prick Marcus.
Wait. Since when did I start calling him Marcus in my head?
“Now.” His rough words spill into my ear, his hot breath grazing my skin. “Where do I begin with you?”
9
PRESTON
I’m not gay.
I mean it. Serious.
Cross my heart and hope to be struck by lightning.
Like, not even kidding. I don’t look at men the way I look at girls.
I’ve spent my whole life sharing naked time with the guys in the locker room, and not once have I ever looked at any of them and gotten an unwanted boner.
Not once.
And while we’re on the subject, I also happen to think my body is better than theirs. I’m the guy who starts a dick-measuring contest just to remind everyone I’m the reigning champ. Except Jude. We don’t talk about Jude. Jude is a tough competitor with the ladies whom I refuse to discuss.
Toxic masculinity, blah, blah. Classic straight-guy nonsense.
And straight guys do not get turned on by other guys. That’s literally Rule Number One in the Bro Bible.
Which makes it extremely concerning that I, a certified Totally Straight Dude, just got an astronomical hard-on from being manhandled by the motherfucking rival I hate with the fire of a thousand suns.
And now, with his hand on my hip, my brain is glitching so hard, it’s practically smoking.
This makes zero sense.
I’ve been checked, slammed, tackled, and folded like laundry for years, and I’ve never gotten even a pity twitch.
So why the fuck—
Hello? Brain? Would love a memo. A sticky note? A pop-up ad? Literally any form of communication would be appreciated. Thanks in advance.
Silence.
Because, apparently, my body has seized the controls, and my mind has switched its status to—offline, good luck, bitch.
The hand disappears, snapping me out of whatever spell I just fell under. I whip around, then freeze when Marcus tugs his glove off with his teeth, his helmet and stick abandoned on the ice.
And once again, I’m staring at the bruises I gave him the other day.
My mark.
No. Who cares about that?
Apparently, my eyes do, because they refuse to look anywhere else.
His damp hair falls in messy strands over his forehead, a few drifting into those impossibly dark eyes—so dark, my spine does this weird little shiver.
And for some godforsaken reason, I find the whole thing…fascinating.
No. Absolutely not.
It’s not fascinating.
Disturbing—yes. Fascinating—never.
Delete that thought, brain. Burn it. Salt the earth.
Marcus throws his gloves on the ice and closes the distance between us, but I skate back before he can reach me. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
My voice doesn’t sound as biting as I’d like, and that bothersome hard-on isn’t going away. If anything, it seems to have gotten worse, crowding my compression shorts more by the second.
“Touching you.” He keeps skating forward as I let myself glide away, tightening my grip on my stick. “That’s what we agreed on, remember?”
I don’t like the look in his eyes. First, he’s not smirking or grinning like the arrogant bastard he is, which I’m starting to think is bad news. Second, there’s this predatory shine in his eyes, like he’s debating the best way to devour me.