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 ribs hurt as well, and I don’t have to look to know he gifted me with nasty bruises. Nothing new. I get bruised in hockey all the time—what’s another couple?
I tap my thumb against my middle finger as I stare at the door through which Preston disappeared a few minutes ago.
What the fuck am I even doing?
Tomorrow, I have an important game that I’m expected to knock out of the park. Allowing myself to be beaten up a day beforehand is neither logical nor beneficial in any shape or form.
Not that I could’ve stopped Preston per se.
He had a manic look in his eyes, almost as if an entirely different person possessed him and ran the show.
I don’t like those eyes. They’re different from the ones in the forest; those were manic, too, but at least they overflowed with excitement.
These were…dead. No, not dead. Scared?
He was kicking me until he almost broke a rib, but he looked terrified while doing it.
As I watched him, I strangely developed a deep sense of resentment toward whatever the reason was for that reaction.
He’s the Preston Armstrong, as he likes to remind everyone.
The league’s prince. GU’s popular hockey god. A rich boy with the prettiest face and the most lethal body.
He takes pride in it and flaunts it all over social media. I know because I may have gone through all of his posts, studying them like an essay.
But since the forest, I’m discovering a whole different side of Preston. A side he keeps under lock and key. A side that seems to come out in destructive bouts.
And I want more.
I need more.
It’s…what? A fixation?
No, not a fixation. Something worse.
The reason I first approached Preston was entirely selfish. He was my way into their world. The world my dad decided I wouldn’t belong in but is now practically begging me to join.
I thought that if I could get close to one of the other heirs—Jude, Kane, or Preston—I’d gain more insider information. That option would be way better than depending on my unreliable source for everything Graystone Ridge.
Preston is the most logical target. He’s reckless, high-profile, and emotionally volatile. If I wanted to manipulate a founding family member, he’d be the apparent vulnerability. Jude and Kane are too composed and unapproachable, but Preston is the chaos variable.
My plan was simple—rely on the Vipers versus Wolves rivalry. That way, my pursuit of Preston would look like pure competition.
Knowing Preston is a certified egomaniac, there was a hundred percent chance he’d fall for my provocations. Also, considering his rich-boy snobbishness and disregard for Stantonville, he’d definitely not come over and would invite me to Vipers Arena instead.
My eventual access to the inner circle would feel natural given the sports rivalry and overlapping social hierarchies.
He’d feel like he was doing me a favor, and that would feed his narcissistic tendencies. I’d let him believe that as I used him to find the most poetic way to bring my father and his legacy down.
Win-win, if you ask me.
Now, that plan is somewhat muddied. Or more like a complication appeared along the way.
Preston himself.
The niggling sense of something being wrong started with touching him, if you can believe it.
Well, not being allowed to touch him, to be precise.
The way he freaked out every time I tried to, turning his panic into violence the more I wanted a taste.
He’s like forbidden fruit that’s still sitting at the top of that branch, his feet swinging as he stares at the sky.
I had to use a simple tactic to lure him.
Just dangle an ego-trip-shaped fruit in front of Preston, and he’ll take it.
He’ll always take it.
But maybe that was a mistake.
Thing is, I didn’t count on him asking me to hurt him—begging me, even, as his dick was throbbing in our hands. He wore the softest, hottest, and most beautiful expression I’ve ever seen.
His eyes were glittery green, bright and boyish, and so fucking titillating, my cock was rock-solid.
He turned me on.
The guy who doesn’t like touch but is completely fine with being disciplined into submission turned me on.
It’s more than that, actually.
I’ve been fantasizing about that face since that night, picturing it in my head as I jerked off roughly in the shower.
The parted lips. The red cheeks.
The soft moans.
Fuck.
I run a hand through my hair and adjust myself because, once again, my dick twitches at the image.
A complication.
I’m having a slight complication in my modus operandi.
The thing is, I was entirely open to seducing Preston if I had to. If he gave a sign that he was even faintly interested or curious about men, I’d seize the opportunity.
What’s another conquest, right?
Preston presented me with the opening I needed when, during the game, I turned his god-awful provocation about my mom on him.
Sure, straight dudes would get offended, but Preston was overreacting. He lost his cool in epic proportions and screwed up his game by allowing me to get into his head.