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)
He puts both hands in the air in mock surrender. “I was only letting you taste your cum, baby.”
“That was not what you were doing.”
“Yes, it was. Snowballing is the right term, if you want to look it up.”
“You were obviously kissing me.”
“If you say so.”
“You fucking bitch!” I breathe harshly, pulling my boxers and jeans up, tucking myself in with supersonic speed. “I clearly said no kissing.”
“Coming down my throat and against my cock is not too gay for you, but kissing is?”
“I told you it’s a fucking physical reaction. You being a man doesn’t mean shit.”
“Then me kissing you should also—” He makes air quotes. “—not mean shit. Think of me as a girl if it makes you feel better.”
“You’re not a fucking girl!”
“You noticed?” His smirk widens, but it drips with a threat. “Good, because I lied. You can’t think of me as a girl. I’m a man just like you, and you still came for me.”
“You—” I take a deep breath. “Listen, asshole. Kiss me again and it’ll be the last time you kiss anything.”
“I don’t mind.”
“You little prick, do you have no concern for your life?”
“For a kiss from you, I don’t seem to, no.”
My lips part, my fingers pausing on the top button of my jeans.
Why?
Just why is he…this unwaveringly into me? Surely, he has other guys he can annoy. Granted, they can’t be as perfect as me, but he has other options.
So why me?
I’m still thinking about that as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out two candies.
And what’s up with that?
I frown. “Do you always have mango candy with you?”
“Yeah. For you.” He places them in my palm.
My eyes narrow on the wrappers, and I shove them back into his hand. “Are you sure they weren’t for Dallas?”
“Dallas?”
“Kane’s toy that you paraded around on your arm tonight.”
“Dahlia?”
“Yeah, Denver.”
His swollen lips curl in this boyish smile that somehow makes my breathing heavier. “Her name is Dahlia.”
“That’s what I said. Detroit.”
He bursts out laughing, toppling over with the motion, and I pause, because what the fuck? Since when does this prick laugh this…freely? I was so sure he could only be a mocking, antagonizing complication of epic proportions.
“Are you calling Dahlia the wrong names on purpose?”
“No. I know her name is Dakota.”
“Fucking adorable.” He chuckles again, pushing the candies back into my hand. “Don’t be jealous of Dahlia.”
“I’m not jealous.” And why the fuck does he keep saying her name?
“You don’t have to be. You’re the only one I want, baby.”
I purse my lips because, what do I even say to that nonsense? This entire conversation is making me uncomfortably hot. Who the fuck turned on the heat out here?
Marcus steps back. “Keep in touch, or I’ll bring another Dahlia to your town every night until you do.”
My head tilts to the side, my tone turning cold. “What did I say about threatening me?”
“It’s not a threat if neither option hurts you. Unless a girl on my arm does hurt you?”
“I will fuck you up—”
“Stop being a menace for a second. You were much more obedient when my body talked to yours.”
“Marcus—”
He drops a kiss on my forehead, and I go still as he whispers, “See you before the next game, baby.”
16
MARCUS
Aweek later, I drop by Vipers Arena to watch a hockey game.
Okay, that’s a lie.
I’m here to watch Preston.
Got myself a front-row seat as well—or more like asked Serena for it.
There’s a hum in the crowd, a thrilled tension that wraps around my bones as he leads a flash counterattack. Preston’s form is nothing short of perfection as he swerves between the lines of defense as if they’re invisible, then scores.
People on either side of me jump up and scream in excitement as the score changes.
The Vipers’ team members crowd Preston, patting him on the helmet and shoulders, clashing their sticks with his as he does a small dance and points at the crowd. He bows theatrically, smiling widely, and I can see the dimples hollowing his cheeks.
Wow.
This smile is a replica of the one he wore when I first met him in Dad’s garden.
The carefree, innocent smile.
My thumb taps against my middle finger as I soak it in, staying completely motionless, worried that if I blink, I’ll miss it.
It’s the same smile. The same ethereal, beautiful energy from back then. No anger or violence or need to always stay in control.
There’s just…joy.
And I’m enamored.
Completely caught in its web and refusing to be freed.
I want that.
No. I need that.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Now I understand why I keep pulling on his strings. It’s not only because I want to touch him, though I do crave him in ways that feel overwhelming at times, but it’s because of this.
The scene right here. The way he smiles so freely, moves so fluidly, and is just…himself.
It’s like seven-year-old Preston in that garden. The one I was quietly drawn to at first sight. The one I yearned to trap in the palm of my hand.