Page 33 of Vicious Butterfly
He mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like, “Ethan’s gonna throw a fit.”
And he will, because he’ll be the one who has to deal with all the angry patrons who bet money on them and won’t get a payout. But I don’t care. That’s what I pay him for. Maybe I’ve been too soft around here if they’re more worried about Ethan’s fits than my orders.
It’s true what they say about all that manifesting shit. Act as if you already have it. In all my conversations with Patrick, I assured him we had the funding when we didn’t. In all my conversations with Luke, I assured him I’d have a husband by the end of the season, even when it seemed like finding the right husband for my purposes would be impossible.The cherry on top? This new development guarantees my bid for commissioner.
The universe just handed me a unicorn—Ryan. I don’t love the way the universe went about it, but now my obsession with him makes sense, and it’s useful. He could be the answer to my problems.
I finally get to see his beautiful face. It’s already swelling and bruising around the cheekbone. He’s still dressed in his hockey gear and skates, but his mask’s off. He pulled it up and over his head when he got here, slamming it on my desk. He saw it was me, blinked those pretty, doll-like lashes a few times, and launched into a tirade. He’s been yelling at me ever since.
Not very voiceless of him.
His anger is sublime, though. Delicious. I can taste it in the air. I can’t tear my eyes away from him, mesmerized, utterly transfixed. There’s blood on his face, too, and if I were sure it was his, I’d lick it off him, but it could have come from the other guy. Who knows what might be living in the other guy’s blood? I guess Ryan could have something, too, but I don’t care. If he has something, I want it, too. Our germs can mix for all I care. His jersey’s torn, showing more ink underneath and the carved planes of his striated muscle. I can’t wait to feel him, consume him, press my body against his.
He finally pauses, breathing hard. Glaring. I stand up and stride around my desk, yanking the stick out of his hand, tossing it to the ground, then back him into the wall. He goes, willingly, probably in shock. Crowding him, I place the pad of my thumb on his chin, just under his bottom lip. His arms move, reflexively about to touch me, but he pulls back.
He remembered the rules.
“Did you hear a word I said?” he snaps.
“I heard every word you said, dollface.” I dip my head, inhaling his musky scent. He reeks of sweat and blood andviolence. It makes my dick hard. I turn his head, and he lets me move it however I want. Whatever spell I’m under when I’m near him, he’s under the same one. I doubt Ryan’s the kind of guy who lets just anyone maneuver him like he’s a puppet.
I find that spider, the one who told me it was him, place my lips there and suck.Thank you, pretty girl.Girl, because I usually assume spiders are female. Once they mate, they eat the males, so chances are ...
“You can’t just … uh … mm-hmm.Tate,” he moans.
Fuck. He can’t say my name like that. My dick strains behind my zipper. “Want me to stop?” I whisper against his neck.
“I want you to …” His lids flutter. “Want you to let me touch you.”
I need full control. Touching gets out of control.
“Where?” I demand, pulling my head back to look into his blue eyes.
“Neck?” He raises a brow.
“No.”
“Torso?”
“Okay.”
His eyes widen—don’t think he expected me to say yes—and I dive for his neck again, intent on sucking a giant hickey of ownership into his flesh. When his hand slides up my torso, I almost don’t notice, but the wave of tingles hits, and I can’t fucking deny them.
I suck harder.
And my brain lights with plans.
From this moment forward, Ryan belongs to me whether he knows it or not. Whether helikesit or not.
Although he definitely likes it. At least, he likes what I’m doing to him if the way he’s humping my leg is anything to go by. His head leans back, hitting the wall, and his eyes flutter between open and closed.
“I’m not going to forget that I’m mad at you,” he murmurs.
Right. I guess we should clear a few things up, but I needed to put my mark on him after that fucking dead man on the ice punched him so hard his face turned into a purple balloon. I back away to take a look at my work. It’s much worse than his face.
Good.
“What the fuck were you thinking joining a deadly hockey league?”
