Page 57 of Tempting Venom
And take away my favorite new fixation? Don’t do that. In return, I’ll give you a chance to get back at me.
I’m not falling for that.
I mean it. We’ll have a one-on-one game. Just you and me.
Why?
Because you obviously still have unresolved feelings for me, and this could fix it.
I have NO feelings for you.
If you say so.
I do NOT.
I believe you. No need for caps.
You truly are entertaining.
Pay me for brightening your boring life.
I don’t have much money, but I can pay you with something else.
Who’s the whore now?
I can be that for you. Anyway, back to the one-on-one. Are we on? It’d be a nice workout before tomorrow’s games. I could use some last-minute practice.
You’re doing this for practice?Don’t you have any friends on the Wolves you can practice with? So sad.
Yeah. I’m so lonely. See you at the Wolves’ arena?
I’m not coming to that shithole.
Then I’ll come find you, baby.
This was a bad idea.
Like…Olympic-level bad.
I have no clue what I was thinking when I didn’t immediately refuse to let Osborn come here, but clearly, my brain cells were not in attendance, because now, it’s too late.
He’s here. The motherfucker.
Black compression shirt glued to him like it’s legally required to act as his second skin, stretched over broad shoulders and a wide chest. No pads except the elbow ones. And when he glides toward me, his shirt rides up just enough to flash the line of his abs.
And I’mabsolutely,totally,definitelynot looking at that or doing anything else equally deranged.
Nope. Not me.
“Fancy rink,” he drawls in that aggravating, provocative way he speaks, not studying his surroundings as his words suggest, and, instead, fully focused on me.
He’s sporting bruises from when I punched him in the forest. Not as dark as mine, but they’re there, little souvenirs from that whole disaster.
And he just…keeps watching me. Intently. Unblinking. Like he’s trying to snap my entire existence straight into his brain.
The longer he stares, the tighter something coils inside me, winding around my lungs until breathing becomesstrained.
I’m starting to think I despise his eyes. Those dark grays that look like smoke mixed with night. Even under the bright rink lights, they remain unreadable and infuriatingly mysterious.
