Page 144 of Tempting Venom
You really want to know?
Yes.
What to do? I decided not to tell you.
Preston.
Yes, Marcus?
If you don’t tell me, there will be consequences.
Oh no, should I tremble now or pencil it in for later?
The next time I see you, I’ll make your ass so red and your cock so hard, you’ll be begging to come and I won’t let you.
Bold of you to assume I’ll see you again. You’ll have to beg for three business days.
Are we playing that game again? Do you want to be blocked, is that it?
You have three seconds to reply, Preston. If I block you this time, I’ll never unblock you again.
Fuck you.
The next day,I go to Stantonville.
Hear me out. Yes, today is not the day beforea game, and I don’t need to see the motherfucker Marcus, but Ihadto.
Because hedaredto send the bike back.
Early this morning, Hayes told me it was delivered to the Armstrong mansion, which made Dad frown as usual and ask Hayes if I was into bikes now.
I’m not. But after classes, I drove this bike all the way to Stantonville because of a certain asshole.
I park near a corner, hidden by a graffiti-filled wall across from the shop where he works.
It’s a social experience since I’ve never seen a mechanic in real life.What?I don’t deal with my own cars.
Marcus is all alone in the shop, half buried under some shitty sedan as a leggy brunette in tight jeans stands close by, saying something I don’t hear as cars speed by on the street.
Soon, he slides out from beneath the car—that should be totaled—and hops up into a standing position.
My thoughts kind of trip over themselves and die.
Because what the fuck is hewearing?
I mean, I can see it, but how the hell is such a simple thing supposed to look likethat?
Marcus is in some of those navy mechanic overalls, except the top half is tied around his waist, leaving him in a black sleeveless shirt that clings to solid, defined abs.
His shoulders look broader, arms cut and smeared with engine grease in a way that should be messy but somehow makes him look sculpted.
Decorated for a photo shoot or some shit.
A smudge slides across his forearm, another on his jaw as if they’re intentionally placed.
He wipes his hands with a rag, slow, deliberate, hisforearms flexing with each drag. The muscles shift under his skin like they’re fully aware I’m staring.
No. I’m actuallygawkingat this point, entirely taken by the scene without my consent.
