Page 47 of Tempting Venom
When I first got here, I meant to observe.
That’s clearly changed now that I’ve yanked Armstrong against me. His back is pressed against my front, his shoulders tensing instantly.
He smells of blood and that intoxicating masculine scent that seems to go straight to my head every time he’s in my proximity.
Which is odd because I don’t really get this affected by other people’s scents.
But something about Preston Armstrong is making me a tad reckless.
Well, not reckless, but definitely moreeagerthan usual.
Maybe it’s because I like the feel of his muscles bunching beneath mine, or maybe I just want to hear that crude mouth of his raining insults as if it’s a sport.
I might have had a dream about playing against him again.
That game wasn’t enough.
Touching him once isn’t enough.
Nothingis enough.
It’s why I came here. Sure, the absence of my bike inconveniences me, and I do have ulterior motives for worming my way into his life.
But truly, the main reason I went through the hassle of coming here wasn’t just to teach him a lesson.
It was so I could be close again.
Likethis.
The more he fights me, the deeper my fixation gets.
The harder he pushes me away, the darker my retaliation becomes.
It’s gotten bad enough that I made a deal with the devil, promising an alliance with someone elusive, just to get the code to access this forest.
“The code changes every hour. Make sure you leave before then, or you’ll be trapped inside. If you do, I’ll deny I had anything to do with this.”
That’s what she said before hanging up.
I’m starting to conclude there are no manners at all in Graystone Ridge, but I digress.
Thanks to the access, I got to witness something curious in Armstrong. A trance, maybe. Being in a zone? Or perhaps it’s something a lot more ominous?
At any rate, I managed to watch in full HD how he kills.
Like he has a personal vendetta against his victim, himself, or his weapon of choice.
I still can’t decide which one is more intriguing.
The knife still glints in the night, dripping with blood that clogs my throat.
“Osborn?”
Fuck.
Is the way he says my name with that rough refinement and slight trepidation supposed to go to my dick?
The answer is no, but it takes notice anyway, thickening in my boxers, straining against my jeans.
