Page 62 of Tempting Venom
I’ve spent my whole life sharing naked time with the guys in the locker room, and not once have I ever looked at any of them and gotten an unwanted boner.
Not once.
And while we’re on the subject, I also happen to think my body is better than theirs. I’m the guy who starts a dick-measuring contest just to remind everyone I’m the reigning champ. Except Jude. We don’t talk about Jude. Jude is a tough competitor with the ladies whom I refuse to discuss.
Toxic masculinity, blah, blah. Classic straight-guy nonsense.
And straight guys donotget turned on by other guys. That’s literally Rule Number One in the Bro Bible.
Which makes it extremely concerning that I, a certifiedTotally Straight Dude, just got an astronomical hard-on from being manhandled by the motherfucking rival I hate with the fire of a thousand suns.
And now, with his hand on my hip, my brain is glitching so hard, it’s practically smoking.
This makes zero sense.
I’ve been checked, slammed, tackled, and folded like laundry for years, and I’ve never gotten even a pity twitch.
So why the fuck?—
Hello? Brain? Wouldlovea memo. A sticky note? A pop-up ad? Literally any form of communication would be appreciated. Thanks in advance.
Silence.
Because, apparently, my body has seized the controls, and my mind has switched its status to—offline, good luck, bitch.
The hand disappears, snapping me out of whatever spell I just fell under. I whip around, then freeze when Marcus tugs his glove off with his teeth, his helmet and stick abandoned on the ice.
And once again, I’m staring at the bruises I gave him the other day.
My mark.
No. Who cares about that?
Apparently, my eyes do, because they refuse to look anywhere else.
His damp hair falls in messy strands over his forehead, a few drifting into those impossibly dark eyes—so dark, my spine does this weird little shiver.
And for some godforsaken reason, I find the whole thing…fascinating.
No. Absolutely not.
It’snotfascinating.
Disturbing—yes. Fascinating—never.
Delete that thought, brain. Burn it. Salt the earth.
Marcus throws his gloves on the ice and closes the distance between us, but I skate back before he can reach me. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
My voice doesn’t sound as biting as I’d like, and that bothersome hard-on isn’t going away. If anything, it seems to have gotten worse, crowding my compression shorts more by the second.
“Touching you.” He keeps skating forward as I let myself glide away, tightening my grip on my stick. “That’s what we agreed on, remember?”
I don’t like the look in his eyes. First, he’s not smirking or grinning like the arrogant bastard he is, which I’m starting to think is bad news. Second, there’s this predatory shine in his eyes, like he’s debating the best way to devour me.
I, Preston Armstrong, who devours people for breakfast, am on the brink of being devoured?
Someone call Dr. Duret stat. I’m psychologically dying.
