Page 116 of Vicious Butterfly
He rolls his eyes. “We’ve been showering in the same locker room a long time. I already know what your dick looks like. Besides, he’s not here.”
Yeah, but somehow, Tate always seems to know where I am.
I’m real fucking sick of the thumbs-up reaction. I’ve sent Tate several messages.
Call me
Thumbs-up react.
When will I see you?
Thumbs-up react.
What’s the plan, asshole?
Thumbs-up react.
I miss your cock
Thumbs-up react.
I thought that last one would spawn at least a devil-react, but no, nothing. I roll onto my side, thinking. It’s been two days since I talked to Beckett, and two more days of radio silence from Tate. Hmmm. I know one way to make him speak to me. It’s dangerous, but what’s a little more danger at this point?
Me
You haven’t spoken to me in weeks. I’m going to assume that means I can see other people. Plenty of guys around here are dying to have the captain of the hockey team fuck them.
My stomach spins with anticipation. This is the most joy I’ve felt all week—pissing off my possessive as fuck husband. Tingles burst up my nape. This is something Ethan would advise against. But fuck it.
I’m the wind.
Tate
You belong to me. Every fucking inch of you. And I have the marriage certificate to prove it. Whoever you fuck is a dead man. Keep your dick in your pants.
At least he acknowledged that we’re married.
Me
Just my dick? Okay. That leaves my ass. No problem.
He hasn’t answered yet. He’s fuming, isn’t he? I can picture the vein in his forehead throbbing. The way that one stubborn lock of hair falls into his eyes when it thinks he’s angry enough, it can escape from the rest of the carefully brushed pack.
And just in case he’s thinking about not responding:
You know … We could still have this marriage annulled.
My phone rings.
“You’re with me for life, sweetheart. All you can do is run. I will hunt your fucking ass down and drag you home. By any. Means. Necessary.”
He pants as if he’s been running, and my heart rate spikes. Why is that so hot? It should terrify me, but it doesn’t. I can’t even speak.
“You wanted my attention, dollface, you have it. What do you want?”
“What do I want? I seem to recall getting married two and a half weeks ago. I want my fucking husband,” I hiss into thephone. I’m alone, but I have to keep my voice down. He’s making it difficult. I’d love to reach through the phone and strangle him.
“I’ve been busy.” He leaves it unsaid that he’s a hockey coach at Shadowridge, the hockey board, and underground murder hockey coordinator. Okay, yeah, I guess that’s a lot. Great. Now I sound like a needy spouse.
