Page 29
Chapter 29 of "Tempting Venom" starts unveiling mysteries: Okay.In return, Iāll be an NHL star and give her all the money I earn.Thatās... Keep reading!
Okay.
In return, Iāll be an NHL star and give her all the money I earn.
Thatās what I thought. What Istillthink.
In spite of the eyesores blocking my way in the downtown clubās parking lot.
Wolverineāyes, itās after the Wolvesāis half motorcycle club, half bar, and we mostly meet here to celebrate our wins and pick our puck bunnies for a celebratory fuck.
But the whole ordeal seems like a hassle lately.
Sex.
Itās just soā¦boring.
Yes, fucking others, pinning them beneath me and seeing them squirm gave me momentary pleasure, but itās all so fleeting.
The thing is, even though I could orgasm, it stopped at the flesh level and never really touched me mentally.
And Iāve tried every hole available. Gender doesnāt matter.
A hole is a hole, no matter who itās attached to.
But that shallow pleasure was just not interesting to me anymore.
So I stopped it altogether, for a while now.
Watching, however? Thatās slightly more interesting. Thereās something categorically intriguing about observing while others lose themselves in sex, letting their true colors show, even for that moment in time.
Something I donāt believe Iām intrinsically capable of.
Perhaps that handicapāmy inability to feel anything more than peopleās bodiesāis the reason sex is a terrible ordeal now.
Nonetheless, Iād like to participate in the fun inside to wind down and relieve the tension thatās still bunching in my shoulders. Maybe forget about a certain leagueās prince whose skin Iām itching to worm myself beneath.
Toy with his insides a little.
Provoke him a little.
But I canāt do thatāneither go inside nor forget about the prince. Again, thanks to people who shouldnāt be here.
Five of them, to be exact. Sharp suits, polished shoes, grim expressions as if theyāre posing for a eulogy. My voteās on Dadās.
With their starched collars and funeral posture, they just donāt belong here. Theyāre too clean, too pressed, too Osborn for a place that reeks of spilled whiskey and exhaust fumes.
The clubās parking lot looks like itās been through a few wars and lost every one. Cracked pavement, gum fossils, andbeer bottles kicked into puddles that smell like something died underneath. The light above the door flickers like itās on life support, washing everything in a depressing buzzing yellow that makes their suits look cheap.
In their midst stands a brown woman whoās wearing the sharpest suit, a tight ponytail, and stiletto heels.
āI didnāt have the chance to introduce myself the last time. My name is Lyra, and Iām the Osborn familyās legal representative.ā
āDoes a legal representative need so many bodyguards?ā I push off my bike, then stalk toward her. She remains still, but her lips purse a little when I stop a few breaths away from her. āOr are you perhaps scared of little old me?ā
āThese gentlemen were sent by your father to ensure your safety, Mr. Osborn.ā
I laugh, and itās far from humorous. In fact, itās so mocking, a sheen of discomfort befalls the group.
āHilarious,ā I say in a deadpan voice. āDonāt you think this entire situation is categorically hilarious, Lyra?ā