Page 65
Chapter 65 of "Tempting Venom" starts revealing surprises: He lowers my hand with maddening calm, his fingers drifting from my chin to my... Read on!
He lowers my hand with maddening calm, his fingers drifting from my chin to my throat, lingering over my Adamâs apple like itâs a button heâs debating pressing.
âIs this your idea of dirty talk?â he murmurs. âItâs starting to grow on me.â
I swallow hardâveryhardâbecause he keeps gliding his fingertips over my Adamâs apple. What kind of guy touches another guyâs Adamâs apple like heâs testing its texture?
Marcus, apparently.
And, of course, my brain chooses this exact moment to get distracted by the chain tattoo curling up his neck, peeking from under his shirt like a warning label.
His hand drifts lower. The grip he had on my wrist slides to my hip, pushing under my jersey and compression shirt until his large, warm palm lands on my damp skin.
Nausea coils through me the second he touches the tattooon my hip. Every pass of his hand along my side, along muscles I normally brag about, makes breathing harder.
Fuck.
Fuck.
This is why I donât let people touch me. It summons the demon I bury deepestâmy seven-year-old self.
My skin feels wrong. Too tight. Stretched in directions it shouldnât go. He isnât hurting me, but my body doesnâtknowthat, going rigid, sprouting goose bumps. Static roars through my head until my throat clamps shut, and I canât breathe.
Marcus cannot see me fall apart, gasping for air like a little bitch.
âHurt me.â
The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.
His hand stills over my rib cage, fingers pressing lightly as his eyes cut to mine. âHurt you?â
âYeah. Like last time. Hit me.â I force a smile that feels like glass. âWe both know you want to.â
âOh, I do.â A shadow darkens his face. âBut I told you. This face is too precious to damage.â
The nausea surges forward again, and I want to curse him into oblivion, but what comes out is, âJust hit me somewhere else.â
âAnywhere?â A dangerous gleam flashes through him. âYou sure about that?â
âN-not my dick.â
âDid you just stutter?â His lips part, delight slicing through the tension. âAdorable.â
âFuck you.â
âYour wish is my command, baby.â
I expect him to hit my chest or stomachâsomething I can take, something Iâd probably enjoyâbut Marcus rises instead.
The loss of his crushing warmth lets the cold draft in the box seep straight into my bones.
Heâs enormous in here. The penalty box seems tight for two large hockey guys lying down, and with him towering over me, it feels even smaller.
Before I can process whatever the hell heâs planning, he grabs my waist and flips me over. I land on my knees, scrambling for balance, facing the bench.
When I start to twist back toward him, his hand clamps around my nape and forces my headâand half my chestâonto the bench.
The sting shoots through me, and my dick throbs harder than it did earlier, and itâs ridiculous at this point.
Absolutely ludicrous.