Page 10 of Noxious Boys (Groveton College)

The thought makes me shuffle my feet back, my spine colliding with the counter making me wince. And he closes the scant inches separating us immediately, but we still don't touch. I hold my breath, trying to stop myself breathing him in further, a wicked scent of oranges and smokey black pepper thick in my nose. I lick my lips again, my mouth drier than the desert, my hands gripping the counter like it's my lifeline.

“Who are you?” he grunts, low, gravelly, deep, and I barely hear him, my eyes dropping to his mouth, reading his question rather than using my ears to listen.

“Poppy.”

“Where'd you come from, Poppy?” he asks, my name rumbling in his thick Texan accent making me shudder with the way it billows off of his tongue, wrapping around me like coiling smoke.

My breasts brush his bare chest with my sharp inhale, the tattoos on his back wrapping around to his front, licks of black ink up his neck, across his chest, down his abs.

His brows pinch together, his gaze dropping to my mouth now as though waiting for my response. Summoning it forth with nothing more than a look.

“England,” I whisper, his thick curl of black lashes shutter closed, and he breathes in deeper, almost like he just can't stop himself.

And for a moment we fall into silence. My breath is held tight in my lungs, and I study his face further whilst his eyes are closed. Watching as his nostrils flare, plump, shapely lips pursing slightly. His eyes flick open, locking back onto mineand I choke down my gasp, a feeling of being caught doing something I shouldn't be assaults me, a wash of heat licking my skin.

Unable to look away, I stare, forgetting where I am as I peer into his eyes, the steely grey bleeding into black as his pupils dilate.

“Come sit with me,” he orders gruffly, taking a single step back, flicking his gaze over the top of my head, and that's when the noise of the party filters back in like an explosion.

And without further thought, I turn to follow after him as he prowls back into the living room. The crowd parts for him like he ordered it, despite his silence, his mere presence clearly enough. He stops, halfway back to the cluster of sofas, peering over his shoulder, eyes only on mine, and my feet move as though demanded.

That's when I realise, falling into step beside him, people moving out of my way as well as his, that despite his name, King is not royalty here.

He is a god.

Chapter 6

LYNX

There is a ringing in my ears, a pounding in my temples. My mouth is dry and my fists are clenched. Everything feels too hot and too cold and I wonder how long I've been holding my breath for, because my lungs scream and my pulse soars and all of it sort of dies as I watch King, with her.

Poppy.

The girl that ditched me in her own fucking bed after I helped her through her trip and told me, didn’t ask me, to stay.

I glare.

I know I'm doing it, but I also didn't want to have to acknowledge her existence tonight. If any of my boys find out what happened, they would have me moved out of that fucking dorm quicker than I could blink. I laid in her bed, my arms around her hammering heart, and the entire time before I obviously fell asleep, I thought about sliding out from under her. The perfect warm weight cradled between my thighs. Get my shit and leave.

It was unlikely she'd even remember me if she woke up and I was gone. All my boxes, that she likely wouldn't have paid any fucking attention to anyway. The way she threw herself insidethe room, oblivious to her surroundings. I used to be like that. Worse.

I should definitely be staying away.

After how hard I've worked on myself.

And then I woke up.

Without her.

And rage, the first real feeling I've had since I got myself together, travels through my veins like a shot of the real good stuff.

I feel high, without the drugs, and it scares me. The hard hit of emotion. Soaring adrenaline pulsing through my veins.

My cock twitches beneath my jeans, the tight black denim practically cutting off my circulation as they tighten across my lap.

“Why's King always the one getting the fresh pussy, man,” It's a rhetorical, whiney question from Barlowe, whose dick is still shoved down some random blond's throat.

Barlowe accentuates the non-question with a hard jerk of his hips, the girl's gag loud as he does, but she moans, and my dick dies down at the fake sound of it. Not that it seems to affect the hockey team's goalie. No, Barlowe's psychotic grin widens, blue eyes flaring as he brings his free hand down on the girl's nape.

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