Page 24 of Knot Giving Up 2

“Nope. Not happening. I made the winning goal and I pick,” Oz says.

“Then why did you ask?”

“I wasn’t asking you. I was asking Meggie.” Oz pulls her back into his side. She’s still in nothing but that fucking blue swimsuit that matches her eyes. I don’t understand how I can want her so badly and be jealous of her at the same time. It’s like I’m constantly at war with myself.

“What if I want to go dancing?” Meggie smirks at my idiot pack mate before her gaze flicks to me. My stomach swoops and twists at the heated look in her eyes. For a brief flash, I see us dancing, her ass rubbing against me, my hands on her waist, gliding up the curve of her body.

Her tongue parts her pretty pink lips, and now I’m picturing something even more appealing.

“Okay, but only because it’ll mean you’ll rub up against me,” Oz says.

“If that’s how it’s gonna be, I’m claiming the first dance.” Nils tugs Meggie away from Oz and spins her into his chest. Breaking our eye contact.

Meggie laughs, sandwiched between them, and my vision of the club shifts to something entirely unappealing. She wouldn’t be dancing with me. Neither would Nils.

I grab my gym bag and throw it over my shoulder. “I’m turning in. Have fun.”

“Hey,” Nils steps away from Meggie and grabs my arm. “Dancing was your idea. You can’t just leave.”

Meggie is on her tiptoes kissing Dante now and she looks so damn fine with his hands on her cute little ass it makes me want to punch something.

“I’m leaving.” I say with a bit too much bite.

“Alright, I’m coming with you.” Nils spins around, grabs his gym bag, whispers something in Meggie’s ear, gives her a kiss that has my dick twitching, then takes my hand. “Let’s go.”

There are vans we can take back to the village, but Nils leads me towards the metro instead. In the long tunnel that leads to the platform, he takes me by surprise and shoves me against the wall, right there in front of everyone walking by.

“Do you need to be reminded how much I care about you, McQuinn? Is that what you need?” He’s got that primal, dominant edge to him that he often has when we’re together. I wonder if he’s like this with Meggie. He’s so protective of her, I can’t imagine him being rough with her the way he is with me, but fuck, I want to know if he is.

He reaches up, grabs the back of my neck and slams his lips to mine. The kiss is all teeth and tongues and wild gasps.

Someone yells something at us in French and I try to pull back so we can get on the train. I can hear it coming, feel the wind whipping down the tunnel, but Nils doesn’t let up. He kisses me like he has something to prove and only stops once the subway doors open, and only long enough to shove our way through the crowd to the back, where he kisses me again.

When he finally lets up, I’m panting and trying to calm down so I can avoid a raging boner in my Team USA sweatpants.

We stand there, holding the bar and watching the tourists get on and off at each stop. Everyone living their own lives, their own stresses and problems and joys.

“Hey,” Nils draws my attention away from the other people around us, “Are you gonna tell me what got you so riled up tonight? Because I know it was more than just me wanting to dance with Meggie.”

Glancing around the subway car and the young couple standing close enough to overhear, I shake my head. “Not here.”

We get off and wander the streets of France, but Nils quickly realizes he can’t pull me from my shit mood. We just won our first Olympic match. I should be over the moon. But because of my bad choices, I’m in this fucking mess instead of enjoying Paris with the man I love.

“Let’s just go back,” Nils offers, his hand in mine. He’s too perfect to be pissed at me for not being able to enjoy the night. That’s one of the reasons I love him. He handles way too much of my bullshit.

The apartment is empty when we get back. Thank god.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and toss it at him with the message from the unknown sender open.

Nils reads it, looks up, reads it again as I lean against the back of the couch. The smallest crease forms between his eyes. “You think this is Glenn?”

“Who else would send me a threatening text message?”

“A deranged fan. Someone could be going all Annie Wilkes on you.”

“Annie Wilkes?”

“You know, Misery. Stephen King. A fan kidnaps a novelist.”

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