Page 6 of Breakneck Hockey

He puts an arm around my seat, which scares the fuck out of me until I realize it’s just so he can back out of the stall.

“I’ll say it again and hope for an answer this time. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“A lot.” Then he drives.

“Comforting.”

“Is that what you need before we cross swords? A little tenderness?”

“God, no. Especially not from you.”

I drown in his terrible-smelling cologne all the way to a condo building. Figures he lives somewhere nice and on his own—no roommate required. That’s what happens when you have rich parents. He pulls me inside the door, yanking my arm hard enough to pull it out of the socket, and then he shuts thedoor tightly. There are seventy-leven inside locks. Okay, well, only actually six, but that’s way overkill. This neighborhood is definitely on the uppity side, and, even if it weren’t, the building’s got a doorman, fob system, high security. Is it necessary to have six fucking inside locks?

He locks them in quick succession, in practiced motions. Obviously, habit by now. He’s had those on there a long time and he uses them.

“You wanted by the FBI, Sutter?”

“Shut the fuck up.” He kicks his shoes off, and I have a quick look around.

This place is nice, like, “I have fucking money and I know how to spend it” nice. The entryway opens to a fancy-ass kitchen. In an attempt not to marvel at his polished granite countertops, I pull a Leslie and take a seat on one.

“Off,” he says.

“Afraid of my ass germs?”

“Off,” he repeats without answering.

I slide off the counter. “So far, worst lay of my life. I should have known, Sutt?—”

Without warning, his lips are on mine. I can’t breathe. My body lights up with everything that was racing around in it before and something new, the lure of forbidden fruit. We’re mortal enemies, and that makes this off-limits in a big way. He might be playing some kind of game by being mildly nice, but that doesn’t erase our years of battle.

He lets up only long enough for me to suck in desperate lungfuls of air, and then he’s on me again, his rough face brushing against my smooth one.

“This how I need to shut you up? Is it?”

“You fucking ass?—”

We’re sucking face again, and I need to gnaw at his lips more than I need to tell him off for being such a fucking dick. In fact,the more of a dick he is, the more I want to rut against his leg. Remembering how much I wanted to experience his size when I first set eyes on him, I let my hands roam over his shoulders.

They’re round and bulky.Hard.I could really hold onto him. I am holding onto him. Oh, Jesus. I’m holding onto Mitch Sutter for dear life.

Then he lifts me like I’m air, setting me on the counter. Yeah, the same counter he told me to get off of. I push at his beefy shoulder. “What the fuck, Sutter?”

His mouth hitches into a half smile. Oh, fuck. My heart just skipped a beat. “I wanted to be the one to put you there.”

My heart fucking races. He needs to stop. I don’t want him to be a charming asshole. I want him to be a mean asshole. “Okay, okay. Let’s get to the fucking sex part. I haven’t got all night.”

“I know exactly how much time you have, kitten,” he says, tugging at my belt. “Don’t rush me.”

“Oh, c’mon. This is bullshit, Sutter. You would be a domineering prick in the sack, too.” But I’m watching him remove my belt as if I’m not the person he’s taking it off, fascinated beyond belief by his hands. Those hands have pounded into my face.

My fists have pounded into his.

This is weird and it’s a train wreck—I can’t stop looking. Or being here. Or my dick from pressing against the fabric of my jeans in a desperate attempt to get free.

He tosses my belt off to the side and attacks my mouth, shoving his tongue inside like he owns the place. Collecting my hands, he pins the wrists together and breaks from kissing me long enough to slam them against the cupboards behind my head.

That’s when I moan, unbidden. I’m trying to hold that shit back. I don’t want him to know how much I’m enjoying this. Maybe I should bite him for good measure?

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