Page 48 of That's Too Pucking Bad

“Yeah. Happy anniversary,” I reply, slipping out of the car and walking up to the house, feeling like I’m walking through fog.

Inside, the house is quiet. My mom’s working a double tonight, which leaves me alone with a gnawing guilt that refuses to let go. I head to my room, flicking the light on and freeze.

Zane’s sitting on my bed, still in his jersey, looking like he’s been through hell. His lip is split, and there’s a nasty black bruise under his eye.

“Zane,” I gasp, rushing over to him. “How the hell did you get in here? What happened to your face?”

He chuckles, though it sounds more like a hiss, wincing. “You should see the other guy.”

Ignoring him, I dart to the bathroom, grabbing a washcloth and wetting it with warm water. When I come back, he’s watching me with this tired smirk, like he’s amused by my fussing. I sit beside him, gently dabbing at his lip.

He doesn’t flinch, just watches me. “You were with your…”

I pause, a wave of guilt knotting in my chest. “Yeah,” I mutter, focusing on the towel, avoiding his gaze.

His hand reaches up, covering mine and taking the towel, tossing it aside like he couldn’t care less. He pulls me onto his lap, and I’m too stunned to resist. His hand cups my cheek, his thumb brushing softly over my skin.

“Do you love him?” His voice is low, rough, and his gaze is intense, locking onto mine with a question I don’t want to answer.

My chest aches, but I nod, even though it feels like a lie. “Yeah… I think I do.”

He leans in, our lips barely brushing, his breath warm against mine. “I don’t care, Remy,” he whispers, his tone fierce. “I don’t fucking care.” It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

And then he’s kissing me. It’s raw, hungry, nothing like the sweet, tame kisses Colin gives. His hands are in my hair, on my back, pulling me close like he can’t stand the space between us.

I’m leaning into his touch, his fingers firm as they trace my jaw, my neck. His hand slides down, pressing against the small of my back. He’s holding me so close, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.

“I needed you there today,” he mutters, his voice low, almost a growl. “In the stands. Watching me.”

I feel my cheeks heat. “Yeah? I thought with that huge of a crowd cheering for you, you wouldn’t even notice.”

His mouth curves in this dark, hungry smile. “Oh, I would notice. Trust me. I notice everything about you, baby.”

Before I can say anything else, his arms are around me, lifting me up and laying me onto the bed. My heart races as he moves over me, his weight pressing me down in this way that makes it impossible to think about anything else. I reach up, grabbing the hem of his jersey, and tug it up, revealing that perfect stretch of his tattoos and muscles. He watches me, his eyes hot and intense, like he’s barely holding himself back.

His hands slide down to my dress, fingers skimming the fabric before gripping the hem and tugging it up, baring my legs, my hips. His hands are everywhere, rough, hot, almost frantic. It’s like he’s starved.

“You’re hurt,” I breathe, glancing at the split on his lip, the bruises on his cheek.

“I’m not.” He leans in, brushing his lips against mine. “If I don’t taste you, I’m going to lose my damn mind.”

A shiver runs down my spine. I nod, my breaths coming out in quick, uneven bursts. And just like that, he’s tugging my panties down, the cool air hitting my skin as he slips them off and shoves them into his pocket. The gesture’s possessive, like he’s claiming a part of me, and it sends a thrill through me.

Then his mouth is on me, his tongue warm and firm. I can’t hold back the moan that escapes me as he works, his hands holding my hips in place as I writhe beneath him. It’s intense, raw, his tongue finding every sensitive spot, driving me higher and higher until there’s nothing left but him, the way he feels, the way he—

“Such a little slut,” he murmurs, his voice a mix of hunger and heat, and the words send me spiraling over the edge, my body shuddering, clenching around the waves of pleasure.

When I finally catch my breath, I’m sitting up, adjusting my glasses which are all askew. He’s looking at me, smirking, and I know I must look like a mess.

“Am I… am I a terrible fucking person?” The question slips out before I can stop it, a knot of guilt twisting in my stomach.

He cups my cheek, thumb brushing over my skin. “That’s up to you to figure out, sweetheart,” he says softly, his tone almost gentle. “But to me? You’re the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen. Or touched. Or tasted.”

A smile tugs at my lips despite myself. “Really?”

He smirks, kissing me again, his lips soft against mine. I pull back just enough to meet his gaze. “How’d the game go, by the way?”

His smirk widens, and he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “We won.”

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