Page 77 of The Bad Boy Rule

As much as he’s allowed me to, at least.

And I know that right now, he’s a live wire of something that could potentially burn us both.

I skate closer, my hands finding the top of the boards and curling around the edge as I watch him lace up his skates, each choppy pull harder than the next.

My mind is going in a thousand different directions, a hundred scenarios racing through at breakneck speed, and it’s causing my stomach to tighten into a knot.

I’m not evensupposedto care about him.

About anything he’s going through.

About him atall.

And I can lie and tell myself that I don’t, but there’s always a moment of truth in a lie.

I push the rink door open and step off the ice despite not having my guards because I have to go to him. I need to see that he’s okay, even if he pushes me away.

Stopping in front of him, I watch him hang his head between his knees and hear the long, ragged sigh that spills past his lips.

Then he looks up at me, his eyes flaring with anger. “I’m fine, Lennon. Go back on the ice.” His words are cold and dismissive, and even though I know it’s his way of protecting himself, of keeping his walls high, it still slightly stings.

“No,” I say, shaking my head and stepping closer until I’m standing between his parted thighs, my knees hitting the bench. “I’m not. You don’t have to tell me what happened, or anythingat all, but I’m not leaving. I have the right to be here just as much as you do.”

The same thing I said to him weeks ago, but now, it means something different becausewe feeldifferent.

He can push me away if that’s what he needs, but it doesn’t mean that I’m going anywhere.

The muscle in his jaw tics as his eyes bounce between mine. “Whatever.”

I lift my chin and slowly slip into his lap, sliding my arms around his shoulders and threading my fingers together at his nape. After a beat, his strong arm hooks around my waist as I move my hands to his jaw and sweep my thumb along the stubble.

“Tell me what you need.” My words are soft, barely above a whisper.

“Fuck, Lennon.” His curse is low and gravelly, and it causes heat to pool in my lower belly. “I can’t. I can’t touch you right now. I’m… I’m so fucking angry that I want to put my fist through a wall. I don’t want to hurt you.” He swallows, trying to look away, but my hand grips his jaw, confidence I didn’t even know I possessed bubbling inside of me.

“You’re not going to hurt me.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t know me, Lennon. I’m my father’s fucking son.”

“I do know you,” I murmur. “I know that you’re angry right now, and there’s so much adrenaline pumping through your veins that it feels like you’re burning up.”

A beat passes between us, and then he nods, pupils darkening.

“So… let me make it better, Saint.” I’m trembling as I slide out of his lap and drop to my knees between his legs, peering up at him. “Useme.”

I’m shaking because I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know that I want this.

I want to take whatever he’s struggling with away, even if it’s just for a moment, and make him feel as good as he made me feel the other day.

It’s obvious that he’s not good with sitting in his feelings and that he communicates best with touch, not words.

And if physical touch is what he needs to take his mind off all of this, then I want to do that for him.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for, Golden Girl. Not a fucking clue,” he says roughly, grasping my chin between his fingers. The rough pad of his thumb sweeps along my bottom lip, pulling it down, his eyes blazing intensely.

Hunger flicks in the depths, dark and unhinged.

“Thenshow me.”

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