Page 79 of Phantom Faceoff
A hand covers my cheek, thumb stroking the skin. “Look at me.”
Slowly, I do, to find muddied pools of sadness and confusion staring into me.
“I want you.” He says each word deliberately. “Even if I’ve pissed you off, and you don’t want me back.”
I do. I fucking do. But you do shit like this, and my heart won’t let me give in.
“You honestly think I’d cheat on you? Because I need to blow off some steam?”
I can’t tell if he’s angry or just hurt, but it mirrors the tangle of feelings I’ve been sorting through myself.
“I’ve had men do worse.” I don’t mean for it to slip out, but the way he’s touching me and looking at me has my barrier thinned.
“What the fuck does that mean?” he asks, and I can already see the calm evaporating. His breathing speeds up and his brows draw in tight.
“It means when I don’t give men what they want, they do what they can to hurt me.”
There’s a brief moment of recognition in his eyes, like he’s on the verge of understanding, but the adrenaline in his system wins out.
He slams his mouth into mine, and though I don’t shove him away, I also don’t reciprocate. His teeth dig into my lip so hard it bleeds, and when I gasp in pain, he shoves his tongue inside and drags me closer by the hip.
If this is what he needs, he can take it.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he growls, shoving his hands under the hoodie and reaching for my skin. “I wouldn’t cheat, and I wouldn’t force you.”
Part of me wants to pull away, but the need to be close and seek his comfort is stronger.
“I’m not angry at you, I’m fucking …” He bites back a scream and screws his eyes shut tight, digging a palm into them. “I’m fucking hurt. And when I’m hurt I want to …”
“Hurt people, hurt people,” I say, and he jerks his head in a nod. “Is that what you need? To hurt someone?”
When his eyes open—dark and full of unwanted desire—I reach out and dig my fingers into his hip bones.
“You can hurt me, Wildfire. I’m not easy to break.”
It’s a half-truth. There’s any number of things he could do or say that would put an end to us. I’d pack up and leave without a word, just like I did with Mack.
But I know this side of him. I trust that he’d never throw more at me than I can take. Even if he’s half out of his mind.
“What if I want to break you?” he asks as his voice wobbles, eyes unsteady. “What if I want to pull your hair and shove you into the dirt? Mount you like a fucking lion and rut you into the ground until you bleed?”
His breathing comes out quicker. “What if I want to make you cry and beg and—” He clamps his mouth shut and tears away from me. “Fuck. No. You’re right. I need to sober up. I shouldn’t be thinking …”
He stalks away toward the side of the building, likely going for the backdoor so his teammates don’t see him erratic and wasted. I follow, because every violent word out of his mouth has only served to make my pulse skyrocket.
Not out of fear.
Out of want.
“Zander.”
He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t answer. Just picks up the pace.
If he really wanted to out run me, I have no doubt Mr Star Hockey Player could do so even with a head clouded by alcohol.
The Jock House has a large backyard surrounded by dense forest; Zander often takes to one of the trails in the mornings for a run.
He makes a beeline for the trees, and I snatch his arm as we stand right there at the edge of civility and savagery.
