6. RYAN #3
But my self-preservation instincts must be broken, because I’m not heading for the hills. I’m opening my neck for him, an invitation he jumps on, lips attaching to my pulse point.
“Fuck.”
He’s the one devouring me, but I feel like I’m the one getting a taste.
“See, dollface? Your body knows its master.”
I bite back a laugh. He’s not wrong, but his sincerity is oddly adorable and terrifying at the same time.
Eventually, I give in, lost in his kisses against my skin, dizzy with the intoxicating scent of him. His hips move, our cocks brush against each other’s, trapped behind the confines of our clothes. Arousal fills my groin, sending heat to every place in my body.
Oh, God. This is probably how every fatal attraction starts.
I close my eyes. Yes, his masculine scent is there to drive my senses wild, but it’s a bit better not having to look at his handsome face.
“Why forever?” I’m riding the line here. I know that question skates close to what he doesn’t want to tell me, but I need to know if there’s any way out of it once we’ve helped each other out.
“It’s a requirement for me,” he says. But his fingers dig into my skin. His words say one thing—so clinical and businesslike—but his body language says another.
I want to dig some more. I’ve repressed the urge to push for so long, reconditioned by my father to obey or suffer, but something about Tate ignites my rebellious spark.
“Just making sure I understand—the marriage is fake, but the claim is real?”
He growls. “That’s right. No love, just you being mine.”
“Like, a plaything?”
“Sure.”
I’m already learning that’s Tate for, think what you want. I’m not going to be able to read him through his words alone; he’s too used to fooling everyone with them.
“Aw, do you think married people are always in love when they get married?” I taunt. Where I come from, you marry who you’re told to and pretend to be happy about it.
His hand slams beside my head. He’s touchy about that. “I think that it’s time for you to decide. Do you want my help or not?”
“I’ll think about your insane proposition.” His brows knit together again, in that perplexed way I’m learning means he’s displeased. “But you cannot fucking mark me where people can see.”
“Why?” he snaps.
“Because if my father finds out, he’ll be pissed.”
“So? You’re an adult.”
“And his heir. Appearances are everything to him.”
He nods. “I understand.”
I tilt my head. I think he really does. Huh. Expected that to be harder. Not complaining, though. If he gets that, all the better for me.
“No marks where others can see them, but where they can’t see them is fair game,” he says. “For now.”
“I’m in a locker room most of my life.”
He’s still kissing my neck, tasting me, being careful not to suck. “Then find a way to change without people looking at you. You’re mine; no one should be looking at you anyway.”
“Never said that I was yours.”
I’m pretty sure he curses as he tears himself away. He definitely disagrees with that statement. My skin’s cold without him to heat it, and my cock hates me right now. “Sit over there, then.”
“I will. We have other things to discuss.” And I need my wits about me. I can’t let him know that, though. He’s already too confident about this whole situation. The third period’s about to start, and the announcer does his thing, making sure the crowd is nice and bloodthirsty.
“What else do we need to discuss, dollface?”
“If you won’t let me play, let me coach my team.”
“This league doesn’t have coaches.”
“This league can have whatever you want, and you said I could have whatever I want except freedom.”
“When you marry me.”
When. Eye roll.
“Letting me coach my team would go a long way to convince me to say yes. So would paying me out as if I were playing.”
I watch my team file onto the ice as those words settle between us. Bet Tate’s not used to waiting for what he wants. He seems more like an ask-forgiveness-rather-than-permission kind of guy. So, why’s he bothering to ask my permission?
He taps his fingers on the arm of the leather chair, his mouth twisting with the bitterness this roadblock brings him.
“If you still earn the money, why would you marry me?”
“For the other stuff.”
“Alright,” he says, slowly. “I’ll allow it, but you don’t get that for free.”
“Of course, not.” It’s hard to hide the sarcasm. “What do you want?”
“Show me what I’ll be getting in a husband. Practice being mine.”
I have no idea what being his entails or how I’m supposed to show him. I’m going to have to assume—seeing as he’s a hockey coach—that it’s some kind of mindset thing. Fake it till you make it, maybe?
His steel-gray eyes are so intense that I have to look away briefly, blinking the dryness away from my eyes.
No. Go fuck yourself. All simple words I can say—the ones I should say.
“I can do that. Practice being y-yours,” I say instead with a hitch in my breath. Mayhem erupts around us. Looks like The Voiceless scored. But there’s more chaos exploding in my chest. What am I doing? What the actual fuck am I doing?
Tate’s focused on me. As if we’re not in the middle of a hockey arena. As if no one else exists.
“Perfect,” he says.