Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Though I believe he cares more about degradation through sex. Which I can tolerate.
Liar.
My thighs clench at the thought of it. And I’m truly struggling to come to terms with the fact that I enjoy something so sick.
A loud vibrating sound echoes on the empty laboratory table and I flinch out of my thoughts.
My posture straightens when I see the text. Why does the mere sight of his name make me hyperaware?
Kane
You signed up for the motorcycle club.
Me
Yes, and? Is this another announcement of your stalkerish tendencies?
There’s no stalking involved. I’m openly watching you. And you won’t be going to the club.
Why not?
Because you’re only there for Jude, and I can see your little tricks from a mile away. Cut it out.
And if I don’t?
Then I’ll have to act on my warnings.
I lean my back against the counter. Something must’ve hit me in the head since that initiation because I type:
Me: And how will you act on them?
Kane: Ask your sore cunt and bruised jaw. They know exactly how I react to disobedience.
Me: I forgot. Perhaps you didn’t make that much of an impression.
Kane: Or perhaps if I were to come there and touch you, I’d find you dripping wet at the thought of being used by me, Dahlia. You’re burning for it. I can see it in your eyes when you look at me.
He’s right, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Me: You’re not that special. Trust me, I’ve had better dick.
Kane: Nice try. These little games don’t work on me.
Me: No games. Just facts ;)
Kane: The only fact I know is that if I were to touch you, you’d melt in my arms. You’re a slut for my cock, wildflower.
Me: And you’re a simp for my pussy, but you don’t see me stating the obvious.
Kane: You’re just a hole I use. Nothing more.
My lips purse and I hate the slight thud behind my rib cage.
Me: No real holes were used during the making of this movie. At least, not in the past…couple of weeks. No wonder you’re not that special.
Kane: Dahlia.
Me: Yeah?
Kane: I told you not to tempt me.
Me: I’m just having a civil conversation.
Kane: You’re only civil when you’re silent. Which happens when you’re choking on my cock.
Me: You’re such a pervert.
Kane: I know. I spent the last couple of days imagining your cunt strangling my cock as you screamed and cried. I want to see your tears again.
My hand trembles around the phone. This…sick asshole.
Me: Hard pass. I don’t like pain.
Kane: Questionable. Anyway, come watch the game tomorrow. I’ll send you a ticket.
Me: Why would I go?
Kane: I thought you were my fan, no?
Me: Maybe I changed my mind.
Kane: It’s adorable to think you can.
Me: People change their minds all the time.
Kane: Be there.
Then he attaches a ticket for a seat at the very front. I’ve never sat at the front at any game, let alone for an extremely sought-after team like the Vipers.
Not that I will follow his order and go there just because he told me to.
So I came anyway.
Doesn’t matter how much I despise Kane’s attitude on a personal level. I still need him to trust me and allow me to get closer.
I even bought his jersey from the merch store outside and gave myself a major eye roll.
Tonight’s game is against the Blackhawks, one of the fiercest teams in the league and Michigan’s reigning champion.
Vipers Arena is packed full of people gaping at witnessing two titans going at each other. They buzz with uncontained excitement every time there’s contact.
The rink pulses with life, the roar of the crowd vibrating in the air like an electric hum, which slips into my bones.
The cold air bites at my skin, even through layers of clothes. Like everyone else, my attention is glued to the game. The sharp staccato of skates slicing the ice, the thud of bodies crashing together—it all melds into a chaotic symphony of power and violence.
However, the game isn’t really on my radar.
I’m more focused on the man who commands the ice like a warrior.
Kane.
And I realize the way he plays is an accurate representation of his personality. He moves like a predator, calculating every motion with deadly precision. His tall frame cuts through the opposing players, his ice-blue eyes never leaving the puck.
There’s something about the way he plays, his presence magnetic, impossible to ignore. His skates scraping against the ice is like a knife through my senses. The cold sharpness of his movements slices through the air, making my pulse quicken.
The puck glides across the ice, and Kane seizes it. His stick connects with the puck in a single, fluid motion that makes the crowd go wild. Even I find myself leaning forward in my seat. Every muscle in his body seems attuned to the game, the way he owns the ice, the control he wields—it’s intoxicating.