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“A synonym for bland,” he shoots back, and I’m ready to claw his eyes out.
And it’s okay if I get myself killed in the meantime.
I might not care if insults are thrown my way, but I’d cut a bitch for my friends.
The moment I open my mouth to let whatever word vomit spill, Nikolai advances closer in front of me so that he’s on the same step as me.
Any words I had to say die in my throat as I stare up at him. He’s so tall, my neck almost snaps back from the angle. His bare chest nearly grazes mine and I can see the pores in his skin.
“I say, there are some similarities. Think I can draw a kitten by using another kitten?” He reaches an open palm to my face as if he intends to cover it and slam me against the nearest object.
Before I can try to duck, something hits Nikolai’s forehead. His skull swings backward and he flies toward the ground.
He falls on his back with a loud, haunting thud, and the weapon of the crime, an American football, rolls beside him.
“And he scores,” Jeremy says with unveiled amusement.
A sudden chill trickles down my spine, but I don’t get the chance to look behind me.
I don’t get a chance to move.
A larger-than-life presence appears by my side. I hate the warmth that accompanies the woodsy and amber scent. It’s a smokescreen that there’s a person beneath it all, when I’ve seen firsthand that that’s not the case.
I catch a glimpse of his bare chest, the haunting tattoos, and the unnaturally bulging muscles. It’s as if he’s suppressing something.
Or maybe he’s not bothering to camouflage his true nature.
But hey, at least he put on some pants.
I don’t dare look at him, and instead, remain focused on Nikolai, who jumps up as if he wasn’t knocked out.
“The actual fucking fuck, Satan’s heir? What’s with throwing motherfucking objects at me lately? Did you get fucking tired of living?”
Killian grabs me by the throat and I yelp as he pushes my back against the railing and captures my lips with his own.
Then he uses my bewilderment state to thrust his tongue inside. He dominates mine, makes me complete and utter putty in his hands.
I’m helpless, but I still try to fight. I put my hands on his chest to push him away, but that only causes his roughness to reach new, exhilarating levels.
His fingers spread on my neck and he kisses me with feverish control. He kisses like he’s fucking me, like he’s having his way with me again, and I have no choice but to take it.
But I’m not his plaything.
I bite his lip and he bites my tongue, harder, until a metallic taste explodes in my mouth.
Whether it’s his or mine, I have no clue.
What I’m sure about is that the war of tongues, lips, and teeth only gets more potent with each passing second until I’m sure my head will explode.
His other hand wraps possessively around my hip and he slams me against the front of his body.
My curves are crushed by his ruthless harshness, and in hindsight, no amount of forts I could build would be able to resist the war that is Killian Carson.
He was always meant to break me to pieces and force me to enjoy every minute of it.
Maybe it’s useless to fight.
Maybe I should’ve cut my losses at the beginning. Because obviously, my resistance is what got him interested in me in the first place.
