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I charge past the morons, and up the short hallway toward the kitchen. If they’re still there… I’m going to kill that mofo. I burst into the kitchen and come to a stop. She’s standing in front of the island. Her back is toward me and she’s wearing her blonde hair in that messy bun on top of her head. Tendrils of hair cling to her neck from where they’ve escaped. She’s wearing yoga pants that cling to her thighs, and which I know must cup her butt, the shape of which I can’t see… Because she’s wearing a jersey. The number on the jersey is eight, and the name above it is Kilmer.She’s wearing Finn’s fucking jersey.She stirs something on the pot in front of her, then turns and holds up the spatula to the man standing next to her. "Taste it," she offers.
Finn, that motherfucking twatface, bends and licks the broad end. "Yum." He straightens, then uses his finger to scoop up some of the mixture from the spoon and offer it to her. "Taste it."
Anger pulses through my veins. My vision tunnels. My feet don’t seem to touch the ground as I close the distance to them. Before she can lick the concoction from his finger, I’ve stepped between them. "Get the fuck away from her," I snap.
Finn’s gaze widens, then a big smile splits his face. "You got my message, hmm?"
"What message?" Gio tries to peek out from around me, but I slap my arms on my hips so she’s blocked from his sight.
Finn messaged me a photograph of her wearing his jersey, knowing full-well it would piss me off. "The fuck you playing at, Hand?" I growl.
"Moi? I’m not playing at anything."
"Get out of my way, you neanderthal." Gio punches me in the side, and my cock twitches. This woman… If she only knew her anger turns me on more, she probably wouldn't be very happy.
"You know what I mean." I lean forward on the balls of my feet.
"I have no idea." Finn brings this finger to his mouth and sucks on it.
"Hey, we were trying to cook, and you’re in the way," Gio huffs from behind me.
"Good," I say without looking back. Going by the waves of anger emanating from her, I know she’s working herself up into a good ol’ temper tantrum.
"You’re pissing me off," she snaps.
"Andyou’repissing me off." I stab a finger into Finn’s chest.
"Hey, I’m talking to you," she yells.
"I’ll talk to you later!" With a final glare at Finn, who smirks back at me, I pivot on my feet.
"What’s wrong with you? I’m trying to cook dinner and you barge in and upset everything."
"Oh, I’m upset all right, and you have no idea how much."
She throws up her hands, including the one holding the spatula and some of the sauce splatters across my face.
"Oops." Her eyes round before she covers a smirk.
Without taking my gaze off of her, I lean into her, then rub my sauce-stained cheek against hers.
"Oh," she gasps.
"Indeed." I straighten and take in her cheek, now stained with the mixture.
"You’re crazy." She swallows. The pulse at the base of her neck speeds up.
"And you’re wearing his jersey."
"Eh?" She looks down at her chest, then up at me. "I spilled water on my T-shirt and didn’t want to go all the way up to the room to change it. Finn loaned me his sweatshirt, and—"
I reach behind me and pull mine off. "Take it off."
"Oh please, you’re pissed off because I wore his jersey—"
"I’m not pissed off."
"No?" She blinks.
