Page 31 of Dark Little Game

He puffs out a breath, shaking his head at me.

His body looks so much stronger than it ever has before. Sculpted muscles, adorned with those tattoos.

Rayne Colson turned outgood.

I can see why people on this campus consider him a prize.

He gets in close to my face again, and I can see amber flecks in his brown eyes.

“You’re not going to get to me. Butter me up all you want. Follow me, track me, try to manipulate me. It won’t work.”

“If someone’s trying to hurt you, then I have a perfect excuse to hurtthem. Make sense?”

He takes a step closer to me.

There’s something smoldering in his gaze, now, in the same way I saw at the party.

Suddenly he closes the gap between us, reaching out. His warm palm hits the waistband of my pants and I pull in a sharp breath as his hand plunges lower.

He’s shoving his hand down the front of my pants.

And he’sgrippingmy hard cock in his fist, squeezing it tight.

His thumb trails over the head of my cock, slipping along the precum that’s been collecting there, and the sensation is so tantalizing that something snaps in my brain.

“I know how to play games, too,” he says.

He tugs his hand out of my pants and raises his thumb to my lower lip, slicking it with my own precum.

My pulse ticks up.

His thumb on my lip is affecting me far more than it should.

I feel vitallyalive, my world snapped into full color all at once in the same way that happens when I’m in a physical fight.

Everything comes into clear focus: hisdark rows of eyelashes surrounding those big eyes, the gentle curve of his Adam’s apple, and the clear strength of his pecs.

“I could kill you quickly,” I say gently, responding to his challenge.

He lifts one eyebrow, just a little. “Yet you’re not doing it.”

Infuriating.

I close the space between us and I kiss him.

My lips feel like they burn against his as I kiss him again, and again, white-hot anger rising inside me each time my lips touch his.

Suddenly the room feels cloyingly hot and I want to toss off my shirt like I do in the best kinds of fights.

But this isn’t a fight.

Yet he is still filling me with uncontainable rage.

His hands push against my chest like he wants to shove me away but then he reaches lower, gripping around the small of my back, and his palms are warm on my skin as he reaches up under the hem of my shirt.

If I could kill him, why do I want to take him, instead?

Take all of him as my possession, like I’m trying to prove something?