Page 47 of His Atonement

Hot.

Hot.

On a frustrated growl I stomp over to get the tomahawk, my alternative to archery, and just as I take my position, pull my arm back to throw it again, my skin breaks out in goosebumps as my body goes inferno level.

"Your form is all wrong."

I scowl at that sinfully deep voice, the accent that makes my nipples so hard they could cut glass, but I ignore him and throw anyway.

Then scream at the top of my lungs when the tomahawk lands in the side of the bullseye next to the one I was supposed to hit.

"Told you."

The smile in his voice, the way he is still so fucking calm gets right under my skin and when I spin to face him, I inhale sharp.

Why does he have to be so goddamn hot?

Hot.

Hot.

Hot.

Pink mohawk perfectly mussed.

Extremely sexy and expressive face shimmering in the afternoon sun.

The most kissable fucking lips smirking at me.

His white muscle shirt stretched so tight over his chest, arm porn on full display. Black basketball shorts slung low on his narrow hips, hiding one of those delicious V's that leads to what is no doubt probably one of the biggest cocks known to man.

And fuck me, his calves are a thing of beauty.

Should I find his feet sexy? I do. I absolutely think his feet are sexy, especially in his neon green flip flops with the tattoos on the tops of them staring back up at me.

Zan is infuriatingly hot and I can't decide if I want to lick him or punch him for it.

Punch him.

Punch him.

Punch him.

"I don't remember asking you about my form.” I glare and grab the hem of my shorts to stop from digging my fingers into my thighs again. "So why don't you fuck off somewhere else?"

One light blonde brow lifts as his smirk grows. "And why on Earth would I want to do that when I get so much enjoyment from watching you make a fool of yourself?"

"Fuck off, Zan. I don't have time for your bullshit today."

I barely register the frown he gives me, almost miss the way it morphs into a look of concern as I spin and start for my fucking tomahawk.

I have no desire to play our game right now and I sure as fuck don't want to entertain anymore stupid ideas about Zan actually caring about me or god forbid, maybe even liking me.

But when I feel my knees buckle, the muscles in my legs go tight on my way back from the target, I snap.

I launch the tomahawk into the woods and scream at my diagnosis, scream at that bastard for causing all of this. "Cocksucker motherfucker bastard grabbing son of a bitchtits!" My fingers dig into my thighs as my arm jerks a small set of three. "I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!"

My arm tries to jerk again but I refuse to let it, refuse to allow it to move against my will, but it tries anyway and I end up ripping a fucking hole in my shorts.