Page 44 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

He chuckles. “Not much of a football fan, then?”

I lift one shoulder. “It’s fine.”

The words are barely out before a ball comes hurtling into the stands, striking Marcel on the head.

In the chaos that follows, my bottle tips, water spilling across my shirt. The wind bites immediately at the damp fabric, the chill running straight through me.

Marcel stands, rubbing at his temple, still dazed. But my eyes are already on the pitch, on Arlo. Fury is etched into his face, an expression that could tear me apart.

What the hell is his problem. Truly.

The whistle blows and, eventually, he drags his gaze from me, turning reluctantly towards the coach, but not before he levels Marcel with a glare that could kill.

“I’ve got another layer under this,” Marcel says suddenly. My brows knit in confusion as he pulls off his hoodie, strips the T-shirt beneath it, then slips the hoodie back on and holds the spare shirt out to me.

I stare at it in his hand. The thought of wearing it unsettles me, yet the cold seeping through my soaked shirt leaves me with little choice.

I’m still hesitating when the commotion on the pitch spills into the stands. Another whistle, shouts from the team, and then Arlo is moving.

In an instant, he’s climbed the barrier, stormed up the stairs, and is beside us. He shoves Marcel’s hand away. “Take that back.”

A moment later, his own jersey is over his head and thrust at me. I blink, stunned, but when I don’t move quickly enough he curses, seizes my wrist, and drags me with him down the aisle into the private corridor leading to the bathrooms.

I stare at him. He hasn’t spoken to me in weeks, unless it was to spit something cruel, and now he’s acting like a man possessed.

“Take off your shirt, Ophelia,” he grits out as the door slams behind us. “I don’t have all day, and in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m in the middle of a match.”

I bristle. “Well, I didn’t ask for yours. Marcel was already offering me...”

“Don’t say his fucking name,” Arlo snarls, his voice lethal. “And don’t ever let the thought of wearing another man’s clothes cross your mind. Ever.”

“And why not?” I snap back.

He smirks darkly. “Because, Ophelia, if I ever find you in another man’s attire, I will strip it from you and consign him and his garments to the flames. Afterwards I will fuck you senseless to remind you, precisely who you belong to.”

“You’re deranged.”

“No doubt about it.”

“I don’t belong to you.”

He leans in, his nose grazing the shell of my ear. “Say what you like, Ophelia. Denial doesn’t alter the truth. You’ve always been mine, whether you care to admit it or not.”

I shrug off my coat and tug my shirt over my head. The cold air bites at my skin, my nipples tighten beneath the lace, and his gaze falls, hungry, making me feel, for a moment, like prey under a predator’s watch.

I take his jersey from his hand and slip it on. It’s still warm from his body, carrying the scent of him.

“Put the coat back on,” he orders. I roll my eyes but comply, pulling it around me once more.

He holds my gaze for a long moment, something unreadable flickering there, before stepping back and leaving the bathroom.

Through the doorway I glimpse him crossing the pitch, bare chested, as though nothing at all had transpired.

I remain rooted to the spot, wondering what on earth that was.

Chapter 15

Arlo