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For the readers whose favorite hockey men are masked
“Wow, you read a lot of books. You must be smart.”
Stalking isn’t in my blood. Girls chase me, not the other way around. Which makes my obsession with Violet Harris a total fucking enigma.
Not the kind of guy who will wrap his belt around her throat and fuck her so hard, her nails tear into the mattress.
Why are fictional men so much hotter than men in real life?
You think you’re lucky just to have a man glance your way, when really a man would be lucky to fall to his knees before you.
Wes Novak is my tormentor. A bully. He’s seeking revenge and I am his target. I shouldn’t enjoy his touch. Shouldn’t crave more of it. Not when his touch, his attention, has already caused me so much pain. I can’t trust him. Can’t let my guard down.
“That’s my good girl,”
“I don’t do sweet and gentle,” he warns. “If you’re looking for a prince, he’s not me. I want my belt around your throat. I want to fuck you so hard, your nails leave scars on my back. If I kiss you, you’re mine.”
“I hope you know what you’ve just unleashed, little flower. You’re not going anywhere now.” There’s no going back. I’m his. I belong to Wes Novak.
“I know, baby. You’re doing amazing. You’re taking my cock like such a fucking good girl.”
“I’m falling in love with you, Violet.”
I belong to Wes Novak. I am his. And he’s mine.
