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Apparently, the cure to toxic masculinity is to show them how it feels to be talked about like a piece of meat. You’re welcome, ladies.
“I’ll stay out of your way, Hayes.” Ezra backs up for the door. “Remind your dick that you want distance next time you’re eye-fucking me.”
Anton smiles again, still unflustered, and says into the mic, “Ezra Palaszczuk and I have only ever come to blows on the ice.” Hey, I’d offer to blow him off the ice, but he’s adamant about pretending he doesn’t want me.
My alarm goes off at dark o’clock so I can get my ass to the fucking animal shelter to do this charity shit because fucking Anton Hayes is a fucking fuck fuck asshole fuck.
People. Relationships. Love. I don’t want any of it. Except when he leans over and presses a kiss to the top of my head, I’m starting to suspect that I really, really do.
“You’re trying to get me jealous.” “You look so sexy when you’re trying not to deck someone.” “Why do I always need to remind you who you belong to?”
His pouty face is pouty. I poke his cheek. “Are you sulking?” “She thought you were hot.” “And?” “And? You’re mine.”
“If you and Ayri Quinn are naked, you better get some fucking clothes on before I break down this door. Getting an ass kicking while naked is too gay, even for me.”
