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Anton Hayes. What a walking douchecanoe.
If there’s anything I hate more than Anton Hayes, it’s how good-looking he is.
Every time he opens his mouth, I want to forcefully close it again. Zip his lips shut, or … the image of Ezra gagged and on his knees flashes through my mind, and I hate how much I like it.
Entitled, eccentric, and egotistical. The three Es that make Ezra who he is.
“Listen to you,” I gasp as I pound into him. “You love it, don’t you?”
“Careful, almost sounds like you’re the one doing the begging.” “If it gets me what I want, I’m not above it.” “And what do you want?” “You.”
“Of course I challenge you. I’m better than you at almost everything.”
His pouty face is pouty. I poke his cheek. “Are you sulking?” “She thought you were hot.” “And?” “And? You’re mine.”
Something passes between us that I can’t name, and when Ezra gives me a small, private smile, it brings the fire inside me alive. Mine.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I trust you.”
warn myself about getting in too deep, but I think I’m already there.
I told myself I wouldn’t fall for him. I lied.
You and me, Anton, we don’t need to justify this for anyone else, because we know what it is.” “Oh yeah? And what’s that?” There’s no hesitation as he answers me with one perfect word. “Forever.”
Boyfriends who win Stanley Cups together stay together.
