Chapter 6 Nothing To Me

RHYSAND

Fuck.

Staring at Oliver’s bulging eyes as he claws for air under my foot shouldn’t do this to me, but every drop of blood in my body surges south, thickening my dick against my thigh.

Another proof of why this rooming situation is a fucking horrible idea.

But I had no say in the matter.

When Orson finally came through with the college arrangement, CSU apparently was the only university with a top hockey team willing to take someone with my record–record being that I lost my D1 scholarship and haven't played hockey in almost two years.

Apparently, their athlete exchange/talent hunt programs opened them up.

Learning that news had been perfect, but I should have known nothing went perfectly with my father.

On the day I was packing my shit up to move to the university, Orson announced to me that I would be rooming with his stepson.

“Jennifer and I think it’ll be good for both of you. To help you bond. And especially you.”

His fucking words.

Like we’re some sitcom family who just need quality time to work out our differences.

I’d wanted to tell Orson to shove his bonding experiment up his ass, but arguing would’ve meant explaining why I was so averse to Oliver.

So I moved my shit in and told myself it didn’t matter.

Oliver Parish will sleep two feet away from me every night and it won’t change anything.

Yes, I hate the golden boy, but there’s too much on the stakes for me.

My ultimate goal of making it to the NHL so I can fund the foundation myself.

All Oliver had to do was stay the fuck out of my way.

But what does the little shit do the second he waltzes in through the door?

The fucking opposite of that.

I should crush his throat the same way he crushed my weed.

But seeing him like this–sprawled on the floor, helpless and completely at my mercy–it’s a rush that travels straight to my cock.

A sick, twisted power trip that has me throbbing harder the more he struggles, the more his slim chest heaves and the more those blue eyes flash with fear and fury.

Every push against my foot…it all feeds the hunger building in my gut.

I could keep going… maybe grind my other foot down on his pert ass cased in those tight black jeans while he struggles to breathe, and I swear I’d come in my fucking pants like some untouched teenager.

Jesus Christ, Rhysand. Get a grip.

I force myself to ease off his neck before I do something stupider than I already have.

Like yanking him up by the hair and shoving my cock between those parted full pink lips.

He’d probably gag on it—he doesn't strike me as someone with enough throating practice.

Clamping my teeth, I lean down and the faint smell of his soft perfume and fear shoots sparks of electricity up my spine.

“Don’t speak to me ever again,” I finally break the silence dragging between us. “And stay the fuck out of my way if you want to keep breathing.”

But he doesn’t move or answer.

My brows knot, and I take a better look at him.

He’s fucking passed out.

“Pussy,” I huff under my breath, disgust curling in my gut–at him, at myself, and at this whole messed-up situation my father forced me in.

I should leave him on the cold floor, but I find myself hauling him up into my arms.

He’s surprisingly heavy.

It must be all that lean muscle that hides under his soft skin like a swimmer's.

Up close like this, with the fight gone out of him, I can’t help noticing again how stupidly pretty his face is.

Delicate… almost, with soft cheek-bones and full lips that don’t match the defined lines of his body.

He might not be an athlete, but he definitely worked out.

Stupid, pretty trophy boy.

Dumping him on his bed, I turn away fast, yanking the window open to let the cold air slap some sense into me.

He’s nothing.

Oliver Parrish is nothing, and I’m not gonna let him get under my skin any more than he already has.