Page 95 of Rush the Edge

His furrowed brow smooths, and that smug mouth of his quirks on the side. His gaze skips over his teammates and lands on the spot where he all but stripped me down to nothing.

“I don’t think you can consider it violating when you enjoy it…” He’s so confident, and it drives me crazy.

I fake my smile as I throw tridents over the glass to fans, all while keeping up the conversation with him. “Who said I enjoyed it?”

“Your cum on my fingers...” His whisper silently touches every intimate part of my body, and I grow antsy.

“Go away,” I urge. “I’m trying to work.”

“Yeah, she’s trying to work,” Wes enters the conversation, and I can sense Kane’s blood pressure rising like it’s my own.

The glare he sends Wes would make any man shake, but Wes stands tall with a haughty smirk in Kane’s direction.

A rush of protectiveness burrows itself into my chest, and I grit my teeth. Kane glances at me briefly, and I suddenly worry he can read my mind.

Aiming to hide the truth, I skate a little closer to Wes. Kane flicks an eyebrow, and the muscles against his jaw flicker back and forth with a warning.

He narrows his gaze, focusing directly on me. “That's how you wanna play this?”

I remain ignorant. “Play what?”

His lip curls, but there’s a hint of amusement there. “Just remember you asked for it, Daisy.”

I should be worried, but instead, my stomach fills with anticipation, and my lips beg to curve.

Thirty-Two

KANE

Isthis her way of getting back at me for making her admit out loud that she liked the idea of me watching her come? If so, I’ve gotta say, I’m not a fucking fan.

My fingers tingle as they wrap around the handle of my stick. I stare at Wes with the puck in his hand, and the only thing I want to do is hit him instead of it.

Can I really blame the guy for being interested in Daisy?

Just look at her—pretty, wavy locks of hair perfect for pulling, soul-wrenching baby blues, and a smile that is sweeter than any dessert I’ve ever tasted.

Actually…I do blame him.He’s officially on my shit list.

A growl revs in the back of my throat. When the puck drops, I already have a plan brewing.

Two plans, to be exact.

I focus on the game, and it isn’t until we’re nearing the end of the first period that I get an opportunity to get my point across. I’ve got one eye on Wes and one eye on the puck. It slips out to the right, and I quickly race to it alongside one of the Bolts. Seeing that Malaki is curving around the back of the net to snag it for a breakaway, I turn because there’s a ten-out-of-ten chance that number seven is going to slam into me.

I brace myself for the impact by angling my shoulder to take the brunt of it.

The crowd roars in the background, banging on the glass while they follow Malaki down the opposite end of the rink.

The connection my shoulder makes with number 7 jolts my spine, but the pain is long forgotten when he flies into Wes, knocking him right off his skates.

A horn is blown when Malaki scores, and the fans erupt.

I smirk, mainly because there’s a heap of black and white on the ice that’s awfully slow to get up.

I skate over to him, like the good guy that I am, and help him to his feet.

“My bad,” I say, voice hinting with feigned remorse. I brush him off, knowing the cameras are on us. “Sorry about that.”

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