Page 44 of Callous Shot

“Your head. I forgot. I don’t— I want to mess you up, and not in a nice way. But I don’t want to hurt you.”

I blinked, willing some of the blood cells congregating in my obscenely hard cock to return to my brain so I could make sense of his words. “You literally just said you wanted to mess me up. What’s the difference?”

“You’re hurt by someone else.” His stubble rasped over my cheek as he went for my ear. “I don’t want to make that pain any worse.”

I knew exactly what he meant. But that didn’t work with tonight’s plans. I didn’t want him treating me like some fragile doll.

“I’m not made of fucking china, baby,” I goaded him. “Do your fucking worst.”

His groan echoed in my ear as I grabbed his ass for the first time and thrust against him. “Fuck.”

Fuck indeed. I palmed his cheeks, thrusting again. “I think my hate for you just increased.”

“You make no fucking sense,” he ground out, scraping his teeth down the side of my throat. Lifting his head, he tugged at the hem of my hoodie. “Get this off.”

I smirked at him. “I knew you were dying to see my sexy body.”

“The only thing I’m dying to see is my fist in your face, but that’ll have to wait.”

“Next time,” I promised him, reluctantly letting go of his ass. “Want a Dan special striptease?”

“I want you to shut your mouth and get your fucking clothes off,” he growled, and I shivered.

His hands began lifting my hoodie and T-shirt at the same time, his palms sliding up my torso. Goosebumps. Everywhere. Despite his impatient words about getting my clothes off, I noticed he was slow and careful when it came to easing them over my head.

I had no doubt that it was purely because of my head injury and his weird obsession with it, but it was almost sweet in a way.

Brushing off that errant thought, because sweet and Lincoln Bellingham did not go together, I undid my jeans and kicked off my trainers. When I was down to my boxer briefs, I straightened back up to find Lincoln staring at me, his expression bordering on murderous. I swallowed hard.

“Okay, I know you’re probably jealous of my body, but there’s no need to get angry about it. I can give you some workout tips⁠—”

“Who did this to you?” Rage darkened his eyes.

What? I glanced down at the bruises and marks from my altercation with the Bratva henchman still littering my skin. “Uh, it’s nothing.”

“Who. Did. This? Tell me. Now.” His nostrils flared, his fists clenching at his sides.

“I got into a fight. Same time I got this.” I waved my hand in the direction of the bump on my head. “I’m fine. You should see the other guy.” My words were light, but my voice faltered when he took a step closer, touching the biggest bruise on my side.

“Did you make them pay?”

Well, not personally, because I’d been a little preoccupied with the aftermath of my meet-and-greet with a fucking rock. And the guy had managed to get away. But I was positive the Volkovs were well on their way to weeding out the traitors in their group, and payback would be very violent and very satisfying.

“They’ll pay for it a hundred times over,” I assured him.

“Good. I don’t like this,” he muttered, sliding his palm over my abs. I sincerely hoped he was referring to the bruising, rather than my actual body, because that would suck.

“You mean the bruises, right?”

“Yeah.” Some of the rage bled from his expression as his lips twitched. Reluctantly. “If that’s your way of trying to get me to compliment you, you’re wasting your breath. Your arrogance is already sky-high, and I’m not adding to it.”

“Aww. I knew you thought I was pretty.”

“Pretty awful.”

“Mmm. Keep complimenting me. It’s hot.”

“Do you ever fucking shut up?” He leaned in with a clear intent to kiss me, probably to get me to stop talking, but I placed my hand over his mouth.