His Dangerous Love On Ice Chapter 91: Olive's Pov

"What the fuck are you doing here, Olive?" he asked, his voice dropping lower, taking on that dangerous edge I knew meant trouble. "In a place like this? In a fucking hallway like this? Without no protection. I thought you were at your parents place?"

"I was just—Brenda came back here," I said, suddenly feeling defensive.

"And then I saw this girl get dragged back here and slapped and I thought—I thought maybe I could help—"

"Help," he repeated, and his voice sounding dangerous "You thought you could help. By walking into a restricted area alone. By asking strange men for directions. You call that helping? Fuck… Common Muffin."

"I didn't know what else to do," I said, my own anger starting to rise to meet his. "That girl looked scared—"

"And you almost got assaulted trying to save her," he interrupted. "Do you understand that? Do you understand what could have happened if I hadn't been here?"

"I'm not stupid—"

"You're reckless," he said, his hands still on my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks but his voice hard. "You're so fucking reckless, Olive. So careless with yourself. You never think about the consequences. Never think about what could happen to you. About yourself for once. Do you?"

"That's not fair," I said.

"It's completely fair," he countered. "You see danger and you run toward it. Every single time. And it drives me fucking insane."

Then he kissed me.

Hard. Possessive. Claiming.

His mouth crushed against mine, his tongue demanding entry, and I opened for him without thinking, my hands fisting in his shirt because I needed something to hold onto, needed something solid in a world that felt like it was spinning out of control, and him who was considered dangerous was partially right.

And he kissed me like he was trying to prove a point, like he was trying to brand me, mark me, make sure I knew exactly who I belonged to and who would always come to save me, and I hated it, hated being saved.

When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard.

"You're mine," he said, his forehead pressed against mine. "Say it."

"Zane—"

"Say it," he demanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

"I'm yours," I whispered, because in that moment, it felt true. Felt like the only truth that mattered.

"Good," he said, and then instantly, he turned me around, my front smashing against the wall, his body went flush against my back.

"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice still breathless.

"Making sure you remember who you belong to," he said, his hands sliding down my sides, finding the hem of my dress. "Making sure you understand that you don't get to put yourself in danger like this."

"Zane, we can't—someone might see—"

"I don't fucking care," he growled. "You're so wet for me already. I can smell your arousal thick in the air. Always so fucking ready, even when you're scared."

"You're mine," he repeats again, like he wanted the word to sink into my skull. "Do you understand that? Mine. And nobody touches what's mine."

My breath caught in my throat, as I nodded. The impact of his words hitting harder than before.

He leaned in, his lips right next to my ear, his hand sliding down my neck, over my collarbone, going lower.

"And right now," he said, his fingers slipping under the edge of my dress, "I'm going to make sure you remember exactly who you belong to."

His hand landed on my thigh, pulling me closer, and I could feel the heat coming off him, could feel my body responding even though my brain was screaming that this was a terrible idea.

"Zane—"

"You're going to say it was a mistake, right?" His voice was dark and teasing and dangerous all at once. "That's what you're about to tell me?"

I tried to answer but the words died as his hand moved higher, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.

He laughed quietly, the sound making me shiver. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

His breath was hot against my ear and God I was already wet, already wanting him even though we were in a room where anyone could walk in.

He pushed his hand under my underwear and I gasped, my fingers digging into his shoulders.

"You know why I like you in dresses, Olive?" His voice was barely a whisper but it went straight through me.

"No—"

"Because I can do this." His fingers brushed against me and I whimpered, my head falling back against the wall. "Because I can touch you whenever I want. Because you're mine and I want everyone to know it. Even when you're thinking about someone else."

"I'm not—"

"Aren't you?" His fingers moved in slow circles and I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning. "Because I want you to think about him, Olive. I want you to wonder what it would be like. And then I want you to realize that nobody will ever make you feel like I do."

His fingers pressed deeper and I gasped, my body arching into him without permission.

"Say it," he said. "Tell me you're mine again. I want to hear it."

But I couldn't. Because I was too far gone, too lost in what he was doing to me, in the way he made me feel things I had no business feeling.

“I’m yours Zane…”

He chuckled, the sound rich and ruthless, vibrating through my body.

And he knew it. That I wanted him to ruin me.

"That's what I thought," he said against my skin, his mouth curving into a dark smile. "Now let's see how much you can take."