God of Fury (Legacy of Gods #5) by Rina Kent

It never happens with fuck buddies, but then again, I don’t usually chase fuck buddies. To an extent, lotus flower is an exception in many ways.

He can surround himself with walls and I’ll demolish them one at a time.

Every day, I join him for that morning run, without his approval, of course, and bite down a chunk of his steel-like control and uptight, standoffish personality.

Whenever he starts getting agitated, I get closer and call him lotus flower, Prince Charming, my dude, and his personal favorite, baby.

That one usually drives him crazy and forces him to lose his temper. Other times, he opts to ignore me, but I revel in the flush that creeps up his fair complexion and tints his ears.

I revel in how he steps out of the mansion, watching his surroundings with a careful expression, waiting for me to jump out from whatever nook I’ve chosen that day.

My all-time favorite, hands down, is when he does a quick look at me, noticing my shorts for the day, my half-naked chest, and how I choose to tie my hair.

He pretends to be angry about my constant state of half nudity, his face caught in that eternal snobbish expression, but he notices things. He looks at me with those needy eyes that beg me to do bad things to him.

Lotus flower is such a cock-fucking-tease, but I’ll make him come around.

Even if it’s the last thing I do.

Am I too obsessed? I don’t think I am. This is pretty much a good amount, in my humble opinion.

Now, I’ve never played this type of intense push-and-pull game before, but that’s what makes this a lot more thrilling.

Brandon is making himself into a war that I’ll conquer and bring to his fucking knees. Literally.

So I don’t mean to be a stalker or anything. Okay, kidding, I totally do, but I’m in REU’s stadium to watch some boring sport called lacrosse.

I swear to fucking God I never paid attention to this sport until now. Seems like a failed marriage between hockey, cricket, and football, just saying. Our football. Not the European one.

But then again, Bran chose to play the sport, so who am I to judge?

“Why are we here, Niko?” Jeremy asks from beside me, flashing glares at the people surrounding us, who won’t stop staring.

So, apparently, two big, tatted guys stand out in the midst of polka-dotted dresses, feathered hats, and tulle umbrellas. Even though I went through all the trouble to wear a damn T-shirt. The audacity of these motherfuckers.

Of course Bran would play a sport that only prim-and-proper people would attend.

My friend kicks my foot, shifting in the chair that’s definitely not made for bulky guys like us.

“Shush, Jer. I’m concentrating.”

“You wouldn’t do that even if you were paid.”

“I would, too,” I say, and he raises a brow. “Fine, I wouldn’t. This is different.”

“How different, because I’m about to punch some Karens.”

“Different enough that even I won’t punch anyone.”

“Damn. Who are you and what have you done to my friend?”

I snicker. “Just stay there as my backup.”

“Backup?”

“If anyone asks, you brought me here, not the other way around. Can’t look too fucking desperate.”

“Who would ask? And why are you desperate?” He tilts his head to the side, studying me closely. “You’re never desperate. You get laid more than the three of us combined.”

“Used to, Jer. Used to. Kolya is playing the grouchy dick role to perfection. He must’ve caught the disease from a certain uptight presence.”

He grimaces. “I still can’t believe you named your dick Kolya. Seriously, Uncle Kolya is Dad’s right arm. That’s gross.”

“Don’t care. Ask him to change his name.”

“Pretty sure it should be the other way around since you’re younger.” He shakes his head. “Are you going to tell me why we’re watching fucking lacrosse? It’s boring.”

“I know, right? Why do you think he’s doing it?”

A woman with a wrinkled upper lip glares back at us with that patronizing look Brits have when they don’t want to speak their displeasure. I learned it from lotus flower since he flashes me that all the time.

“Want a picture, ma’am?” I ask and she gasps in pure horror, then turns back to her kid, who’s smiling at me. I wink and he giggles.

Kids and animals like me. Adults do not. I’d rather be adored by innocent beings instead of evil snakes. I like things simple, not twisty and complicated.

And yet here you are for the most complicated man ever.

“Who’s the he you came to watch?” Jeremy asks, but I’m tuning him out because my whole attention is stolen by the fucking bimbo who’s slipping in a few rows below with two other girls.

Fucking Clara.

Exactly what I’ve been missing.

She poses for a few selfies and makes her friends take an album’s worth of pictures. I force myself to ignore her—or try to—as I spot lotus flower walking with his teammates to the midfield.

Well, fuck me. I’ve always seen him in shorts and T-shirts, but it’s different in the royal-blue lacrosse uniform, a bit tighter, maybe. Those shorts are definitely framing his ass better than the running ones.

Not that I’m staring or anything.

Okay, I totally fucking am.