Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
“Are you?” His voice drops to a guttural rasp.
Ah. There it is. The edge beneath the question. The crack in his tone he tried to bury under a cool, murderous whisper. I struck something vital.
He doesn’t care if I’m dangerous. Doesn’t care that I have needles in his skin or that I could break his other wrist without blinking.
But the idea that I’ve been inside her? That I’ve touched what he thinks belongs to him? That’s the wound that bleeds. He’s not afraid of death. He’s afraid of being replaced. That’s his weakness. Not pain. Not blood. Her.
I could lie. Feed him every brutal detail he’s terrified to hear. Watch the storm roll in behind his eyes and swallow him whole.
I could own him with a few graphic words.
Too easy. Too fast. Better to let him squirm. Let him question. Let that image poison his brain from the inside out. Because if I want to break Jag Rath, I won’t do it with fists.
I’ll do it with suggestion.
With silence.
With every moment I don’t answer, every breath I leave hanging.
Let him wonder if I’ve claimed the only thing he’s ever pretended to love.
Let him choke on it.
As I resume tattooing, the silence pulls like skin over bone, broken only by the hum of the machine.
The intensity vibrating off Jag Rath won’t quit. Neither will my questions.
What is he to Dove? More than a stepbrother? Has he touched her? Has she let him? How far have they gone behind closed doors, and how fucking wrong did it feel when they didn’t stop?
I want to ask. Hell, I want to demand it.
But I don’t. He won’t give me the truth.
Besides, it’s not just his story to tell. When I hear what happened between them, it must come from Dove. Her voice. Her terms.
I force myself to focus on the tattoo, my steady hands contradicting my turbulent thoughts.
Hours slip by. The needle purrs, and my fingers move closer to Jag’s groin, toward the untouched space beneath that sad little drape of underwear we’re still pretending is a barrier.
A barrier that does nothing to hide his unmistakable reaction.
Goth Jesus, help me.
He’s hard.
Not subtly. Not maybe. This isn’t some half-chub he could blame on pressure or friction.
This is full mast.
Salute-the-flag.
Big enough to be a third wheel on date night.
Maybe he gets off on pain. Not unheard of. Some people become glassy-eyed and float when the needle hits.
But this doesn’t feel floaty. It feels diabolical. Like I’m being observed, analyzed, and seduced by something that’s not supposed to seduce me.
Or is it me? The way I’m leaning between his legs? The way my fingers drag across his inner thigh, anchoring my hand while I work?
My face is close. Closer now. Heat rolls off his body, blending with the scent of ink, blood, skin, and something darker. Spicier.
Desire.
The worst part? I’m not repulsed. I should be. After what Denver did to me, this should trigger the full freak show, complete with a panic attack, explosive violence, and a sobbing manic spiral into lights-out land. But I don’t sense any of that looming.
Maybe because Jag doesn’t scare me.
He fascinates me.
My heart thuds in my ears, and after a long, internal debate, I slowly lift my head and meet him stare for stare.
You’re sporting a hard-on, genius.
He knows. I know. His dick definitely knows. I’m pretty sure it nodded at me.
His smirk is gone. No mockery in his expression. He wears a tight look, controlled and waiting.
He tilts his head as if curious what I’ll do with the ten hard inches of Don’t read too much into this bobbing under my nose.
“How about you tuck that before it starts making eye contact?” I turn off the machine and set it down. “If you need to jerk, you know where the bathroom is.”
“You do it.” He doesn’t look away, daring me.
“Hand jobs are extra.”
“Name your price.”
Most straight men would laugh off this whole exchange and awkwardly change the subject. But I’m not most men.
I was raised by a psychopath.
The only way to survive Denver Strakh was to learn how to outmaneuver him, to outsmart a pedophile who used love as a weapon and sex as a punishment.
So yeah. I know how to play sick games. Really fucking well.
Holding Jag’s unwavering gaze, I remove the gloves and let a wicked, slow-burning grin crawl onto my face.
“When I ruin your life, kitten, I won’t use my hands.” I lean forward. Not rushed. Not hesitant. I reach for the material draped over his lap with my mouth and slowly, tauntingly, slide it off with my teeth.
His breath hitches, and his dick stands fully erect, flushed, and throbbing against the absence of fabric. For once, he has nothing to say. No quip. No smirk. Just wide, unguarded silence.
He wants this, wants me, more than he wants control.