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)
“Then this—” I gesture toward the new construction “—was a waste of money.”
“It’s not about money.”
I stare at him for a long beat, heart hammering. Because he’s right. This is about Dove.
And now me.
I let out a sharp breath through my nose. “Get up. Shower. You’re burning up, and you didn’t clean the damn tattoo.”
His eyes flutter halfway open, and surprise, surprise, he drags the blanket off and swings his legs over the side without a fight.
But when he stands, his knees buckle.
“Shit.” I lunge forward and catch under his arm, his weight slamming into me like a fucking oak tree falling sideways.
He’s naked, skin as hot as a fevered furnace and damp with sweat. I grit my teeth, trying to ignore the fact that I’m half-dragging, half-hauling a muscle-sculpted serial killer across the room.
The attached bathroom is a cramped, spartan space tucked off the break room. Cement floor, drain in the middle. Rust-streaked toilet, a wall sink with a cracked mirror, and a single showerhead jutting from the wall like an afterthought. No curtain. No divider. Just cold, ugly function.
I prop the oversized ogre against the sink, one hand pressed to his chest to keep him upright as I twist the knobs. The pipes groan and spit until lukewarm water coughs out.
“I got this,” he mutters, voice rough.
“Sure you do.” I crouch to yank off my boots and peel my socks free.
When I stand and shove up my sleeves, he’s already half-gone again, eyes unfocused.
“Fuck.” I grab his shoulders and maneuver him under the spray.
The water hits his skin, and he shudders.
“If you fall, I’m leaving you on the floor.” I wedge myself between him and the wall to keep him vertical.
I work fast, running my hands over his chest, arms, down his ribs, and the fresh tattoo along his thigh. My fingers trace the lines, rinsing the grime away, careful not to rip healing skin.
This is just about cleaning him. Keeping the ink from going septic. That’s all.
Besides, I have the upper hand here.
Except the muscle beneath my palms feels devastatingly sinful and impossibly hard. His skin is too slick, sweat and water mixing, breath hitching in his throat as I move lower.
And my traitorous body reacts.
Because I’m a lowly mortal.
But I’m not gay.
So what if my dirty fantasies include men sometimes? That’s only because it’s all I know. When I close my eyes and think about sex, I see dicks. I know dicks.
Once I get my hands and mouth on Dove’s pretty pussy, I’ll have her image to preside over my filthiest imaginings.
Except last night, I fucked my fist to fantasies of them both. The three of us together. In every position.
You can’t chase me and entertain him.
She’s right.
Jag’s the enemy. Her tormentor.
Her stepbrother.
I leave the soggy bandages on his hand and reach between his legs to rinse him. Then I make another pass, chasing away lingering suds.
His chin drops to his chest, eyes cracked open. “If you clean it more than once, you’re playing with it.”
My first instinct is to punch his pretty face.
Or maybe I should let go and watch him faceplant.
But his knees buckle, and his body sags heavily against mine.
“Shut the fuck up.” I haul him upright, my face hot and hands clumsy.
I swear under my breath as I finish quickly, my clothes soaked through to my skin. But I can’t remove my shirt, not in front of anyone, especially him.
Once he’s rinsed, I drag him out, water dripping everywhere, and half-carry him back to the cot.
He’s unconscious before he hits the mattress.
A black duffel sits on the floor. I rummage through it, yanking out a pair of sweatpants, and manhandle his limp weight into them. My hands shake for no good reason, but I get the job done.
Just as I’m hauling the blanket over him, the door opens.
“Wolf?” Kody’s growly voice loosens the tension in my shoulders.
Frankie barrels in right behind, her sharp green eyes wide with worry.
When I fired off that text to the family, I wasn’t sure they’d actually come. As quickly as they arrived, they must’ve been nearby. Probably on the way to the hospital, given Frankie’s scrubs.
I don’t know why I bothered, but as I look down at Jag, his wet hair curling over his fever-flushed forehead, I guess I didn’t want him to die.
Not until I’ve played with him a bit more.
Drenched in sweat, I wake on the cot. My mouth tastes like rust and ash, and every muscle aches as if I’ve been pried apart with a crowbar.
Hell.
That’s where I am.
A dry groan scrapes out of me as I blink against the gummy seal of my eyelids. The world swims. Walls, ceiling… Movement.
I’m not alone.
A man sits nearby, long legs sprawled, arms folded, back propped against the wall like he has all the time in the world to stare at me.