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)
“Love that about you.” I swallow.
“I’m not gay.” He stands, complexion paling.
“Neither am I.”
“I’m not like you.” He flicks his fingers at me. “Bi-, pan-, poly—”
“Don’t put me in a box. My sexual fluidity exists on a spectrum and shifts from one person to the next.”
“Whatever. I’m not into men.”
“Maybe what you’re attracted to has nothing to do with gender or identity.”
“Okay, enlighten me, Freud. What am I into, exactly?”
“Danger.” I flash a smile, all teeth. “But don’t worry. I’ll make sure you enjoy the damage.”
“Cool story, bro.” His lips press into a thin line, the heat and confusion from a moment ago gone as he heads to the door. “I gotta bounce.”
“I’ll be out in a minute to start on the lower part of the leg sleeve.”
Truth is, I feel like I’m going to die. Fever continues to ride me hard, and cold sweat clings to my spine. But I’ll push through it.
“Yeah, you do that, and I’ll get your body bag ready.” The door shuts behind him, leaving silence in his wake.
Shit.
I drop back against the cot, breath shaky, chest rising and falling as if I ran a mile instead of lying here letting him touch me like I’m worth the effort.
I’m not, and he knows it.
It was nothing. It meant nothing. Just a little fever heat between rivals. Happens. It’s fine. He’s not mine. Not part of my plan. Not the one I want.
Dove.
She’s the priority. The line I can’t afford to blur. The only one who counts.
I drag a hand down my face, my lips still tingling from Wolf’s seductive mouth.
Christ, I need saving, but I don’t want that. I want Wolf again, and I intend to fuck his hot feral ass until he’s out of my system.
It’s official. I’ve finally snapped and lost the last marble rattling around in my skull.
The second I escape the break room and the man inside it, my composure shatters.
The walls close in, and the air ripens with the stench of my fucking shame. I can’t breathe.
Congrats to me. Certified lunatic. Straitjacket queen. Not that anyone’s lining up to take the crown, but hey, I wear it well.
Like seriously.
What.
The.
Fuck.
I should’ve spent the morning interrogating Jag Rath about his intentions with Dove. Should’ve been protecting her by pressing him, punching through his lies, and ripping the truth out of him with my bare hands.
But no. What did I do instead? I played with his dick.
Now I can’t stop replaying it, every filthy inch of him sliding in my grip, every aggressive lick of his tongue rubbing in my mouth.
And the part I’m choking on the most? The absolute rock-bottom truth?
It was hot as fuck.
Dove deserves better.
I know she and I aren’t together together, but I’m working on that. I want her to be my girl.
Fucking around with her stepbrother after she told me he hurt her… Yeah, I’m the literal scum of the earth. No better than her cock-gobbling ex-fiancé.
I fucked up. Frigid gods above, grant me strength and bigger balls. She won’t forgive me for this.
Who can blame her?
The reel won’t stop spinning in my head. Jag’s mouth. Jag’s body. My hand on him like it belonged there. And now it’s all tangled with Denver’s mouth, Denver’s body, the old sickness howling in surround sound.
Heat and cold sweep through me. Sweat slicks my temples, and I grip the counter’s edge for balance.
“Hey, man.” Declan approaches. “You okay?”
My heart jackhammers, and blackness creeps in at the edges of my vision. Can’t gather my thoughts. Can’t pull in air.
Fuck this.
Declan’s relentless voice pellets my back as I shove open the front door and stumble outside.
Rain slams into me, soaking through my shirt in seconds. Good. Maybe it’ll wash the filth off me. Maybe it’ll strip away the dirt ground into my bones.
I hit the sidewalk at a run, eyes locked on the distant harbor lights. I need the yacht. The safety of the island. I need to get the hell out of here before I turn the town square into a psych ward circus.
Grinding my teeth, I force myself faster, faster as rain plasters my hair to my face. My lungs burn. My hands tremble, and the voice in my head spits one word.
Stupid.
Stupid to let Jag manipulate me. Stupid to desire him like a twisted fucking sicko. Stupid to let another man use my body like a dumping ground for their toxic fluids and waste.
Such a sweet little boy.
My legs lock up, and I stagger, one step short of the docks, chest heaving, vision tunneling.
So small and tight.
My knees give out. The ground rushes up, and I’m back in the hills. The same loop. Same panic.
You take your daddy’s dick so good.
I’m eight years old again, curled up on my bed, shivering under thin blankets, skin too small for my body, and breath raging with fear as Denver’s shadow fills the doorway.