JAXSON
ANY SANE MAN WOULD HAVE called the police.
Sure, the whole orange-is-the-new-black thing had crossed my mind . . . but only for a minute or so.
It was a threat I hadn’t truly intended to keep.
Besides, what the hell kind of guy would I be if I did? I knew from the moment I saw her in the hotel bar she wasn’t who she was pretending to be, and it amused me.
I was the motherfucker who wanted to play along.
Had no fucking idea what it would cost me—but I’d willingly taken the ride. Hell, I’d even taken her on it.
I stepped in front of her to open the door and hoped like fuck she didn’t run again. Catching her would be easy, I just didn’t want to have to chase her, make her feel like she was a victim.
Then again—I had been her victim.
Hadn’t I?
Switching on the lights, I whirled around to tell her I’d changed my mind. That I couldn’t do this. Couldn’t help her. That she needed to find her own way.
But then I remembered the dog tags in my pocket, the two sets, and couldn’t.
Besides, in this bright light, I could really see the thief, as I’d taken to calling her in my mind, and she looked like death warmed over. Haggard. Tired. Worried. Scared. Perhaps even petrified.
Yeah, I was the motherfucker who hated that I might be the cause of some of that distress.
“Are you okay?” I asked, unable to maintain the I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude I wanted to hold on to.
“No,” she whispered, and another tear spilled down her cheek. “No, I’m not.”
I couldn’t help myself, stop myself, and using the pad of my thumb, I wiped the water away. Concerned she might drop right there, I rested my hands on the torn fabric at her hips.
My body instantly reacted. My dick immediately standing at attention in the confines of my jeans. Fuck, I wanted her. And how screwed up was that? But my cock had gotten used to being denied, and I was able to set my lustful desire aside.
It was her wide eyes staring back at me that really got me. And right then I knew no matter how much I vowed to toughen up over this past year, I wasn’t going to turn her in, and I wasn’t going to turn her away, either.
I was going to help her.
I wanted to help her.
I wanted her—even after what she’d done to me.
Fuck me.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” I told her. “It will make you feel better.” It was shallow, but I didn’t know enough about why she wasn’t okay to give her any real assurances.
Besides, I didn’t owe her anything. In fact, she was the one who owed me, and yet I didn’t feel that way. I felt like I was the shit in this situation. I felt like I should have wanted to get to know her last night instead of closing myself off, and then maybe I could have stopped her from doing what she’d done, what was obviously eating away at her.
I was starting to feel a lot of things I knew I shouldn’t. Like that easy-going guy I’d always been, slipping out of the cage I’d put him in.
I knew better.
I had to lock him back up.
I couldn’t get close to her. I had to keep my distance. The truth was—nice guys really did always finish last.
And I was done with last.
Done with nice.
Done with Sundance.
In the metaphoric sense, I was now Butch.
Pushing my own shit aside, I strode toward the bathroom where I knew there would be a first-aid kit, hoping she was going to follow willingly.
The place was massive. A one-bedroom villa with an indoor and outdoor shower, a full kitchen, private swimming pool, and a hot tub. It wasn’t the honeymoon suite that the thief had been in, but it was still fine. Very fine. And paid for courtesy of Sports Illustrated.
This was what being Butch had gotten me, I reminded myself. Being Sundance had gotten me dumped.
You see, after Jules Easton dumped me and broke my heart into a million different pieces, I vowed to toughen up. To change the easy-going guy I had always been into someone new. To take control of my life. To stop worrying about everyone else and only worry about myself.
Up until last night, I had also been celibate. Swearing off woman all together to focus on me.
But that’s a moot point.
I did it for my career.
To remove any distractions.
And it worked.
During that time, I had stepped outside my wheelhouse and took some very risqué photos of brides. And then I sent them to Sports Illustrated for a contest they were having. When they notified me that I’d won, I accepted the lead position without a second thought, closed my business down, sublet my apartment, packed my shit, and decided not to be concerned about what came next.
I almost didn’t make it here though—because of Sadie Banks.
And I had to remember that as well. Also remember, because of the thief, I lost my assistant. I hadn’t expected that much from her, anyway, other than being a pain in my ass and sabotage, that was. Either way, I needed the help.
Despite the challenges presented to me, I was here. On a whirlwind six-week trip to three different exotic locations, where I, me, the photographer known as Sundance, would be shooting photos at each one, for this year’s Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition.
When I reached the large stone and marble bathroom, I opened the medicine cabinet and found not only the white and red box staring back at me, but also two very green eyes. “You should get out of that dress and let me see how bad the cuts are,” I told her.
She was hugging herself and didn’t move.
I set the kit down and walked over to her. “Turn around and I’ll unzip you.”
She shook her head. “I can do it myself.”
“Fine.” I stepped back.
She attempted to unzip her dress and failed miserably.
I raised a brow. “Turn around.”
She shook her head. “I’m not wearing anything beneath it.”
I had to stifle my laugh. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve already seen you naked. And after everything that’s happened, I’m not interested in anything more than helping you get out of this fucked-up situation you’re in. So turn around.”
Yeah, so I lied, to her and myself.
Didn’t mean I didn’t want it to be true.
Slowly, she pivoted. Her dress was a tattered mess and the zipper was completely mangled. Every time I tried to pull it down, it ripped the dress a little more until it wouldn’t budge. “I think I might have to cut the dress off,” I told her.
She looked over her shoulder at me. “I don’t care if you burn it. It was a gift I only got because of what you did to me.”
I raised a suspicious brow. “Excuse me?”
While I slowly began to cut her out of the dress, she told me about the stock image of myself, and how her assistant had given it to her to use in her column, and consequently how using it had gotten her fired. I wanted to say, “I’m sorry,” but I didn’t because that was the good guy in me talking. And he was gone. The tough guy wanted to say, “Tough shit,” but that was too harsh. Remembering the article, I settled on, “Both Elise and Chloe are real bitches,” and then we both actually laughed.
Lost in laughter, I cut through the hem of the dress, and didn’t realize it until the fabric separated into two pieces and fell to the ground.
The thief stood completely bare, and we both stopped laughing. Her breathing picked up, and so did mine. Fuck, even in the state she was in, bruised and all, she was hot.
“I didn’t have any clean underwear,” she explained.
In the mirror, I could see one of her hands covering those perfectly sized tits that I’d gotten up close and personal with just over twenty-four hours ago, and the other shielding that sweet, bare pussy that had tasted so incredibly good.
My cock went rock hard this time.
I kept my eyes trained on her face, trying to give her the privacy she wanted.
Still, my mind wandered elsewhere. I wanted to bend her over the counter, slide inside her, and pound into her from behind. I wanted to push her onto her knees and tell her to suck my dick. Hell, I wanted to get on my own knees and eat her until she screamed my name so loud even the neighbors could hear her. And there were a million other ways I could take her swirling in my head.
But there would be none of that, though, and I had to get the hell out of here. I couldn’t take it. Heading toward the shower, I turned it on. “You should probably wash up before I bandage your wounds.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” she said quietly.
Not looking at her, I grabbed the resort robe from behind the door and set it on the counter. “You can wear this until I can get you some clothes in the morning.”
“Thank you. I will pay you back.”
Feeling uncomfortable with the situation we were in, I cleared my throat. I didn’t want any more apologies. “I’ll be in the other room waiting for you,” I told her as I grabbed the first-aid kit, and then hightailed it out of there.
The truth was I wasn’t sure how much longer I could last. And the ironic part of it all—I never wanted to do such bad things to anyone—not as much as I wanted to do them to her.
Put her over my knee and spank her tight little ass for stealing.
Bend her over the counter and fuck her senseless for lying.
Push her back and plunge inside her sweet pussy to make her feel better.
Tie her to the bed with her legs spread and bring her to the brink over and over.
And so many other very inappropriate things.
I wasn’t sure if it was the whole Butch version of myself I was attempting to capture, or if the Sundance in me had died, or this dirty side was something new all together. Something only she brought out in me.
Whichever the reason, it was crazy.
“She stole from you,” I told myself.
“She’s a thief,” I reminded myself.
“Keep her at a distance,” echoed in my mind.
And yet, “You want her to come a little closer,” was all I heard.
And that scared the living hell out of me.