Chapter Twenty-Five
The movie was good. The experience was good. Jaxon made it good.
We’re the last to leave the theater, because he’s weird like that. His arm is slung around my shoulders. My smile is a secret because I like it.
“You good?” he asks as we exit the building.
Never been better. “Uh-huh.”
A cab at the curb honks to let us know it’s available, but Jaxon ignores it and keeps moving.
“Hey.” I nudge him. “We’re walking home?”
“You wanna walk?”
Doesn’t he know that I’ll creep, crawl, belly-slide home, as long as I get to do it with him? “I don’t mind.”
Two blocks later, he comes to a stop in front of a green-and-black motorbike parked beside a post. I recognize it as the ninja bike from the garage.
Directly across the street, almost as a backdrop to the motorbike, is a billboard of a stunning woman with my own eyes and my own nose. Wild blond curls billow around her. It appears as if she is looking straight at me. But that’s just wishful thinking. Saskia Day is looking out at the world.
My sister is always looking at the world. Always has.
I force my eyes from the billboard to the bike. “You rode this here? In this crazy city where everyone drives like a maniac?”
He shrugs, and his hand falls from around me. He moves to the motorcycle and unlocks the helmet from where it’s chained to one of the handles, then returns to me, and his fingers are in my bangs again. “You ever been on a bike before?”
As I start to shake my head with wide-eyed vehemence, he jerks the helmet on over my poof of wild hair.
“Motorbikes are responsible for nearly a fifth of all road deaths,” I inform him. “Eighty percent of motorbike fatalities are on account of head injuries. The velocity at which your body is thrown from a motorbike in the case of an accident is twice the speed at which the bike was going at the time of the accident. This explains why a body is wind-ripped into multiple parts in motorbike accidents that occur on highways or at junctions.” My words are muffled by the helmet. “So, no, I have never been on one.”
“Good.” He flips up the visor so he can look into my eyes. “I hate bikes, too. But how about I make this your second experience for the night? I’ll be your first ride and your last.”
Thankfully, my cheeks are hidden by the helmet, so he doesn’t see how hot they burn from that inadvertent promise. Jaxon will most definitely be my first ride. And if God is kind and generous and a true miracle worker like the Bible swears he is, then Jaxon will also be my last.
“Why’d you ride it, then?” I manage.
He swings one long leg over the bike to straddle it, then starts it up. “To catch up with you.”
Wha—uh—what? Is he saying— Did he race out after me?
Kicking up the kickstand, he stands the bike upright and jerks his chin down. “See that little peg there?”
I nod.
“Put your right foot on it and swing your left up and over to the peg on the other side.”
I do as he instructs.
“Flip the visor down and wrap your arms around me.”
Done as well.
His head turns to the side, and he asks, “How do you feel?”
Weak in lust. Weak in will. Weak in heart. “Um…”
“Ready?”
“Yes. I feel ready.”
For everything.
With one hand, he reaches back and gives my thigh a reassuring squeeze. He revs ups, and then we soar. Traffic is light, and the lights all turn green at our approach.
Everything fades. It’s just us and the wind. I rest my head to his back and let the rush take over.
It’s perfect.
It’s an experience.
We’ve been riding for more than an hour now, even though the cinema’s just fifteen minutes from the loft. On a motorbike, we should have been back in half that time.
But I’m not complaining. I like the idea that he’s enjoying this as much as I am. I get off on the idea that he doesn’t want it to end, either.
At long last, he roars into the garage from the alley entrance, and we dismount.
He removes the helmet from my head, hooks it to the handle of the bike, and his fingers are in my bangs, again.
Annoyed, I slap his hand away. “Why are you always messing with my bangs?”
“Because they’re unruly.”
“I like them unruly.”
“I do, too.”
“Then stop trying to school them, yeah?”
“I lied.”
I snort. “What’s new?”
His fingers returning to my bangs, he moves in closer. “I like touching your hair because I like how it feels. And I like the scent it leaves on my fingers.” His fingers drift down to my cheek.
At the graze of his knuckles, I let my eyes flutter closed. “Oh. Well, um, carry on, then.”
With a soft chuckle, he backs away, leaving me bereft.
I open my eyes and find him staring at my legs.
“How was the ride?”
“An experience.”
His eyes lift from my legs to my face. I know I’m blushing.
“Why do you own a bike if you hate them?” I ask.
“I don’t. It’s Collin’s,” he explains. “I bought it for his birthday last year.”
My mouth forms an O. I nod. That sounds about right. I can totally see Collin speeding recklessly down the highway on a motorbike, flouting the laws with no helmet and wearing a wide, cocky grin.
Seizing my hand in that tight-grasping way of his where his strong, masculine fingers dominate all five of my slender ones, Jaxon leads me up the stairs and into the house.
Invisible embers burn between our palms whenever we hold hands, and it’s addictive. Him holding my hand gives me silent assurance that he’s completely aware of me and wants to remain aware of me by maintaining constant physical contact. And the more he holds my hand and leads me, the softer and more submissive I become.
Is it the attention that I’m addicted to? Or do I just enjoy having him take the lead and free me from having to think all the time? From having to be so smart and wise and on guard all the time?
I want Jaxon’s attention. All the time.
I want him touching me. All the time.
I want him. All the time.
And that’s…that’s deleterious.
Nadine’s presence on the couch in the living room watching the telly catches me totally off guard and shatters my moment of bliss.
What the hell is she still doing here? Practically naked in nothing but a nude lace bra and tiny black boy shorts.
As we walk into the house, she twists around on the couch. Her eyes, as they sweep up and down my body, are much like Jaxon’s—flat and expressionless. When they zero in on our joined hands, though, I glimpse a flash of resentment, but it’s fleeting.
At once, her eyes snap up to Jaxon and stay there. “Having fun, King?”
His hand tightening around mine, he keeps moving. “You’re not blind. You know I’m not.”
Nadine’s scoff follows us down the hall while I suck in a breath as the burning ember between our palms turns to a shard of iceberg.
He isn’t having fun? I’m experiencing one of the best nights of my life, and he’s just flat-out denied that he feels the same, while holding my hand?
I attempt to break my steps, attempt to extricate my hand from his, but he just reinforces his grip and pulls me along like he owns me.
“You’re not having fun?” I hate how pathetic my voice sounds.
“Not with you. No.”
Digging my heels into the floor, I try again to twist free of him. “Let go of my bloody hand, then.”
He stops, turns, but doesn’t let go. “What’s wrong with you?”
I glare at him. “What’s wrong with me is that your bloody girlfriend is here, on your couch, in bum shorts and a bra, and you’re dragging me off to your bloody bedroom. What is this? What kind of—” I break off and shake my head, furious. “You know, I was willing to have fun with you tonight, then send you back to her. But seeing as I’m a complete bore to you, I might as well go back and find Col. At least he enjoys being around me.”
Jaxon’s head tips to the side. “You planned on having fun with me tonight?” Now he lets go of my hand and crosses his arms. “What kind of activities will this fun you plan on having with me entail?”
“I— I don’t— We would…uh…maybe— I d-don’t know!” I stutter. Because, really, what the hell do I know about having fun?
“And then you’d send me back to her.” He’s doing that intimidating staring thing. “Isn’t that what you said?”
“Well…” I shift on my feet. “You’re not my bloke. You’re hers. So…yeah.”
His hands drop to his sides. “I’m not interested in having fun with you. So I’ll just go and have fun with her, instead.” He steps around me. “You can have the room.”
Gob-smacked, I stare after him.
Did he really just…?
Oh, God, I’m such an idiot!
How could I have let it get this far? Far enough for him to take a dung on me and flush off.
I know he’s a liar. I know he’s a player. I know he’s a muddler. And still I swam to the surface and allowed myself to get caught into the net.
I deserve every needle of pain I’m feeling in my chest right now, because I let my guard down. I let myself be human. I submitted to being a typical female with typical female urges. And this is the result.
Pain I don’t particularly care to feel.
Ever again.
I stomp off to his room, kick off my shoes, storm into the closet for a nightgown, and storm right out of the room again.
He’s on the couch with Nadine. He’s sitting on the far end, elbows on his knees, his neck bent as he scrolls on his phone.
Nadine doesn’t have his attention. And while hers is ostensibly on the TV, I see her foot inching closer and closer to his thigh.
She wants him.
Biting back a thick block of jealousy, I breeze through the living room and stalk up the stairs. Collin’s door is unlocked, thank heavens. I stomp in and firmly turn the latch after me.
Knowing Collin, he might sleep out at one of his girlfriends’ houses tonight, but I’m hoping he doesn’t. I need someone to rant to.
Not Melanie. I’m too ashamed to admit to her that I’ve cocked up by focusing on the wrong mission. The mission to score, rather than the mission to find the music box.
I strip and take a quick shower, washing my hair with rigor to expunge Jaxon’s touch from my bangs.
I’m not even pissed at him. Hell, he never promised me a damn thing. I’m pissed at myself for dropping my guard so low he was able to get in and hurt me.
I’m smarter than this. I know better.
As I amble from the bathroom towel-drying my hair, I halt and pause in mid-action.
Jaxon is in the room. Leaning against Collin’s dresser, his legs crossed at the ankles, a half-eaten peach in one hand. He brings it to his mouth for another bite, his eyes fixed on me. Looking as if he’d had them trained on the bathroom door, just waiting for me to walk out.
I could slap myself upside the head. Of course he knows how to pick a lock. He’s a damn crook! Why did I think simply turning the latch would keep him out? He breaks into places for a living, for crying out loud.
A chair under the door handle. That’s what I should have done.
“Something wrong with my shower?” he asks conversationally, as if nothing in the world is wrong.
Ignore him.
I pad to the bed, pluck up my knickers and shimmy them on under the towel. With the towel still wrapped around me, I pull on the nightie, removing the towel only when it is fully on.
Tossing the towel aside, I glance across the room, and the despicable sod is openly leering at my chest.
I shift my gaze to my reflection in the dresser mirror, and I see what he sees. My breasts are full and overflowing from the midnight-blue satin nightie that has lace at the hem and the cleavage. Damp hair tumbles around my shoulders and down my back, sticking to my skin. Skin that is stung red from the hot shower.
I admit, I look…desirable. Even to myself.
But I don’t want him to see me. Not anymore.
I don’t want his attention. Not anymore.
On the heel of that thought, I go to the dresser, grab one of Collin’s T-shirts, and haul it over my head. It falls a few inches lower than the nightie. With a spiteful smirk, I flick my gaze across to him.
He’s hardly perturbed as he takes another bite of peach and chews slowly, watching me.
“Do you mind?” I gesture pointedly to the door. “I’d like to go to bed, please.”
“I gave you the room. Why are you up here?”
“Your room smells like you. I don’t want to smell you.” I cross my arms. “And your girlfriend is downstairs, so why are you up here?”
“She doesn’t want to smell me,” he muses to himself. “Do I smell bad?”
“Very. You smell like games and lies and knavery and immorality.”
“Hmm.” His lips turn down at the corners. “That is rancid.”
With a scoff, I pick up the damp towels from the bed and amble into the bathroom to dump them into the hamper.
As I return, he takes the last bite of his peach and shoots the gritty brown seed across the room, straight into a trash can in the corner. “How unfortunate that you’re gonna have to sleep in my stench, anyway.”
Before I can determine what he means and take pre-emptive action, he’s across the room, and I’m off the ground, thrown over his shoulder.
“Hey!”
With my head upside down, my damp hair dangling down his posterior, he stalks out of the room with me.
“Jaxon King, put me down right now!”
He descends the stairs.
“Jaxon!”
He strides through the living room.
I glimpse, through my curtain of limp strands, Nadine still seated on the couch. Pointedly ignoring us.
Once in his room, he dumps me on the bed. “As long as you’re living here, this is where you sleep.”
“Bloody wanker!” I squall. “You can’t manhandle me like this! Who the bloody hell do you think you are?”
Instead of answering, he reaches down and grabs Collin’s T-shirt with both hands—frightening the crap out of me—and, in one strong movement, he rips it clean off me.
Tossing the shreds to the floor, he grumbles, “I hate seeing you in his shit.”
“What is wrong with you?” I demand.
“Relax.” He coolly plucks up the remote from the nightstand and powers on the telly. “Go to sleep.”
As he turns and starts for the bathroom, I give an unladylike snort. “I don’t think so, mate.” I scramble off the bed and beeline for the door.
Before I can get through it, I’m snagged around the middle, hoisted, and dumped right back onto the bed.
Cursing under my breath, I roll over and glare hard up at him looming over me.
Sans expression, he stares down at me. “Stay.”
“No.”
He begins to undo his belt buckle.
It’s hotly distracting.
“Move again, Timber, and you won’t like it.”
Once more, he turns and starts for the bathroom.
I move again.
And I don’t like it.
Because he catches me. Transports me back to the bed. Except, this time he also gets on the bed, sits astride me, forces my hands over my head, and binds them to the bedframe with his belt.
When he’s done, he sits back on my thighs, calm, without so much as a hitch in his breathing. As if he does this—chases women and ties them up—as often as brushing his teeth. “There. That should keep you in place.”
I’m actually mortified. Why am I liking this so much?
Mary and Joseph, why do I like this?
I don’t want him to know. I don’t want him to know how turned on I am from him straddling me and the idea of being helpless against him. So I struggle against the belt. I grunt and growl at him, and even throw a death glare into the mix.
“Feel like a hostage now? Do you prefer it this way?” He smiles. Pleased with himself. “Because I’ve no problem keeping you bound and confined for the remainder of your stay.”
“Piss off!” That’s what my mouth says. But there’s a pressing ache between my legs, pulsing unbearably. I want to squeeze my thighs together to quell the ache, but I can’t because he’s sitting on them.
Oh, God, I’m going to implode.
Of their own volition, my legs stiffen beneath him, my toes curling.
He feels it—just kill me now—and looks down at my body. Slowly, his eyes come back to my face.
Ashamed of myself, of my weakness, I close my eyes and turn my head to the side. I can’t look at him. No matter how many truths and rightness and rationality are in my brain, my body doesn’t give two craps about all that when Jaxon’s around. It just acts on its own, begging for what it wants, in its own language.
I hate it.
I love it.
I fucking resent it.
The pillow dips on either side of my head, and his mouth is at my ear, hot breath on my lobe. “You really do like it this way, don’t you?”
Eyes tightly shut, I breathe out a sigh. “Not really. It’s just…you.”
No response for several long seconds, then suddenly, I’m free of his weight. I hear him move through the room.
Minutes later, I hear the shower running.
Only then do I open my eyes, squeeze my thighs together, and breathe.