Page 26 of Root

His sweater is almost a midnight blue, and his blond hair gleams.

Nope. I don’t like him. No matter what the lady parts might think. I learned long ago they have zero sense.

“Not,” I say, “my name.”

“Jess the stabbed rabbit?” We stare at each other and oh, fuck is he gorgeous, even as a flirty smile that has about a hundred red flags attached to it plays with his mouth. Because that smile is practiced. His stance is, too. He knows how he affects women and probably, like Bluebeard, has a collection of them, but instead of dead wives, discarded women who’s come hard on his cock.

Then I frown up at him. “And I’m not a rabbit, fuck boy.”

“Hmm…” He moves, sliding a hand along my cheek and down to my throat and somehow, he has me against the wall.

I want to kick him. “What are you doing?”

Rush leans in, blue eyes dancing and he slides a hand into the robe, just under my unbound breasts.

“Trying to work out if fuck boy’s a compliment or insult.”

“Insult.”

“You say that, but it sounds like a compliment.” His fingers trace the stitches, then he moves, along the tattoo of lacy and vicious butterflies, bees, dragonflies and fireflies that dance over my lower abdomen.

And I could have him touching me all night, all day, long. They’re fingers of magic, sending a sparkling, bubbly heat through my skin where they stroke like the softest wing.

Fuck that.

I slap his hand away and I take him by the front of his soft cashmere sweater and slam him into the wall.

He lets me.

I’m strong, but so is he. The slight widening of his eyes tells me women don’t get handsy with him. Shit. He’s probably so vanilla he doesn’t know what a sub is. I like taking control. And right then, the surge of electric eroticism flares.

I wonder if he’d let me tie him up…

Stop. Now.

But he’s not looking at my face, he’s looking at my body, my tattooed tits with the hard nipples, the cotton panties that are dampening—not that he can see that.

“Compliment me away, Jessie. I’ll compliment you right back.”

“I don’t need any.”

“You’re fucking gorgeous. Look at you. The bruises I could do without.” He traces the big one, then moves up to the one on my breast. “But this sight, yeah, it’s nice.” Again, amusement glitters. “We’re not in the bar, so maybe you want to play.”

“I don’t play.” I slide my hand down over him and grab his dick.

It’s big.

Thick.

My knees wobble. “I take.”

“So,” he says, “do I. But playtime is fun. I’ll show you.”

I don’t expect it. That’s the only explanation. One minute I’m holding his cock and the next my back’s hard against the wall. His thigh slides between mine, and up so he’s against the heat and wetness there.

He leans down. “See? Play time.”

“I’m not here to play, your cousin wants to see me.”

---