Page 6 of Burn With Me

“Whatisyour style? I’d love to find out.” Taking another step toward her, I smirk as she takes one back, yet the fight never leaves her narrowed eyes.

“Notyou. That’s for damn sure.” She straightens her spine, attempting to make herself look taller.

“I’m a man of many talents,Scarlett.Why don’t you give me a chance to show you?” Reaching out for a lock of her hair, my hand freezes mid-air when she flinches. It’s minimal, as if she catches herself and steels her body against it, but her breathing has picked up, and her eyes are wide as she looks at me. Hardened, as if she’s bracing herself for impact.

Who hurt you, my fiery little ember?

Dropping my hand, I step back and stick my hands in my pockets. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m not usually this much of a dick. You caught me on a bad night. Why don’t you join me for a drink when you’re off work? I’ll make it up to you.”

She searches my face silently for any sign of insincerity before her posture relaxes, and she lets out a long breath. Shaking her head, she reaches up and tucks her hair behind one ear. “I don’t think so. I have to get back to work.” Then she turns and walks into the open-concept kitchen.

Watching until she disappears, I slowly turn and follow my uncle to where he’s impatiently waiting outside a bronze-finished door. When I reach him, I extend my hand. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.”

He smacks it away, then lightly hits me upside the head. “You’re damn right it was. And you embarrassed the poor girl. You better apologize.”

“I did! And I asked if she wants to get a drink after work so I can apologize again.”

“Withwords, you jackass! Not with your dick!”

Well, he’s got me there.

Ginny

“Smug, cocky bastard!” The cooks in the kitchen give me weird looks as I pass by them and head to the walk-in fridge in the back.

I’ve heard about Jackson Tailor, both from his uncle and from the women I work with. From everything people say about him, he’s an arrogant asshole who thinks too highly of himself and too little of the fairer sex.

He certainly lives up to his reputation.

Milk chocolate hair and hazelnut irises flash behind my lids as I close my eyes and lean against the wall in the cooler. It was only a matter of time before I met him, but the way his uncle talked about him left me hoping for…I don’t know, moredepth.

“My nephew is gonna be around a lot more here soon. Jackson’s a good kid. He’s just lost right now. He’s got a chip on his shoulder waiting for someone to fill it up with gold and make him whole again. It’s gonna take a special person to make him want to change his ways.”

Not that I want to change the ways of a billionaire playboy, but if he’s going to be around more, I certainly don’t need another perverted man in my personal space thinkingI’m a plaything he can throw in a toy box and pull out whenever he feels like it.

I already have to deal with that at home.

Home.

It’s been six years since I moved to New York—six years since I decided to take the Calloway’s offer of a full ride to NYU.

Six years since I moved in with Chris.

At first, it was a nightmare. He’d been angry all the time, like he didn’t know whether he wanted to strangle me or fuck me. We were both busy with school and really hadn’t seen each other all that often, but on nights he was home, he’d go into my room and do the same things he did to me as a kid.

And it hasn’t stopped.

Chris never does more than touch me. He made it very clear that he’ll never fuck me and that he will never allow another man to put his hands on me. Touching me is only for his pleasure, and as soon as he comes, he leaves my room as if he’d just popped in to say goodnight.

Most nights, I close my eyes and imagine it’smy stranger, just like when I was a kid, as I finish the job he started. Some nights, the ones I’m ashamed of the most, I beg him to let me come–because he never,everlets me come. I have not one ounce of attraction or love for Chris, but it’s like my body is a Rubik’s Cube that no one else can figure out except him.

The tight grip of fingers on my skin, the way he handles my body roughly and then stops abruptly—denying me any sort of completion or satisfaction—that part I don’t like.

He’s stayed true to his word all these years and never fucked me, at least not in the literal sense. His fingers have been in me more times than I can count, and I’m mortified that I continue to let it happen.

My degree has taught me that I have developed a very particular taste in reaction to the trauma Chris has inflicted on me. A taste you don’t just go around trusting any regular man with. And I havetriedto date other men, keeping it fromChris, of course. But as soon as they touch me, there’s no spark. No ignition of the flame that lights up my body when it’s being slapped or pinched or bitten, so I make an excuse to leave.

Some days I wonder if I’ve developed some sort of fucked up Stockholm syndrome.

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