Page 21 of Volatile

“Fuck you,” she whispered.

Her breath grew heavy, her acorn irises disappearing in a sea of black. “You have quite the dirty mouth on you. Did I ever tell you that?”

“Fuck you.”

He covered her mouth with his hand, and her eyes widened. “What about these lips?” He got within inches of her face. “Have they ever been bruised and swollen after being sucked and kissed too hard? Would that be wrong too?”

She began to shake, her chest pumping frantically. She wasn’t scared; she was fucking turned on, and it was killing her.

He slowly let his hand slip away, her moist lips rubbing against his palm. She swallowed loudly. She looked at him, her mouth trembling and blissfully free of vitriol. Those eyes were begging him to kiss her. Hell, he could probably fuck her senseless; she was that far gone. If she hadn’t soaked through her panties, he’d hang up his psychological hat.

Jon backed away, his point well made. “Go back to Wesley. Because I sure as hell ain’t him.”

He stood up, and she blinked. Once, twice. She appeared to be in a daze, trying to regain her bearings. It didn’t take long before she bared her teeth at him, looking like she wanted to cut off his balls with a rusty butter knife. Ivy was back swinging.

To his surprise, she bolted up and stormed out the door without one nasty word. He’d expected a slew of barbed insults, at the very least being called an asshole. Because, yeah, whether she’d needed that point made or not, he would’ve deserved it.

But what he didn’t expect was to be so fucking hard.

As if on autopilot, he went directly to his study, his private sanctuary, and paced around the small room. He was just trying to make her see things in a different light after she’d pushed him too hard. It wasn’t supposed to have this effect on him. His dick was pounding, and he didn’t know what to make of it. He wanted her. Bad. It made no fucking sense.

And during it all, Julia had never once entered his mind.

He went to the closet and pulled out the portrait. He’d had it hanging on his wall for a while but had stashed it away when he couldn’t handle looking at it anymore. But he’d never been able to get rid of it completely. It was his best work.

Jon sat down, canvas resting on his thighs. No, it was more than just something he’d created well. Way more than that. He hadn’t been able to let her go, and the painting kept her alive. Made him feel that she was still there with him. Every so often—like now—he’d take it out of hiding and look at her.

He traced over her long blonde hair, her plump lips, the curves of her breasts. His dick didn’t get hard this time because he’d pretended someone else was her, he didn’t attempt to trick himself into thinking it was Julia in front of him. His dick grew hard because of Ivy, and he didn’t know how the fuck to process that.

He’d taken it too far, all to make a damn point. He’d never intended to touch her. But he had wanted to taste her lips and feel them bruise against his. He’d wanted to do a hell of a lot more than that, but he would never go after another man’s woman. Never again. At the time, that had been the only reason he’d reeled it in and backed away from Ivy. It wasn’t until she left when the full realization had dawned on him.

No, he wasn’t Wes, as he’d so eloquently pointed out. But she sure as hell wasn’t Julia either. Not even close.

He couldn’t be attracted to her. No possible way. Ivy was so far from his type, she might as well have been a different species entirely. He’d been around long enough to know what he liked.

Rarely brunettes, occasionally redheads, mainly blondes. Always submissive.

Never a woman like Ivy.

Never.

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