Page 85 of Boy of Ruin
He wanted me to have a good time, he said in my ear as we all sat in a booth together. When he spoke to the dancer in private, stepping away from the booth, then beckoned me back here, I assumed he had business to take care of and didn’t want me out of his sight. Maybe money to exchange. Maybe someone to fucking murder.
But then Cindy sauntered in, locked the door, and perched herself on his lap, right beside me on the seat built into the wall of this dimly lit, small room, and I realized there was no business.
No business but pissing me the fuck off. Rubbing salt in my fucking wound, knowing Lucifer isn’t far from here. Knowing he’s probably doing just this with someone else.
Jeremiah has always been a fucking dick.
Nothing has changed.
I glance at his finger digging into the tan flesh of her ass, see the muscles of his arms flex. I know on the inside of his left arm are those scars. Vertical lines.
For me.
But here he is doing this shit, not too different from my fucking husband, and I wonder how it is that I got cursed with only knowing the worst men in the entire goddamn world.
But the longer I stare at his left hand, his dominant hand, the moans growing louder, Jeremiah’s groans more frequent, I see his hand tremble again.
I don’t listen to the music, the dancer’s labored breaths, Jeremiah’s grunts of pleasure. I don’t hear any of that. Don’t pay attention to his mouth coming to her nipple, biting, hard enough for her to whimper.
I push it all aside.
Focus on his hand.
It’s shaking.
I know he’s holding onto her hard enough to mark her. The veins visible on the top of his hand are evident of that, along with the red marks in her skin.
But this is something else. Something I’ve noticed since I’ve been with him this past month, and I can’t help but think again, what happened to him?
Before I can think too much about it, the dancer is leaning back in his lap, reaching between her thighs, pulling the red satin of her thong aside, and I snap my head up, aware Jeremiah’s eyes are back on me.
“You can touch me, you know that,” Cindy breathes out, and I flick my gaze up, see her chocolate brown eyes locked on my brother, as if I’m not here at all. She’s acted as if I don’t exist the entire time we’ve been here, so I’m not surprised.
Still, with her fingers holding her underwear back, her slick, pink pussy on display for him, his hands still gripping her ass, his eyes on me, something hot coils around my gut.
Anger.
I grind my teeth, watch her middle finger slide down her slit as she shifts her hips, pressing her against his thigh.
“It’s okay, J,” she nearly whines, biting her full lips, batting her lashes, “please touch me.”
My mouth goes dry, hands curling into fists at my side. But this isn’t my place to be angry. I’m married, and not to him. Whatever he does, it’s not my business, as much as he wants it to be my business.
Instinctively, my hand comes to my low belly.
My husband’s baby, no matter what shitty things he’s doing.
With that thought, I go to stand, but Jeremiah snakes his hand out, the same one that was on the stripper’s ass, and circles his fingers around my thigh, forcing me back down.
I’m in the same leather mini skirt I wore yesterday—a purchase from him—and his calloused fingers on my skin are electric.
I hate it.
I hate that I feel a spark of anything…sensual with his touch. But he runs his hand up my thigh, to the edge of my skirt, and I slowly turn my gaze to him, my hands on the bench, my jaw clenched.
The dancer is still rubbing her pussy, soft whimpers coming from her mouth, one hand on my brother’s thigh to keep herself balanced.
“Have fun,” I snarl to him, narrowing my eyes as his full lips tip up into a half-smile. “I’ll go wait with Roman.”
