Page 65 of Bad Wolf (Wild Men 4)

Her hand on my forehead when I was sick one time.

Her frustration with me when she caught me smoking, time and again.

Her smile when I hugged her back the second Christmas I spent with her family. Her, Mr. Lowe and fucking Sebastian. When I felt I’d maybe found a home, at last.

If only she could remember it, too.

Chapter Fifteen

Gigi

“Gigi. Wake up.” An elbow nudges my ribs. “Wake up!”

“I wasn’t asleep,” I mutter irritably, my pen dropping from my fingers to the floor. I glower at the girl sitting next to me, then up at our boring linguistics lecturer. I feel that it’d be perfectly justifiable if I fell asleep. “Just thinking.”

“Ah-huh,” she says, and chews on the cap of her pen.

I was thinking. I swear. My brain won’t stop spinning my thoughts into threads and webs of doubt and confusion.

It’s Jarett’s fault.

Something isn’t adding up. That night with him last week… God, the memory of it has haunted me every single day and night since. So hot, the way he pressed me down, gripped my hair, fucked my mouth. Who knew I liked that so much? And later his mouth on mine, then between my legs…

I squirm on the seat, all hot and bothered all over again.

The girl beside me, whose name escapes me, shoots me a murderous look. I probably make her look bad with my behavior.

Screw her.

Jarett. His thick cock in my mouth, his groans of pleasure in my ears, his masculine scent all around me. That night he owned me. Broke me. Marked me.

I keep thinking about it, and about all the other times I met him. I have to talk to him, but if I do, I’ll be hooked again.

And I can’t figure him out.

He saved my friend, and not for the first time. He didn’t even ask me to pleasure him, until I followed him home.

He asked for payment, fucked my mouth.

Then asked me if I’m okay.

He went down on me, made me come like nobody ever has before.

And gave me his phone number.

I have it. I copied it carefully from the palm of my hand into my phone, my fingers shaking as I entered his name, and then I felt like a fool for not scrubbing it, erasing it and forgetting all about it in the first place.

Now I’m sitting in the classroom, my instincts warring, and stare at my phone that’s resting so innocently on the desk. Pretending it doesn’t contain a link to him.

It’d be so easy to text him. Ask him how his day is going. If the wound on his back is healing fine. If he’s also thinking about the time we spent together. About me, like I’m thinking about him.

Oh boy. This is bad. So bad. Why am I even considering texting him? He admitted he’s in a gang, and he obviously invited me to his apartment so I could suck him off.

But then why ask me if I’m okay, why look concerned, why all that confusing stuff? Is he trying to drive me crazy?

Crazier.

Gathering my stuff, I shove everything into my backpack and get up. I can’t take this anymore. I need to move and clear my mind.

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