Page 42 of Bad Wolf (Wild Men 4)

Alone in bed, I listen to some music, but I yank the earphones out before the song is over. My head is pounding. I squirm under the covers, in my soft cotton jammies, and grab a book to read from my nightstand, a sci-fi classic Merc has been pestering me to read for a while.

But the words swim on the page. I rub at my eyes and reread the same paragraph, but it’s no use. Who cares about alien spaceships and distant planets when my brain is busy replaying the evening in every tiny detail, from the fear of not finding Sydney, to the worry at seeing Jarett’s bruised face, and then the toe-curling sensation of his mouth on mine, and then…

I push the book off the bed, letting it drop to the floor.

My body is thrumming with arousal. I can’t sleep, and I can’t listen to music, or read, caught in this web of desire.

Jarett, Jarett. Shit, how do I fight this attraction? How can I stop thinking about him?

My hand dips down, between my legs. I don’t often pleasure myself, and that’s not because I don’t enjoy it. Orgasm without the complications of being with a guy, of safety precautions and the puzzle of trying to fit together and get enough stimulation to come before he comes and loses interest in the proceedings… it’s all good.

But sleeping with a guy—with Jarett—would be different. And I’ve slept with guys, though I can count the ones I let close enough to me on one hand. It just never clicked. I never wanted them enough. There was never enough interest.

Just because boys are attracted to me, Octavia thinks I sleep with all of them. She thinks I don’t feel much.

Funny how that works. I mean, boys are the ones chasing after me, not the other way around. And sure, having all that attention feels nice. It feels good, no denying that. But it doesn’t mean I’ll sleep with them all. Or with any.

But I would with Jarett. I totally would.

Shit. No, I wouldn’t. I shouldn’t. He’s a bad guy. Part of a gang, if Merc is right. A total dick.

I have to stop thinking, imagining, fantasizing about him—but my hand has taken a life of its own, and it slips inside my jammies, under my panties.

Oh God, I’m soaking wet, and so sensitive. So excited as I rub my fingers over my clit.

The tactile memory of my hand around his hard-on is driving me crazy. Before, my fantasies of him were abstract. His eyes, his mouth, his shoulders, and then I’d imagine him kissing me, touching me.

But now I’ve kissed him, touched him, made him come, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek not to moan out loud as I relive it all, my fingers rubbing harder, then pushing into me.

Not me. It’s not me doing it. In my mind, it’s him.

I can see him. Jarett. He’s on his knees in front of me, those pretty cat-like eyes trained on me. He’s stroking me, smirking down at me as he ratchets up the pressure in my belly, in my pussy, as he stretches me and prepares me for his cock. As he prepares to fuck me into the mattress, and I’d let him.

Hell, I’d beg for it. Beg him to shove that thick, hard cock into me, to fuck me so hard the bed will bang against the wall, that he’d have to put his hand over my mouth to drown out my cries as I came apart.

And I do come apart as the fantasy plays out in my mind, my fingers buried inside me, my hips rocking and my heart hammering. The pleasure drowns me, and I sink into the mattress, into the possibilities and another fantasy where this could really happen, where Jarett would want more from me than this.

Where he’d care for me, want to be with me, where he wouldn’t pretend not to know me in front of his friends, where he’d ask me to be his girlfriend.

My head falls back on the pillow, and I close my eyes, shivers running through my body.

Crazy.

Chapter Ten

Jarett

It’s late morning when Sebastian stumbles into the kitchen and starts banging through the cupboards, then the fridge, cursing under his breath.

I watch him from my chair at the table, lowering the ice pack from my swollen jaw, the noises he’s making going like spikes through my pounding head.

He slams the fridge door shut, and then gasps when he sees me. He lifts the last bottle of beer I had inside, as if to hit me with it.

I stare at him stonily, waiting to see what he’ll do—yell at me for no reason, break things, or ignore me and stomp off.

It’s a toss-up these days. Living with a guy hooked on drugs is like living with a live grenade. You never know when he might go off.

“Whatcha doing here?” he mutters.

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