BANG. BANG. BANG.
We both freeze. Jasmine looking at me with wide eyes.
The front door shakes under the force of the knock, followed by a familiar, exasperated yell that splits through the night like a gunshot. “Peach! You are in so much trouble, love!”
“Shit,” I mutter, pulling back and staring at the ceiling like it might spare me as Brooke jolts upright like she’s been electrocuted, scrambling backward off the couch, limbs flailing, curls wild.
“Shoot!” she gasps, grabbing her dress as she stumbles to her feet, eyes wide.
I groan, dragging a hand over my face, then sit up, wiping my mouth like I didn’t just have the best meal of my life.
Brooke is already halfway across the living room, trying to fix her bra and pull on her dress at the same time. “Oh my God, he’s going to think we were—well, I mean wewere, but?—”
Another knock. Louder this time.
“You have exactly ten seconds before I break this door down!” He growls.
I groan again and flop dramatically back onto the couch.
“Landon,” I hiss loud enough for him to hear. “You are a fuckingpussy blocker.”
18
JASMINE
Landon isbeyond furious at me.
I mean, sure, he’s been mad before—I’ve seen the clenched jaw, the pinched brow, the brooding silence that usually ends with a half-sarcastic comment and a beer. But nothing,nothing, is scarier than when the guy who usually flirts and teases you like it’s a sport suddenly goesradio silent.
No jokes. No nicknames. No cocky smirks.
Just…silence. The kind that creeps into a room before he even walks in. And trust me—I’ve triedeverythingto break it. I even caved and told him I missed him. Told him that eating Brooke’s pussy had me so worked up I nearly beggedhimto finish the job. Thought that’d get a rise out of him—maybe a laugh, a smug smirk,something.
All I got was a growl. He looked me dead in the face and told me to go to bed and lock the door… “unless you want a punishment worse than you deserve.” His words. Not mine. And yeah—thatdidn’t help.
I was so keyed up after that I ended up fingering myself twice and rage-ordering a vibrator off Amazon at 2 a.m., because clearly my fingers aren’t cutting it—not when I know two dangerously hot people who could finish me off way better than I ever could alone, and especially when one of them is literally just one open floor away from me.
And yet here I am. Eating cereal. Miserable. And still ignored.
It’s barely 9 a.m., and I’ve already stress-eaten half the Lucky Charms as I keep refreshing to see if my vibrator will be here like six hours earlier than predicted.
All in all, I am fucking pissed! The marshmallows are gone in my Lucky Charms. I can’t work the coffee machine. I need a big O worse than I have ever needed in my entire life. Today has been the absolute worst. Like zero out of ten, and I am three minutes away from crawling to Landon’s room and begging for mercy, or finishing Professor Kilgore’s homework as I fantasize about all the things he’s doing with my panties.
I hear his bedroom door open before I see him. His bare feet the floor like war drums. And when he appears in the kitchen, every molecule in the room rearranges itself around his mood.
He doesn’t look at me. And fuck, I never thought I could mess up this bad withhim.
He yanks open the fridge, grabs the orange juice, and drinks straight from the carton. Normally, I’d groan, toss a sarcastic jab, maybe even fake gag—but right now? I feel too guilty to be annoyed. Too twisted up inside to care about the hygiene violation.
Especially when he looks likethat.
No shirt. Just low-rise grey sweats clinging to his hips like they were sewn there. His abs are cut so deep they catch the light from the window, every muscle in his torso tight and flexed with irritation. A trail of dark hair dips below the waistband, and I don’t mean to stare—but I do. I can’t not.
His shoulders roll once, tension rippling down his arms, and I finally get a good look at the ink stretched across his back. It’s a masterpiece of brutality and beauty—two massive angel wings inked from shoulder blade to lower back, each feather shaded in charcoal blacks and smoky grays, the detail so sharp they almost look like they could lift him off the ground. Barbed wire coils around the base of each wing, etched deep into the skin like it’s strangling the divinity right out of him. And down the center, splitting the wings in half, is a single black blade—a combat knife inked from nape to spine, so precise it glints under the overhead light like it’s real.
Broad, lean, powerful. He looks like someone sculpted him out of yearning and sexual tension. Landon Heart is a bad idea wrapped up in a good guy package, and bad for me I want him.
I shift on the stool, mouth suddenly dry, heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with frustration—and need.
