Patient? I’m one breath away from letting him wreck my spine.
He grabs my things and shoves them in the saddlebag.
My focus is entirely on him. The warmth of his body, the thickness of his shoulders, the scent of that deep musk that’s all Jett. I fight the urge to crawl all over him right here. Patience? Never met her.
“Hell yeah, that’s what the P stands for. Delilah Patient Darling,” I say, hopping onto the bike behind him. My hands grip the leather of his jacket. I’m gonna fuck the alphabet out of him.
He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Nah. P’s for princess. Mine.”
My god, this man is fucking dangerous. I don’t even know what kind of territory I’m getting into anymore. All I know is I’m more than ready to lay claim to every inch of him. I press against his back, my chest flat to his spine, arms tightening around his waist as the bike roars to life. My lips are a hair away from his neck, biting back the needy, filthy words that want to spill out.
The world recedes into a blur of motion and heat as we ride off together. Just me, him, and the deviant little promise vibrating between my thighs.
When we pull into the lot where my car sits, I steal a glance back at the building, just a fleeting look.
“Go see him,” Jett says, his voice rough. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Go see him?” I echo. Is he trying to fuck with me. “You serious? What the hell happened?”
“It’s weird as fuck, but he’s worried. Let him see you’re not dead. I’ll be here. Gimme your keys,” he says, locking those intense eyes on mine. “I’ll load your shit.”
I hand him the keys, feeling that magnetic pull between us. My fingers graze his when he takes them, and it feels like electricity. Before I can stop myself, I lean in and press my lips to his jaw.
“This is fucking bizarre,” I say, because calling it strange is like calling a tsunami a light sprinkle.
He leans back, catches my stare with those dark eyes, and gives me a smirk that could detonate ovaries. “No shit.”
My heart’s still thumping Jett’s name, but my feet carry me toward Benji. I don’t know how to make sense of this, one man who makes me feral, another who makes me feel seen. Neither of them running.
I want to be good for Benji. I want to walk in like a sane woman who didn’t just get called princess by a man who smells like sin and leather. But I’m not good. I’m barely holding my skin on. And somehow, Benji still makes me want to try.
Chapter Forty-One
Benji
When she rounds the corner, still in the crumpled remains of yesterday, makeup ghosting under her eyes, lips chapped, posture all stubborn and small, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from breaking into a full-on grin.
She’s a fucking mess. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Precious,” I say, stepping toward her.
She bolts into me, arms around my waist, face buried in my chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to see me like this…”
I shush her. “No. Fuck that.” I tip her chin up. “I see you. I love you. All of you. The you that gets dragged from therapy in cuffs. The you who leaves threatening little art projects on Margo’s porch.”
Her nose wrinkles. “What about the me that has to bolt because Jett’s waiting outside like a romance novel on parole?”
That’s hard to swallow. Because yeah, I get why Jett hates this. Hates me.
Because right now I want to lift her off her feet and carry her home like some lumbering fairytale ogre. I want to undress her, wash the jail off her skin, rub the tension out of her shoulders, and make her come so hard she forgets ever waking up alone in a cell.
But instead I nod. “I love that version too.”
I can feel her trying to figure out if I mean it.
“I love you,” I say, steady this time. “And yeah, Jett and Rhys and I, we’ll get where we need to. Might not be smooth. Might not always make sense. But I’m not letting go.”
She squints up at me. “Did you and Jett do some kind of male bonding blood ritual? Or take mushrooms from a guy behind a dumpster?”
