I want to love him so hard he doesn’t have to try anymore. I want to burn the trying right out of him. Make him realize he’s already enough. All his fucked-up edges and his hate and heat and guilt and grief. That he doesn’t have to be soft to be worthy. That he, as-is, is exactly the kind of weapon I want to carve my name into.
I park next to his bike, still warm from the ride. I drag one finger along the tank. No mark, but he’ll know. The air will carry the scent of my lotion and need.
Inside, the gym hums with sweat and noise and testosterone, but none of it matters. I don’t see the world anymore. I only see Jett.
Scowling. Fists flying into the bag like it personally insulted his mother.
I sashay toward Kevin with maximum bounce and menace, fingertips grazing his arm as I lean into his space.
“I’m here for Jett.”
He jerks his chin toward the corner.
Jett’s eyes are locked on me. Burning.
Good. I didn’t wear this outfit to be ignored.
I cross the mat.
Jett doesn’t stop hitting the bag, but I can feel the shift in his rhythm. He smells me. His nostrils flare.
I trail my fingers across his waist as I pass, not even pretending to be subtle.
“What are we working on today?” I purr. “Legs? So I can ride you better? Or my upper body? Grip strength. Leverage. You know. For evil.”
His hand stills mid-swing. The bag sways pathetically behind him.
“You need a fucking muzzle,” he says. “And a leash. Did you bring your shit?”
“Do you have one?” I ask, batting my lashes. “Pretty pink leash? Rhinestones? Maybe some studs?”
“I’m the only stud you need.” His voice is deep, dark, and dipped in something dangerous. But then he laughs, low and rough and sex-soaked. “You can’t be leashed.”
“Can I leash you?” I ask, all faux innocence and filthy thoughts.
He snorts. “I can’t be leashed either.”
“Mutually feral,” I whisper. “Hot.”
“You gonna throw punches or just keep talking about riding me?”
“Why not both?” I grin. “We sparring or abusing the bag?”
“I’m not throwing punches at you,” he says, that muscle ticking in his jaw like he’s trying not to bite something. “Bag.”
“Coward,” I tease. “You scared you’ll like it too much when I hit you?”
He steps into my space. Not touching me. Not quite. But the heat rolls off him like smoke from a wildfire. His mouth brushes my ear. “You wanna wrestle, brat?”
Goosebumps erupt up my spine. “Yes,” I breathe.
He doesn’t smile. But his eyes burn, already planning how hard he’ll let me try to pin him before he flips me over and fucks me into the mats.
It starts with a smirk.
Jett doesn’t even say let’s go, he just lunges.
I shriek-laugh as I dodge left, then immediately lose all dignity because his arm snakes around my waist and we’re down. His weight crushes me into the mats, and my thighs wrap around his hips.
