Page 30 of Heist in Paradise

“Can I try something?”

“Unless it’s a bullet, don’t bother.”

“Not a bullet,” she said with a cute tinkling laugh. The sound didn’t make my headache worse, which was surprising. The others knew to steer clear of me when I was suffering like this. I usually craved silence.

I didn’t want her to be quiet. I wanted her to laugh again. I wanted—

Suddenly, delicate hands landed on my shoulders. I tensed automatically, which didn’t help the pressure cooker in my skull. “What are you doing?”

“Helping.” She sounded so confident, so sure of herself. I allowed it for no other reason than I was already in Hell. What more could she do to me?

Then she started rubbing me, digging her thumbs in the valley between my shoulder blades. It was phenomenal. Fucking biblical. A guttural groan punched out of me, my head rolling forward at the exquisite pressure release. Her gentle breath brushed the back of my neck.

“Jeez, you’re so tight.”

“I live with morons.”

She laughed quietly. Mindfully. My chest cracked a little. “You should stretch more,” she said. “I learned that lesson the hard way. Your body will snap like a rubber band if you don’t.” She paused, then added: “Not that you’ll listen to me, of course.”

“Keep doing that, and I’ll sell you my soul.” Or whatever was left of it.

Her tiny, glorious hands worked their way down my back, unknotting my spine, rearranging my very core. Unbelievably, the pain in my head started to ease, allowing other sensations to surface. Like the throbbing between my legs.

I shifted, trying to adjust without alerting her to the fact that a twenty-second massage had me popping a boner like a preteen. I didn’t want her to stop. Pretty sure I’d start begging if she did.

She returned to my shoulders and started on my neck. That shitty motel mattress had done a number on it, which spoke volumes about how precious I’d become. Gone were the days when I could sleep rough on the sidewalk or park bench; those volatile years when anywhere was better than home.

Then her fingers brushed the crow tattoo behind my ear, and I stiffened for a whole different reason. She lingered, not rubbing but examining, tracing its shape. “It really is you…” she breathed.

I reacted like a spring trap. My hand locked on her wrist, the bones so delicate that I fought the urge to snap her like a twig. I tugged her forward harshly, so she had no choice but to bend over my shoulder, her breath hitching in shock.

“What do you mean it’s really me?”

Her hair tickled my cheek as she spluttered: “N-nothing, really. I’ve just, um, heard about you.”

Madoc was right.

“You mean you lied.”

“What? No!” She started to struggle, trying to free her wrist, but all it did was press her body against my back. I was still hard as rock, which was annoying but not unexpected. I had more rage boners than normal ones and knew it wouldn’t go down until I beat it like it owed me money. “You’re hurting me,” she complained.

“Who have you been talking to?”

“Lots of people!” She snapped. “You think I just stumbled across everything in my binder? I had to get creative. Find some shady characters with access to shady networks.”

Like the dark web. That made sense. Most of our scores were sold on the black market, and our reputation was known among the sordid circles who funded it. Still, I didn’t like it. Not one fucking bit.

I snapped to my feet and shoved her hard against the glass doors. The frame shuddered dangerously. For a second, I imagined pressing her against it for an entirely different reason, and the answering throb in my cock only heightened my anger.

“Jax—”

“No.” I reached up and gripped her ponytail tight in my fist, using it to wrench her face up towards mine. She liked to hide, but I wouldn’t accept that shit. “Did you know we were going to be here?”

She made a pained noise, but her eyes were burning with defiance. “Of course not.”

“Convince me.”

“Fuck you.”