Page 85 of Mile High Heist

“Screw you, Jax.”

She looked down again, and I finally saw it. That anger. That vicious, brutal, blistering anger that had once ended with me nursing a split lip and a black eye. The princess wasn’t as sweet as she pretended to be. She wasn’t as delicate. She wasn’t soft.

Her eyes darkened, her nails drawing blood. Then she reached for my head and fisted my hair, using it to shove my face between her thighs.

I dove in.

She rode my face hard. She didn’t hold back. She moaned as I sucked her, the sound broken like she’d tried to hold it back.

Not on my fucking face.

“I hate you!” She gasped, right on the edge again. “Fuck, I hate you so much. I hate. Everything. About. You.”

Part of her probably did. This was the real side of her, raw and exposed to me. All the bullshit secrets and lies, the distrust, it all boiled down to this.

Her. Me.

I punished her with my mouth, and she gripped my hair so hard that I felt it behind my eyes. Then she came. Loudly. Her legs trembled, then locked on my head. She cried and squirmed, pressing harder, moaning so loud, I wouldn’t be surprised if we got a noise complaint.

I licked at her hood until she was almost sobbing. She shuddered through the aftershocks, and I tortured her until she couldn’t take it anymore.

“God, stop…”

She collapsed beside me, boneless. I wiped my mouth on the pillowcase as she panted. A sound like a giggle broke free. She was cum-drunk.

“Oh my god.”

She slapped her hands over her face. Just like that, the princess had returned.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, craning her head to look over me. “How are you ready to go again?”

“I’m hot-blooded.”

“No kidding.”

I rolled over and pinched her thigh. She squirmed, trying to kick me. She stopped when she remembered my many stab wounds.

Reality was a real cockblock.

Sighing, I lifted her again and draped her across my chest. She went easily and hitched her leg over my stomach. Then she pressed a button near my head that shut off the lights.

Fucking bliss.

I reached down and patted her gently, searching for injuries. When I touched her ankle, she flinched.

“Feet?”

“Yeah, but it’s not too bad. I’ve had worse blisters when breaking in new shoes.”

My eyes shuddered close.

I listened to her fussing for a moment, adjusting, watching me. Then, finally, she settled. Her finger drew patterns absently on my chest.

That was never a good sign.

In the past, this was the part where I’d jump ship. Before the silence got too heavy, before questions were asked, before demands were made. I didn’t sleep with people. I was way too paranoid for that.

Without opening my eyes, I caught her hand. “Stop thinking so much.”