Page 143 of Midnight Curfew

The pulse in my neck knocks against my skin, heat pooling low in my stomach.

I’m not leaving him alone. He could find another exit and slip out.

Watching him push the bar up again and again, I peel off my quarter zip and shirt and jump onto the treadmill.

Dallas continues weight training, completing reps on the weight bench, the chest press, and the triceps pulldown, and I stare ahead, watching him through the mirror.

What does he know about wealth and power? Did he get that little lecture from a book?

Just because Dallas teaches philosophy doesn’t make him a philosopher.

But…

He said it so confidently. And while I know he’s right, how does he? What experience does he have?

I jog, watching the muscles in his back constrict, bulging under the skin.

Do the Jaegers have a lot of money?

I gathered they had more than I thought, given the continued neighborhood improvements and prosperity over the last few years, but…do they have a fortune?

The wheels turn in my head as I try to reconcile the possibility against what I’ve observed. They know what it means to be hungry, and if Macon’s smart, he wouldn’t allow their appetites to increase if they found themselves prosperous. Especially if the income isn’t legal. No buying a bunch of fancy cars, boats, or homes in St. Carmen. It would draw attention.

He wouldn’t want his brothers becoming us, either.

It’s funny how I never envisioned Dallas in my world. When we were fucking all those years ago—and I let my imagination fuel an emotional attachment—it was always a future with me on his side of the tracks. The powers that be in St. Carmen would probably worry he’d drive down the property value in my neighborhood with his lack of manners.

In my head, it was always me in his bed, us on their beaches, and my car parked at his home.

He might fit in at mine, though. To some extent. He did look good in a suit.

That should’ve been my first clue they had more money than I thought. There were subtle hints, and the suit he wore into the Wolfe Room—half of which he left behind—was a good one. Made for him, actually. The quality of the fabric, the tailoring…Dead giveaway.

I just got so hot, absorbing the sight of him in it, that I didn’t question it.

Sweat covers his chest and back, and I glance down, seeing I’ve been running for twelve minutes already. He slicks back his straight hair, now damp, and moves to the floor. His eyes peer over his shoulder, locking on mine, and I’m a drone, my body doing my thinking for me as I just continue to run, my mind on him.

Shoes flat on the floor and knees bent and parted, he starts doing sit-ups, his stomach tightening as he curls up and lies back down over and over again. His spine presses out of the skin, his toned waist tight and glowing as he faces the mirror.

I don’t have to look to know he’s watching me now, too, facing the mirror as he is, but I don’t give a shit.

Halting my machine, I jump off the treadmill and pull a water out of the cooler. I walk to the mahogany benches in front of the wall of mirrors and take a seat, uncapping the bottle and pouring some water into my hand. I splash it over my face and neck, streams gliding down my chest as I lean back and meet his eyes again.

Shooting up and back down, he doesn’t look away or stop his sit-ups. Never afraid, even knowing I could bring the boys in here right now and beat the shit out of him.

I think he likes having my attention.

His body constricts over and over again, my fingers aching to clench—to wrap around something as my gaze coasts over his built shoulders, his tight chest, and the ridges of his abs. My mouth practically waters. God, he’s got a body.

I go lower, between his thighs, seeing his cock swelling beyond the capacity of his pants. I lift my eyes to his; the smile written everywhere on his face except his lips conveys a combination of a challenge and anticipation. He knows what I want. He wants the same thing.

Stopping, he turns over, watching me watch him as he planks. Blood rushes to my groin, gazing down the long length of his body, sweating and flushed.

I spit in my hand, sliding it inside the waistband of my pants.

He’s absolutely still, not watching my face anymore. I pump, my hand bobbing up and down, and in seconds, I’m so fucking hard. That ass has opened for me. Those hips have thrust into me. Those arms have pinned me down and held me, and I want it again. I don’t want him to love me anymore. But his body is mine.

Pulling out my cock, I spit some more and stroke the long, hard shaft, his lips parting while he watches.