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“I was pissed I couldn’t keep myself in check around you. I was planning to say fuck it to the whole plan because if I couldn’t control myself, how in the hell would I control you? I tried warning you to stay away, but you wouldn’t fucking listen. You just had to keep pushing my buttons, like you always do, and I reacted.”
“By putting your hands on me? By finger fucking me against the wall? Are you seriously trying to blame me for this shit?!”
I stare her directly in the eye. “Don’t pretend you didn’t love every fucking moment, that night, or any other time I touched you afterward."
She stands up, fists clenching at her side. “Fuck. You.”
“Gladly. Name the time and place, sweetheart.”
Jazz raises her arm, but she’s broadcasting her intention from a mile away.
I grab the arm mid-swing. “Nice try.”
“Let. Go. Of. Me.” She struggles under my grip, eyes wide.
What the fuck am I doing?
Restraining Jazz is probably giving her some kind of flashback. I immediately release my grip and take a step back. Damn it.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Shut up.” She balls her fist around my t-shirt. “Just shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
Before I can say, “Or what?” Jazz is tugging on the cotton, pulling me down to her. She presses her full lips against mine, and the thought of challenging her dissipates into thin air. Nothing else matters after that.
Our mouths meet in a frenzy of desperation, clinging to each other for more. Jazz's soft moans shoot straight to my dick, making me go from half-mast to full sail in two seconds flat. She rubs her torso against my hard-on, but the friction isn't enough. I drop down onto the couch and pull her with me until she's straddling my lap, never breaking our kiss. I can feel the heat of her pussy through our clothes as she grinds against me. Her back arches when my lips travel down her neck. She rocks on top of me as my thumb brushes over her peaked nipple through her top.
“Fuck!”
“I know,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her collarbone. “Fuck, you feel good.”
“No.” Jazz presses on my chest with one hand and places the other on her abdomen. “Ouch! Fuck, as in ouch!”
“Shit.” My eyes run the length of her upper body, trying to identify the source of the problem. “What’s hurting?”
Jazz lifts the corner of her shirt. My jaw clenches when the material slides up a little more, revealing an angry, jagged red line.
“Jesus Christ. Is that from the knife?”
&nbs
p; She nods, rolling her shirt up and tucking it beneath the band of her bra.
“Does it still hurt?”
Jazz shrugs. “The majority of the pain now is from my abdominal muscles, which are still pretty sore from being cut open during surgery. It’s mainly a dull ache, like when you had an extra hard workout, but when I move a certain way, it’ll trigger a really sharp pain, which is what just happened. It hurts like a bitch but only for a few seconds. Compared to how I felt in the beginning, though, it’s night and day.”
I lightly trace the fresh scar, causing goosebumps to scatter across her flesh. "Is this the only scar?"
Jazz shakes her head. “No. There’s another one about twice as long from the surgical procedure they had to do.”
My brows pinch together in confusion. I have a clear view of her entire abdomen, yet I see nothing. “Where?”
Jazz starts pulling the waistband of her leggings down, followed by her black cotton panties. Before I can ask why, another line appears, maybe five or six inches wide, about six inches below her belly button. The skin here is also red and raised slightly, creating a ridge of sorts, but it’s obviously from a more precise cut. I’m so focused on the evidence of her assault, the fact that Jazz is sitting on my lap with a partially exposed pussy isn’t even fazing me. Guess I do have some self-restraint after all.
My eyes travel upward, over her taut abdomen. For the most part, it’s all smooth, bronzed skin. But there’s one sizeable patch marring the perfection, lightly tinted in a yellowish-brown color.
My hand glides over the darkest part. “Why is there still bruising here?”
