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“You want to shower?”
I blink, my eyes moving away from the five o’clock shadow he’s rocking to his eyes.
“Alone?”
He dips his head and whispers in my ear. “Now, where’s the fun in that?”
“No shower then, thanks.” I huff and pull away, walking back over to the bed.
He looks from me to Jagger. “In such a hurry to get away from me. Tell me, pet, is it because you like Jagger more than me?” He mock pouts. “Or is it because you want me so fucking bad that it terrifies you, so you do what all prey does when it’s cornered: run?”
His words ignite a fire inside me.
“I’m nobody’s prey,” I snarl before yanking the edge of the blanket and climbing back into the bed, throwing him a pitying look.
“I saw you both in your boxer shorts. Let’s just say I’ll stick with Jagger.”
He scowls at me and opens his mouth to say something. I can’t help but dig my claws in a little farther.
“I know, I know, it’s cold.” I deliver my comeback in my most condescending voice. He might be a fucking dick, but he has nothing on the society girls I went to school with. Their words were as sharp as their French-tipped nails, each one designed to draw blood.
Instead of anger, I’m surprised to see amusement.
“It is cold,” he agrees, tugging the blanket up around me. “It sure would explain these, huh?” He thumbs my hard nipple before he winks and turns away. I fume, hating that he gets the last word.
Besides, it’s not like them being hard has anything to do with Slade or Jagger. They’re sensitive. Sure, the guys are good-looking—if you like that ruggedly handsome, could pick you up and toss you over his shoulder, bad-boy type of thing. Wait, where was I—? Oh, right. Hard nipples. I look over at Jagger quickly to see if he heard any of that. Thankfully, he’s still asleep. Unfortunately, when Slade tugged the blanket, he pulled it off Jagger’s chest, leaving it exposed for my viewing pleasure.
My nipples tingle in response, making me silently curse. God damn traitorous Stockholm syndrome suffering boobs! I need to stay the heck away from these guys. I will not be that girl who lets a man find the answers to his problems in her vagina. I don’t have a therapy pussy that will fix whatever issues these two asshats have while being petted. I will not—
“Hey.”
I yelp and scramble away and fall right off the bed.
“Motherfucker.” I lie in a crumpled mess and pray he rolls back over and goes to sleep.
He doesn’t, though, because the universe hates me. His head appears over the edge of the bed, an amused smirk on his face. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for my dignity.”
“Need a hand?”
“No, that bitch is long gone.” I sigh, making him laugh.
“I mean, do you need a hand up?”
“Oh, right. No. Just leave me here. I’m scared if I move, it will hurt.”
He frowns before crawling off the bed and standing over me. Warm golden skin, abs that look like a fucking mountain range, and, oh, look—an outstanding area of natural beauty. Wait, is that tree growing? Eek.
I slam my eyes shut—ignoring the fact that my pussy wants to do the cha-cha slide—and give thanks that my nipples don’t light up when I’m turned on. And now I’m mad again. It seems like I only have two settings lately: murderous bitch and hoe bag.
When I hear him laughing, I crack open an eye and stare up at him.
“What?” he asks when he takes in my expression.
“Your smile,” I say, feeling like a loser.
“What about it?”
