Page 55 of Jagger's Remorse
"Because—" I gasp as he hits that perfect angle. "Because hate's just passion pointed in the wrong direction."
"You're insane."
"Infected. There's a difference."
"Infected with what?"
"You."
The admission surprises us both.
He stills for a moment, then drives deeper. "Say it again."
"No."
His hand tightens on my throat. "Say it."
"You infected me. That night. With your mercy. Your guilt. Your fucking—" I break off, coming so hard I see stars.
He follows, teeth sunk into my shoulder like he's trying to mark me permanent.
We stay pressed against the wall, breathing hard. "We're going to destroy each other," he says quietly.
"I know."
He grumbles, low and deep. "I can't stop."
"I know that too."
He pulls out, steps back.
I hear him fixing his clothes while I try to remember how legs work.
"Diego. Your trainer. Is he coming for you?"
The question cuts through the post-orgasm haze.
"Why?"
"Because if another man thinks he owns you, I need to know."
"Jealous?"
"I can't protect what I don't understand."
"Who says I need protection?"
"You do. Every time you goad me into violence instead of asking for gentleness. Every time you turn intimacy into a fucking war." He spins me to face him. "Someone hurt you. Not the pretty scars you show off. The real damage. The kind that makes you cum harder when there's pain involved."
"Pot, meet kettle."
"Was it him? Diego?"
I think about lying, then figure the truth will hurt more. "Yes."
His eyes go dark, but he’s not angry—it’s murderous. "Where is he?"
"Close. Waiting. Watching."
