Page 51 of Unconditionally Yours
Bait.
Because Jett is not the type to flirt. He’s not the type to play games. He’s the type to brood, scowl, and strangle his own erection out of spite.
But me in his hat?
Me, glammed to hell, bouncing around in pink and cherry lip gloss. That’s gonna grab him by the throat, and maybe he’ll return the favor, right before he shoves me against the bag and fucks the crazy out of me.
An hour later I’m there. IronBlood Athletics.
Jett’s motorcycle is parked around back, guarding the building. Big, dark, throbbing with threat.
God, same.
I park beside it like I won’t be the reason his mirrors are adjusted a quarter inch too high tomorrow.
The walk around the gym gives me a chance to breathe, or pace, depending on your perspective. Inside, the scent of sweat and metal hits me first, followed immediately by Kevin and his goddamn fog of Old Spice and middle-aged yearning.
“Miss Darling,” he says, way too pleased, eyes sweeping me up like he’s trying to memorize the layout of sin.
I get it, I am dressed for war.
“Kev,” I smile like I’m being filmed for court later. “I’m here to punch things with Jett.”
My eyes are already hunting for him, and then, there. Across the mats, leaning against the wall, auditioning for the brooding vengeance lead in my brain’s personal porn remake of The Punisher. Arms crossed. That fucking chest. That thigh popped out like a problem.
And when his eyes land on me, I swear to God my clit tries to levitate.
He looks me over with the kind of heat that makes sinners squirm.
Then… ice. Rage. He sees the hat.
His jaw ticks.
Mine drops.
I laugh. Not a cute giggle, a gremlin cackle. I can’t help it.
He’s pissed.
Good. I’ve been edging myself on his restraint since Friday.
I reach out and squeeze Kevin’s bicep on impulse.
Jett’s eyes snap to the contact.
“Good to see you, Kev,” I say sweet as venom, and then I bounce across the mats toward Jett, full of caffeine and sexual delusions.
“I brought my own gloves,” I chirp. “What should I hit first? Or do you want to stand behind me and ‘adjust my stance’ while making questionable noises into my hair?”
Jett doesn’t move for a second. Then he leans in, slow, like he’s trying to decide if snapping my neck would be more satisfying than snapping my thong.
He breathes against my ear. “Delilah.”
“Yes, Jett,” I whisper, already wet.
“You touch my bike again,” he says, voice low and dark and obscene, “and I’ll hang you from the handlebars and fuck you until the sound of an engine makes you flinch.”
I whimper. “Okay but what if we pretend I already did, and skip straight to the consequences?”
