Page 24 of Tricked By Jack
“You,” she says, the single word carrying a weight of accusation and recognition. “If you’re here to push Caleb around again you’re shit out of luck. He won’t speak to me because of you.”
She crosses her arms under her chest, which only pushes her tits higher, tighter against the stretched fabric of her tank top. She knows what she’s doing—using her body like a weapon, even if the safety’s still on.
Despite the need to laugh, I remain silent, breathing steadily, the box offered without explanation or apology. The final invitation. The last choice that isn’t really a choice at all.
When I stay silent, her mouth curls into something bitter. “Or maybe you want to sexually assault me some more. Thought I’d forget about that part?” Her voice trembles slightly at the end, just enough to give her away. Just enough to tell me she hasn’t forgotten how wet she was, either. Good.
Shame is a better leash than chains. And I want her to remember every pulse, every twitch, every moan she didn’t mean to make.
I extend the box farther, an unspoken command laced in the gesture. Take it.
She doesn’t move, but I see the indecision flicker through her. That pull between indignation and obsession. It’s eating her alive, and she doesn’t even know where the hunger ends and the hate begins.
“Take it,” I say, voice low and edged in command. “Or I’ll take you.”
Chapter 8
The Bride
His words hang in the air between us, heavy with promise and threat. I feel my pulse quicken, a warmth spreading through my belly that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with something I refuse to name.
The box remains extended in his gloved hand, but I’m suddenly tired of playing by his rules, tired of being the one who reacts while he orchestrates.
“If you want it opened so badly, why don’t you do it yourself?” I say, cocking my hip against the doorframe. “Maybe I don’t want the contents inside my home.” I point at the box for emphasis.
He doesn’t respond. The lenses of his mask reflect distorted versions of me back at myself—a woman whose defiance looks like desire, whose resistance resembles invitation.
My dad, the great and renowned Charles Mortis, might have been brilliant in his field. But the fact that I’m actually entertaining a stranger at midnight, and getting turned on just proves how bad his parenting was.
Maybe I’d be making better life choices if he hadn’t spent most of my life telling me what to do. If he’d bothered to let me learn from havingany experiences he didn’t script and tailor to completion. Dick.
I study the stranger, cataloging the details as if they might reveal something about the man beneath the disguise. His posture is military-precise, shoulders squared beneath the leather jacket that creaks subtly with each breath. His gloved fingers remain steady on the box, no tremor of uncertainty, no sign that my refusal has any effect on his intentions.
“Fine,” I say, feeling something shift inside me, a dangerous impulse taking shape. “Have it your way.”
Deciding on taking a calculated risk, I turn my back on him and walk back into my apartment. It tastes like spite, but it burns like hunger. I want him to follow. I want him to stop me. I want… something I don’t have words for.
I only manage two steps before there’s a rush of air as hands grab my shoulders from behind. The stranger shoves me forward, the momentum carrying me all the way into my apartment.
Then he spins me, and my back hits the wall with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs. The plaster bites into my spine, cold and unyielding, like the world snapping shut behind me. There’s no exit here.
Before I can recover, he’s on me, one gloved hand slamming beside my head as he cages me against the wall. An involuntary and embarrassingly breathy gasp escapes me as he presses the box against my chest, hard edges digging into the thin fabric of my tank top.
With my free hand, I reach for the bat I keep by the wall. You can never be too careful, and right now, I need to feel it in my hand and possibly introduce the wood to the courier’s balls.
Determined not to give away what I’m trying to do, I focus on him. It’s both titillating and infuriating that he’s wearing a mask, hiding his expression. I don’t even know if he’s looking straight at me, or following my hand from the corner of his eyes.
The guy’s body doesn’t touch mine, but he’s close enough that I can smell the leather of his jacket. Looking down, I note that his boots are braced on either side of my bare feet, the size difference stark and somehow thrilling.
I’m trapped, but not restrained. He’s giving me just enough space to leaveif I truly wanted to, which makes it all the more damning that I’m still here.
Finally, I close my fingers around the smooth wood of my bat. Instead of wasting more time by being careful, I swing it against his leg.
“Get off me,” I scream.
Even though it strikes his thigh, he doesn’t falter. He shifts his weight slightly, absorbing the blow with a grunt—low and dark with satisfaction. Fuck, rather than scaring him off, I’ve just amused the devil himself.
Then, with unhurried precision, he reaches down and rips the bat from my grip with one hand. The motion is effortlessly casual, as if I’d never been gripping it at all.
