Page 15 of Rogue
It’s hard to move, breathe, think with his weight on top of me, his chest pushing against mine, his crotch pressed up against my right thigh. He’s stilled and I swear I can feel his heart beating in unison with mine.
But my right hand is free, close to my thigh, close to . . . This. Is. War. Baby.
I reach between his legs, aiming for his darling twins, but he lifts up and all I’m left grasping is his manhood.
Holy sweet hell. Balls are so much more manageable in a situation like this. Hadn’t I been trained in down-and-dirty rape-prevention techniques? Still, it’s a proven fact that men think with their cocks. And Jaxson, let me tell you, is a big thinker.
Thoughts about what I might do are probably racing around inside because beneath my palm, I feel him swelling thicker, hotter, bigger, and bigger still.
I squeeze tighter.
He laughs, then murmurs in my ear, “I like it rough.”
Sure enough, I feel him grow harder.
“My kind of woman.”
I grunt. “I think all women fit that category.”
“Fireball.”
“Jax-ass.”
“You don’t stand a chance, you know,” he informs me in a more somber tone.
Yeah, we’ll see about that. I just need to survive him. I shoot him a cocky grin and his eyes flash like I’ve caught him off guard. Perfect. With a full fist, I box him on the ear.
He rolls off me, cupping the side of his face like I hurt him.
I frown because I know better. It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than that little punch to crack his thick skull open. Without thinking too deeply about it, I scramble to my feet.
He comes at me and swings. I duck and shift to the side. My frown is now a full blown-out scowl. Either he’s the worst fighter in the place and just caught a lucky break with Broken-Nose or he’s messing with me.
Mimicking his prior move, he charges forward. I dodge his lame-ass punch once again.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
“Just play along with me.”
My eyebrows arch, disbelieving.
“Trust me,” he says with a bloody wink.
That’s all the encouragement I need to land a solid kick to his side. Instead of angering him, he grins like a fool.
I follow it up with the hard heel of my hand to his chin and a punch in the kidney. Just like I’ve trained to do.
He swings wide and misses, but keeps himself good and close and within range.
“You’re letting me win? Why?” I demand.
“This has nothing to do with being the last person standing—which is what most of these guys think.”
“You heard Hayden. He’s looking for winners,” I correct him. “Give me one good reason why should I listen to you?”
I kick and connect with his side.
“I’ll give you two, fireball.” He lands a surprise punch on my shoulder, but pulls it so it’s barely a tap. “One: I’ll need you to help me survive Hell Camp.”
