Page 57 of Call It What You Want
There’s an uncomfortable stretch of silence. When he finally speaks, his voice is like granite. “Your body is mine, Ava. You can’t hide yourself from me.”
My mind scrambles for excuses, but my thoughts are a jumble. Panic is starting to set in, which is no good, because themore he senses my fear, the more curious he’s going to be about what I’m hiding.
I have to chill out. I have to. There’s no other choice.
With a strength I pull from the depths of my fucking soul, I close my eyes and draw in a deep, semi-calming breath. My heart is still thumping against my ribs like an over-caffeinated jackrabbit, but after a few seconds, I feel slightly better. Slightly.
When I open my eyes, he’s staring at me—not with compassion, or curiosity. His expression is flat, coldly indifferent. Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, there are two sides to Jackson McKnight—cold, and calculated, but also soft, and vulnerable. Sometimes wonder if the vulnerable part of him bled out on that kitchen floor three years ago.
“Take your shirt off, Ava,” he repeats slowly, adding my name, like he’s scolding a child who’s throwing a tantrum on the supermarket floor.
Shit.He’s not backing down, and I can’t help but wonder, how much longer can I fight a battle I’m already losing?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Jackson
As I stare down at Ava, I wonder what theactualfuck is happening to me.
For years, I convinced myself I was over this girl. But looking at her now, I know that was all bullshit. Ava is my drug, and like every damn addict out there, one hit from that magic pussy, and I can’t even fucking think straight.All I want isthe familiar comfort ofher.The warmth of her fingertips trailing across my chest after fucking her senseless. That intoxicating scent that clings to her skin. The way she smiles to herself when she thinks I’m not looking...
She’s lying on the bed, rigid, muscles straining as she leverages herself up on trembling arms.
“Are you going to take that shirt off, or will I be doing it for you?” I ask, my voice calm, despite the surge of raw need sparking in my veins. Normally, this wouldn’t even be a conversation. I’d have the shirt off so quickly, she wouldn’t even have time to argue. But, despite my threat, I need her to remove the shirt herself, so there’s no question who’s in control.
She’s trying to hide it, but I can see the panic in her eyes as that beautiful mind works to find a loophole. But there’s no fucking loophole when it comes to me. Shewillsubmit. Sooner or later.
It’s clear she realizes this, too, because after a few seconds, her shoulders lower, and her gaze shifts to the window. “Can we at least pull the curtain?”
“No.”
Refusing to look at me, she sits up, then slowly drags the shirt over her head, like she’s about to be flogged. And you know what, maybe she will. That could be fun.
With a sharp jerk, I rip the shirt from her hand and fling it across the room, out of reach. Her cheeks are flushed, her mouth twisted into a frown as she looks away, legs hugged to her chest.
Goddamn, I want to rip this girl apart, devour every inch of her, then put her back together, piece by trembling piece, until she remembers I’m the only one who can break her, and the only one who can make her whole again.
I move closer, slow, deliberate, letting the heat between us thicken. My fingers brush a stray lock of hair from her face, and I let my lips ghost over her jaw, tasting, teasing. Her breath hitches; her hands twitch, wanting me, resisting me. I press closer, feeling the curve of her ribs under my palm, the quickening pulse of blood I can feel even through her skin.
“God,” I murmur, voice low. “I want you. Every-fucking-inch.”
Her hands find my shoulders, and she drags me down toward her, but just as I’m about to close the distance, to claim what’s already mine, a suddencrashfrom below jolts me, glass shattering, followed by raised voices that cut through my Ava-fueled haze. I freeze, heart kicking against my ribs as I strain to hear more.
What the fuck?
Voices drift up from the backyard, muffled but urgent, shouts layered over each other. I peel myself off Ava and rush to the window. I can make out a rush of movement on the back lawn. Several figures crowd around Lowe at the back door, while Andre and Yates rush to help him. The distinct crack of a bullet rips through the morning air.
Fuck.
Another fucking ambush. Shadow and Ash, no doubt mounting a rescue operation for their worthless leader, who’s currently rotting in our basement. They’re getting bolder, now going head-to-head with our armed security team.
“What was that?” Ava asks.
“Probably just a few of the guys fucking around,” I say. There’s no sense in worrying her, because whatever it is will be dealt with. Andre and his team are former military. Nothing short of an army is getting through them.
“That sounded like a firecracker,” she says.
“Could be,” I mutter. “But I’m checking it out. Stay away from the window.” I give her a look sharp enough to make my point. “And don’t leave this room.”
