Page 86 of Boy of Ruin
I start to get up again, but his grip tightens.
And I feel it.
The tremor.
I dart my eyes down between us, my lips parted to ask him about it again, but he leans in close to me, one hand gripping the dancer’s hip, so he’s touching both of us.
His breath fans against my ear, and I stiffen, the question about his trembling hand dying on the tip of my tongue. “No, you fucking won’t,” he tells me, his words low. “What? Are you jealous, beautiful?” he whispers.
I feel my face heat as I stare straight ahead, pretending he’s not so close to me. His hand isn’t trailing up my thigh, under my skirt. Pretending I’m not trembling myself.
“No,” I manage to say, but I can hear the lie in that word. “But this seems like a private thing between—”
“Do you want me to touch her?” he interrupts me, leaning closer, his shoulder bumping against mine. I stare at the brick wall, see the club lights flickering purple, black, blue against it.
I try to listen to the music.
Lollipop by Framing Hanley. Much better than the original version, but my thighs clench together, and I’m not so sure that’s the best thing for me to focus on right now.
“I don’t care what you—”
The dancer moans his name, and I know he’s doing it.
He’s fucking touch her there.
I start to get up again. I’m going to find Roman fucking Torres, with his sewed-up cartilage and all and I am going to suck his goddamn dick and make sure someone films it so I can play it back for my brother.
But again, he holds me down, digging his short nails into my bare thigh, sliding up higher until his finger brushes against my crease.
“You don’t care, baby?” he whispers. He runs his tongue down my jaw, stopping just at my mouth.
I feel his body moving beside me, hear the bench creaking, feel it shifting. The dancer is moaning his name over and over and over and I wonder just how good my brother is with his fingers.
“You taste like a liar,” he says softly against my mouth.
I make the mistake of turning to face him, our lips brushing as my eyes connect with his.
“You know what I do to liars, baby?” he whispers, moving his hand up higher.
My body reacts to him, even as my mind is screaming alarm bells. Telling me not to be so stupid. Not to betray my husband.
Not like this.
Not. Like. This.
But there’s another voice in my head, too. Telling me what I need to remember. He already betrayed you.
“Jeremiah,” I grit out, grabbing his wrist to stop his fingers from diving into my underwear. He doesn’t move his hand, but he stops trying to get closer. “Please just let me—”
“I fuck the truth out of them.” He pulls back, and I blink at his absence, his clean scent going with him.
He leans back against the wall, his hands at his side, against the bench, his hooded eyes still on me.
There’s something odd about the way he seems so submissive. Giving himself over to the dancer.
But I see it.
I see her undo his belt. His button. The zipper. He lifts his hips, she pulls down his pants, his boxers.
