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  I slept like a newborn from that orgasm he gave me last night, his unreasonable ire affecting my mood not one iota. Oh, if only I could have two doses of that at 10 p.m. sharp every night before bed. It’s the most epic of sensations ever to be experienced.

  For once, I admit, I was wrong. Orgasms are definitely not overrated. They’re totally worth the hype.

  I’m not expecting to find him in the kitchen when I amble in to steal cereal, last night’s high still hovering over me like a halo despite the drama at the end.

  But there he sits, at the table.

  With her.

  He looks sharp as a blade in a well-cut black suit and tie. His hair is slicked back from his face, accentuating his distractingly perfect features.

  God, I just want to grab his face and lick it.

  Beside him, Nadine looks just as sharp in a blood-red, form-fitting pantsuit, with lipstick to match, her hair pulled back, diamond earrings glinting.

  He glances up at my shuffled entrance. His bored gaze sweeps me over, brief and disinterested, before returning to Nadine, who’s mumbling something sarcastic as she steals a piece of fruit from his bowl with her fork.

  He has fruit. She has oatmeal.

  Their chairs are unnecessarily close. Their arms are touching on the table.

  I hate it.

  Before we were partners, we were lovers. Before we were lovers, we were best friends. Before we were best friends, we were classmates.

  Nadine’s his best friend. Best friend from childhood. Best friend, with benefits.

  We know each other well.

  She knows him. All the things. In all the ways. She knows him.

  And I’d be a stinking liar if I said that doesn’t make me green with jealousy.

  I want to know all the things she knows about him. I want to feel all the things he’s made her feel. I want to be in her place right this very moment. To sit beside him, eat breakfast with him, laugh with him as my arm brushes against his.

  “Good morning!” My smile is bright and 100 percent authentic, despite the razor blades of jealously slicing at my veins.

  A mumbled acknowledgment from Nadine.

  Nada from Jaxon.

  Shocker.

  I came for cereal but decide to linger and make breakfast for the rest of the house instead—a reason to be in the kitchen and kill their precious little moment.

  Nadine, however, is clearly determined to keep him all to herself. She switches from speaking English to Latin.

  Ha! Silly wabbit. Not my fault she doesn’t know I speak at least seven languages, and Latin happens to be one of them. Photographic memory, remember?

  Jaxon responds in kind. Seems he doesn’t know, either. And, here, I thought he was an omniscient god of all things. I’m disappointed.

  But not really. This is a golden opportunity.

  With a mild facade of minding my own business, I crack eggs, whip them, scramble them…and eavesdrop.

  But all they talk about is their impending meeting.

  Now I really am disappointed.

  I hear the sound of a chair scraping backward. Footfalls echo off the hardwood floors. I feel heat at my back.

  As he comes up behind me at the sink, reaches around, and puts his dish in.

  With his dish in the sink, he’s got no reason to still be standing at my back. Yet, he doesn’t leave. He’s just…there.

  I don’t flinch. I don’t look. Because that’s what he wants. That said, the raspberries are being washed a little longer than needed, and there’ll be no nutrients left if he doesn’t move soon.

  “Did you make the bed?”

  No. “Yes.”

  His breath scorches my temple. “Lies are like taste buds on your tongue, aren’t they?”

  He’s one to talk. Lying is his frigging paycheck.

  I’m abruptly bumped to the side as Nadine comes up and chucks her dish into the sink.

  “Are we heading out, or what?” she snaps at Jaxon, then whirls and leaves the kitchen, vexation loud in the click-clack of her high heels.

  Even then, he doesn’t move.

  I wonder where he slept last night. With her? Is their friends-with-benefits thing back on? Even after his touching little admission last night? Or maybe that was just a lie… After all, he left with a bulging hard-on. Someone had to have taken care of it.

  I turn off the tap and drain the water from the bowl of raspberries, then smoothly move to the counter, refusing to turn around.

  I think I’m safe, but I’m not. I think he’ll leave, but he doesn’t.

  What he does is he moves along with me, stopping behind me again. Closer this time, his chest pressed against my back, his hips pinning me to the counter.

  His lips to my ear, he whispers, “The answer is no.”

  Huh? At the sudden pressure of his erection digging into my back, my breath catches. “P-pardon me?”

  “You don’t remember what you asked me last night?” he tortures. “If we’re going to do…that again?” He punctuates the word “that” with a sharp thrust of his hips.

  My. Precious.

  Everything down south clenches and tightens. I want him to touch me. I want him to kiss me so, so bad.

  “Answer?” he continues to torment. “No. We are never, ever doing that again.”

  But he’s hard! For me! We sleep in the same bed, and he’s obviously on fire for me. Does he seriously have that kind of self-control? Or will he just run to Nadine—or whomever—whenever he gets a hard-on for me? Just to spite me.

  He’s suddenly no longer at my back, and the loss of contact has me whipping around, calling after him. “Jaxon. Wait.”

  He doesn’t wait. His stride doesn’t break. He walks right out of the kitchen. Not a backward glance. Not a damn given.

  No, I’m not safe. I’m not safe, at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Come noon, I find I’m alone in the house. Everyone is off doing something or other. I always take advantage of times like these. Either to sneak across to Brooklyn and have chats with my homeless pal, or to dig a little deeper in Jaxon’s room—because there has to be something I’m missing.

  Something obvious that I just can’t see…maybe because I’m looking too closely.

  After an hour of digging deeper, I’m proven right. I realize there must be something behind the back wall in the closet. It’s too hollow, considering the wall is made up of bricks.

  I’ve got no clue how to get behind it, though. There’s no hidden switch or lever or button. Nothing. So, unfortunately, unless I plan to cock up everything by taking a sledgehammer to the bricks, I’m going to have to suck on a patience mint and dig even deeper to uncover the way to get behind that wall.

  Of course, Jaxon King would never make a thief’s job easy.

  Were I 100 percent certain the music box is behind that wall, I wouldn’t hesitate to take a sledgehammer to it, snag the box, and get the hell out of Dodge. Especially now that all chances of Jaxon deflowering me are gone. There’s really no other reason for me to linger here.

  Alas, that would be taking a humongous risk, now, wouldn’t it? I could break down that wall and find nothing but rats and dead sparrows.

  I put the search to rest and decide to discuss it with Melanie when she gets back. Raphael, the life-size ninja turtle, glares at me in disapproval. He’s been a witness to my ongoing snooping, day after day, but has yet to rat me out to his master, so I throw him a conspiratorial wink and thumbs up as I exit the room, only to bump right into Jaxon’s chest.

  Holy crap. Where did he come from?

  Apprehensive, I bite my tongue, waiting for him to rip my throat out, wondering how long he’s been back and whether he’s seen me digging through his things. But he just looks impatient as he takes me by my shoulders and removes me from his path.

  He disappears into his closet, and while he rummages around in there, I scurry out of the room, feeling both guilty and pissy.

  Don’t ask me why I’
m surprised to find Nadine seated in one of the armchairs in the living area, dicking with her phone, but I am.

  I want to scream. Why is she still here?!

  Without looking up from her phone, she says, “Can’t stand it when I’m around, can you?”

  How does she know it’s me? It could’ve been anyone approaching. Anyone in the house. Do I have a particular scent, or something?

  “It’s your energy,” she answers my unspoken question as if she’s some kind of psychic while still texting away on her phone. “I have a cursed gift of feeling people’s energy, against my will. And yours is strong. Stronger than you can control. You reek of loneliness and naïveté. You stink of desire for your captor. It’s depressing, and pathetic.”

  What the frack?

  Detouring behind the big couch, I make a sharp careen and head for the stairs, hoping for a clean escape to Collin’s room. “It doesn’t matter to me if you’re around or not. I don’t live here. I’ll be leaving soon.”

  “Oh, I think it bothers you. I think it bothers you a whole lot.” Her head lifts. “But if you wanna keep getting that D, for however temporary, then you better get used to it. Pucker up and kiss my ass whenever you see me, because I’ve been around before he had a name, and I’m not going anywhere. I give approval for all his flings, and if I tell him I dislike you, you won’t be getting the D. It always comes back to me.”

  She’s his best friend, since childhood. I’ve witnessed them together. So I believe her. I stop moving and ask, irritated, “What does D mean?”

  She smirks, almost a grin. “It means dick, clueless Brit. That long, hard piece of meat you long to choke on?”

  Judging from the heat I feel in my cheeks, I bet I’m scarlet. Jeez, did she have to say it like that?

  Her smirk deepens as she openly takes pleasure in my discomfort. “You haven’t taken it down your throat yet, right?”

  Biting my lip, I start for the stairs. Two steps up, I pause. “Did he sleep with you last night?”

  For a brief second, she looks bewildered, then her face clears. “What do you think?”

  Naturally, he strides into the room just then. If he overheard our conversation, he doesn’t let it show. He doesn’t even glance in my direction, as a matter of fact.

  A black duffel in hand, he walks by Nadine’s armchair, touching his fingers to her throat. Like a silent, “Come on, babe.”

  Tossing me a triumphant smile, she gets to her feet, straightens her jacket, winks at me, and follows him out the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Jaxon doesn’t come back that night. Nor the night that follows. Nor the night that follows that.

  He’s MIA once again. But something tells me this particular absence has nothing to do with work. The jerk is punishing me.

  Two mornings ago, as I was eating breakfast, Melanie walks into the kitchen all decked out in an all-black getup, telling me Jaxon woke her up at four in the morning and dragged her on a mission with him and Kavon. Knowing the deal she and I have, that I go on all missions with her, Jaxon deliberately rushed her out of the house so she wouldn’t have a chance to wake me up.

  If that’s not evidence he’s being spiteful and vindictive, I don’t know what is.

  Friday evening finds me tangled up on the couch in the living room with Collin, watching the telly. Kavon is out, and Melanie and Jo have been locked up in their room all day.

  I’m lying on my side, a throw pillow stuffed under my cheek, my legs thrown over Collin’s lap while he’s slumped on the couch, one muscular leg thrown over the armrest, his fingers absently fondling my toes.

  A paranormal show with vampires is on, and while he quite literally had to haul me away from my laptop to come watch it with him, I have to admit it’s mildly interesting. The falsity and implausibility of it does sweep me away from reality for a while, taking my mind off all the things I don’t want to be thinking about.

  Like Jaxon. Where he is, and if he’s back to bonking all his girls again.

  Wanker.

  Collin’s toe fondling pauses as the show eases into a raunchy scene, his attention rapt. The main character has his girlfriend up against a wall in the kitchen, kissing her with mad passion. He moves away from the wall with her legs wrapped around his waist and carries her to the table, deposits her there, and rips off her blouse. Feverishly, he kisses her neck and cups her breasts. When she dips her hand down his sweatpants, I let out a tiny gasp.

  Just like that, I’m thinking about Jaxon. He’s in my head. His touch is on my skin. His mouth is on me. I can feel every tremble, every ache, every pulse from that night. Withdrawing my legs from Collin’s lap, I curl them in and clench my thighs.

  Collin looks over at me. “You good?”

  Focused on the telly, I nod. But once his attention returns to the show, I contemplate him surreptitiously.

  In terms of hotness, I cannot compare him to Jaxon. They’re two completely different types of beautiful, in such a way that I can’t say one is hotter than the other. I just know that I’m insanely attracted to Jaxon.

  That said, the question is… Do I need Jaxon to make me feel all the things I felt the other night? Or will just any man do? It’s all biology, right? Touch me in the right place, in the right way, and I’ll light up like a firecracker, right?

  I want to believe it’s the sensations that I crave, and not the man. I mean, it’s not as if he makes me laugh or gives me warmth and easy comfort like Collin does. He’s an impassive pain in the arse most of the time. A total killjoy.

  Yes, I’m convinced it’s not the man but the sensations. Sensations I’m positive a sexpert like Collin can give me ten times over…and prove that I don’t need Jaxon.

  Uncurling my legs, I push up on my knees and crawl to straddle him, taking him by surprise.

  “Whoa, Tim-Tim. Hey—uh, what—” he garbles through a startled chuckle, though his hands settle reflexively on my hips. “Wh-whatchya doing?”

  Locking my arms around his neck, I press into him. “I want to kiss you.”

  “Kiss me?” He blinks. “Since when?”

  “Since just now. That scene…it turned me on. You made me watch it, so you need to do something about it.”

  As I move in to press my lips to his, he draws back. “Jaxon?”

  “What about him?”

  “You’re— Aren’t you…?” He trails off on a frown, confused.

  “He found out we’ve been lying about hooking up, and he’s been avoiding me ever since. He mistakenly believes I need him for an orgasm.”

  Hopefully mistakenly.

  Collin thinks on this for a bit. “Did you two…?”

  “No. We didn’t.” I brush my lips against his. “Show me how much I don’t need him, Col. Show me.”

  “I can do that for you—” He expels a heavy breath. “But you gotta promise me you won’t expect anything more. ’Cause I’m not that kinda guy, Tim-Tim. No relationships or commitment. Truth is, you’ve got a better chance with Jaxon than with me. I’m a slut, and I’ve no intention of changing. I—”

  “Shut up and kiss me, whoremonger,” I snap. “I’d be out of my mind to ask for commitment fr—”

  My words are cut off when he grabs my face and kisses me, his tongue plunging inside with urgent ferocity, as if he’s been wanting to do this for a long time.

  Although I’m unable to match his fervor, I return the kiss. He’s ravenous. He wants me. Oh, boy, does he want me.

  But as deep and impassioned as the kiss is, I feel…nothing. It’s all just mechanical on my end.

  Determined to feel something, I tighten my arms around his neck and arch my chest into him.

  With a deep groan, he thrusts his hips upward and rolls, making me aware of his hardness.

  I feel something, then, a muted creep of arousal. But it’s all biology, because it’s nothing even remotely close to the flaming heat and restless desire I feel with Jaxon.

  Collin’s mouth parts from mine and travels
down my neck, kissing, nipping, biting. And bit by bit, my arousal spikes.

  Good, we’re getting there.

  Reaching down, he grasps the hem of my T-shirt and pulls it up over my head, exposing the pink leopard bra he bought me. He looks in appreciation at my girls for a few seconds before shifting in one fluid motion so I’m supine on the couch and he’s between my legs, hovering above me.

  “Show me,” I whisper as he gazes down at me in utter adoration.

  But by then, even as I say the words, I know it’s not biology that made me feel what I felt with Jaxon.

  It’s just Jaxon.

  Hard to admit, but I really do need him.

  Dammit.

  With a flash of that signature grin of his, Collin lowers his head and takes my mouth again.

  Mimicking the woman in the TV show, I move my hand down to the waistband of his shorts and dip inside. But before I can wrap my fingers around him, he’s gone.

  Gone.

  Cool air whooshes over my skin. Goose bumps rise.

  A punch.

  A groan.

  A curse.

  Breaths coming in pants, I push up on my elbows, and I stare up at him.

  Him.

  Jaxon.

  Towering over me. With zero, and I mean zero, expression.

  Calm as morning tea, he straightens the cuffs of his shirt, as if having to exert himself is such an unwelcome inconvenience. Lacking only a whistle on his lips, he turns and saunters from the room.

  What specific type of psychopath is this?

  A grunt from Collin has me snapping my attention to him. He’s bleeding. Hunched over one of the armchairs, a hand to his nose, red liquid is gushing through the creases of his fingers.

  “Oh my God, Col!” I leap off the couch and rush to him. “Jesus. No, don’t throw your head back like that! That’s bollocks. The blood will just drain down your throat and gag you. Come. Sit down here.”

  When he moves to sit in the armchair, I instruct him, “Pinch here with your thumb and forefinger. Good. Now lean forward and breathe through your mouth.”

  As he follows my instructions, I yell, “Mel!”

  “I’ve been sitting here wondering if you two horn-bags were seriously gonna get it on in the middle of the house we all share.”