Twisted(43)

“Back when I used to get high, it’d lower my inhibitions,” she continued. “It made me excited. I know it’s supposed to relax you, but it had a different effect on me.”

He focused on each of her words on its own, so he couldn’t take them all together and feel their impact. He couldn’t let her do this. The man she was trying to seduce might’ve been worthy of her a year ago. He hadn’t believed it fully then either but he knew without doubt that he wasn’t now.

“As if you ever had inhibitions,” he muttered, unable to summon the strength to raise his voice. All his blood had rerouted to his cock. All his air was fueling his starving cells. He could only not inhale for so long. But if he did, he’d smell her again, watermelon and sugar, and he’d be finished.

“Oh, you’d be surprised. I’ve wanted you for years. And I haven’t done one damn thing to let you know.” She started circling him, her body brushing against his. Hip to thigh, thigh to ass. Her fingers trailed from his chest to his arm to his back, sensual feathers of sensation that made his balls clench so tight he feared any movement would send him over the edge. “But I will tonight.”

He gritted his teeth. “You can’t. You don’t know me anymore. You don’t understand what you’re getting into.”

That made her stop. Her fingers pressed into his lower back as she processed his words.

Please, make them be enough.

She completed her loop around him and hooked her fingers in the front of his jeans. He groaned at the slide of skin on skin. Her other hand closed around his fingers, still gripping the joint, and she pried it free. He heard her inhale before the wisps of her breath kissed his mouth. “So show me.”

To Jazz, he was just a recreational user. Never mind that he’d told her years ago that doing that shit would lead nowhere good. In her eyes, he didn’t owe thousands of dollars to people who would break his legs—or his hands—if he didn’t cough up the cash. He didn’t have such a fucking thirst for blow that he’d practically broken down during his voicemails to Cricket tonight, begging for enough to get through his time at the cabin. Then he’d do whatever she asked.

He could do anything, survive anything, but he couldn’t turn away from Jazz. She would sustain him where every other drug had failed.

Opening his eyes hurt. For an instant, the spill of light from his room haloed her head, glowed like dancing fire in her china blue eyes. He fisted his hand in her hair and watched it spill through his grip like liquid gold. With one tug, her head was back, those slightly glazed irises fixated on his. Waiting.

“I’m going to break you,” he murmured, both warning and plea.

“Maybe we’ll break each other.” Her tongue flicked over her lips, an invitation more potent than even the siren’s call of cut lines on a mirror, glistening and pure.

And he couldn’t say no anymore.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Then



The room was spinning. Lights and shapes blurred, becoming one psychedelic mass. Guitars screamed and drums crashed, pounding between her legs. Echoing in her head. Her feet couldn’t keep up. She moved faster, revolving through the thick, humid air. She wasn’t just dancing, she was the music. The bassline simmered in her blood, as intrinsic as a heartbeat. If she exhaled, the rhythm would change. Inhaled and it would skip.

Don’t look down. Don’t look up. Don’t stop.

She laughed when someone grabbed at her arms. No. She couldn’t take time to think. This particular section required her to keep moving to hold on to the beat. She couldn’t falter or the song would end too soon. Maybe she’d never get to play it again.

“Jazz. What the hell? What’s wrong with you?”

That voice. Rough and urgent. It didn’t belong here. She hadn’t reached the chorus. This wasn’t his part. That would come later, when she was prepared to share the melody with him.

Not yet.

“Baby, come here.” Gentle fingers caressing her cheek, brushing aside her hair. The familiar scent of sage and cedarwood from his aftershave drifted over her, as warm as a blanket. He tucked her against him and she let out a sob, so close to shattering in his arms that hiding in the thick cotton of his flannel shirt seemed like the only oasis of safety she had left.

“Gray,” she said, over and over.

“I’m here. I’ve got you.”

She shook her head, knowing it had to be a lie. No one had her. Trusting anyone led to her being alone. She wouldn’t be so stupid again.

“Are you here by yourself?” His knuckles slid under her chin, tipping it up. This close, she could taste the hops on his breath. He’d been drinking too, but he wasn’t like Toby. His hands weren’t grasping and groping at her clothes. She’d finally shoved him away and started to dance, and he’d laughed, wanting to see her show.