Bad Wolf (Wild Men 4)

The winged demon inked on his right pec draws me, not as perfect as the rest of his colorful tats. It’s kinda fuzzy in spots, as if the ink ran under the skin.

I press the tips of my fingers into it, feeling languid, my body relaxed and warm, pleasantly buzzed and tightening inside again at the thought of him touching me… thrusting into me.

God.

“What does this ink mean to you?” I ask.

“Why do you think it means something?”

“You don’t strike me as the sort to ink random things on you.”

“Don’t I?”

“Besides,” I ignore his reply, “it’s the only thing inked on your chest. It has to mean something.”

“Or maybe I ran out of space on my arm.”

He’s teasing me. I can see the corners of his eyes crinkling even as he’s keeping a straight face. “Or maybe not. Because this one’s technique is different. It looks… older. And I’ve seen you rub it sometimes, as if it hurts. Like a scar, but I don’t see any scar tissue.”

Didn’t Kayla say something about a tattoo that got infected?

“You think too much,” he says abruptly and pushes himself up on one hand, muscles flexing and bulging in his corded arm. His face is in shadow.

“Who is Helen?”

He stills so suddenly and so utterly, it’s like he’s turned into stone. Only his lips move when he whispers, “What?”

“Helen. She gave you the leather bracelet you can’t do without, so she’s important to you. Who is she?”

He flinches, although he tries to hide it. It makes me all the more curious to know.

Okay, I’m socially inept, and even I realize I’ve gone too far and broken the moment. In fact, broken is too small a word for it—I’ve shattered it to billion tiny pieces with no hope of resurrecting it—but it’s too late to take back my words and my questions, and let’s face it: I’m interested in all that makes Jesse who he is.

He sits up and leans over to grab his T-shirt from the floor, his broad back rippling. A long, thin scar marks his lower back, white and old. His every side, his every facet is a puzzle I want to solve.

Though he doesn’t seem so thrilled about the prospect at the moment. It puts a lump of fear in my throat. Not fear of him, but fear of losing him.

As if I ever had him.

“The hell.” He bunches up the T-shirt in his hands and his jaw clenches. “Is this your second question, seriously? If I knew this was what you’d be asking me…”

Shit. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, JJ.”

“You didn’t fucking hurt me. Nothing can hurt me.” He’s spitting mad at me, I realize, his eyes flashing and his teeth gritting, his movements jerky as he pulls on the T-shirt, covering himself, and leaving me aware I’m still topless, sprawled on his bed, where he left me.

My face flaming, I cast around for my top and find it lying on the floor, a few feet away. “Is that so? You’re, what, superhuman? Nothing touches you?” I cover my breasts with my hands instead as I sit up.

“No.” He sneers, and it cuts through me like a knife. “More like subhuman. Didn’t you pay any attention back when I replied to your first question?”

“First question?” My brain’s still fuzzy from the best orgasm I’ve ever had, so sue me for not getting it immediately. “What do you mean?”

“I was a hooker, Embers. I sold my body for money on the streets. I had my regular customers, women who wanted to have some fun, and I also picked up any woman who seemed interested when times got rough. And they did get rough, more than once. My old ways—that’s what I meant. I’ve been whoring myself for a long, long time, and Helen…”

I watch, breathless as he battles some strong emotion. It wells up in his gaze, but it never spills out.

I’d prod him, prompt him to say more, but I’m afraid that if I speak, he’ll remember I’m there and stop. I don’t think he’s seeing me right now. Don’t think he’s seeing anything, and although I’m still reeling a bit from what he said—I’d guessed it, but guessing and knowing are two different things when truth’s staring at you in the face—I’m worried about him.

A common state for me when I’m around him. Worried, or curious, or aroused… Always intrigued.