Dirty, Reckless Love (Boys of Jackson Harbor 3)

“It was definitely a compliment.” She flicks her gaze over me. “Definitely.”

I groan, the magnetic force field of attraction already pulling me in. “Okay. Redo granted. Try another one of your lines on me.” I can’t resist, though I probably should.

“Are you religious?”

I frown. “What kind of line is that?”

“Because you’re the answer to all my prayers.”

I laugh. “Shit. That’s bad.”

“How about this?” She slides her gaze down to my shoes and slowly back up. “That outfit looks terrible on you. Let’s go somewhere and take it off.”

“Guys really say this shit to you?”

She takes a sip of her beer and scans the crowd as she nods. “Oh, yeah. Most guys treat a come-on like a gift a girl should cherish. As if we’re all so desperate for attention that we should be thankful, even if the effort is half-assed.”

“And yet here you are, trying to get mine.”

She shrugs. “Just because my date stood me up and you are so obviously my type. I couldn’t resist.”

I blink, taking a beat to unpack that simple sentence. Part one, her date stood her up, which means he’s a fucking idiot—then again, most guys are when it comes to beautiful women, and this one is over-the-top gorgeous. And part two? “Why do you say I’m your type? What’s your type?”

“Tall, dark, and bad for me,” she says cheerfully. “I really like them bad for me.”

“You’ve known me two minutes but you already know I’m bad for you?”

“Oh, yeah.” She rakes her gaze down my body like she did before, but this time there’s so much intensity behind the look that my dick is hard before she even makes her way back up to meet my eyes. “You have that dark-and-brooding look about you. You know, like you’re too busy being pissed at the world to enjoy the little things. A real asshole.” She presses her palm to her chest. “It just so happens that I’m a sucker for assholes. I’ve spent the last eight years of my life collecting them.”

“You collect assholes. That’s . . . different.”

She grins, unashamed and sexy as fuck. “Obviously, I’m good at it, too, since I’m at this stupid party alone when I was supposed to be here with a guy I thought liked me.”

“You have me all wrong,” I mutter.

“You’re not an asshole, or you’re not pissed at the world?”

“I’m not—” Oh hell. I’m not sure I can deny either. I fucking love my life, but I’ve definitely indulged in my share of asshole behavior in my efforts to live life large. Though I’m not always pissed at the world—only sometimes and about certain things.

She laughs. “And you suck at simple conversation.” She tips her beer up and drains it. “You are so my type.” She adds something else in a mutter I can’t hear, but I’m pretty sure it’s I need a lobotomy.

“I’ve never been so offended by a woman admitting she’s attracted to me. Kudos.”

“My talents are unique.” She shrugs.

“So the guy who stood you up . . . I’m assuming he’s also your type?”

“Obviously. I’m beginning to think it’s not a type so much as an addiction. But nice guys bore the shit out of me, so . . .”

I know a thing or two about addictions—especially unconventional ones. Like this girl, my addictions come wrapped in an experience and not a powder or pill. I’m addicted to the thrill. The kind of rush so intense that I do crazier and crazier shit to chase it. The kind of addiction that has you scaring the shit out of your family while you’re just trying to feel alive. “Maybe it’s time to go cold turkey.”

Her bottom lip darts out in a pout, then she turns, leaning her shoulder against the wall as she studies me. I didn’t come here to find someone to warm my bed, but she’s tempting the shit out of me.

“You don’t live around here, do you?” I ask.

“Actually, I do.”

I cock my head to the side. “Is that so?” I’ve lived in Jackson Harbor all my life. Once, I believed there was no one in this town I didn’t know, but I’m not home as much as I used to be, and I miss a lot of the new faces.