“Hear that, James? It’s up to you.” Jester’s hand lingers on the small of her back. He leans in close, his lips on her throat. “What do you want me to do to you?”
Nothing. Tell him you want him to do nothing to you.
Jamie appears to hesitate. To say something, then decide on something else. Her breathing is erratic, her body rigid, and her words are a blast of winter wind when she speaks. “What you would do if I were any other woman.”
“So, you want it nasty.”
Sonofabitch.
Jester has to pry his shirt out of Jamie’s clenched fists to get her to back up a few steps. “Let’s take off this dress.”
I didn’t think it was possible, but Jamie’s spine goes stiffer when Jester reaches for the hem. He shimmies it up her legs, with the golden glow of lamplight revealing silvery scars along the smooth skin. My mouth runs dry at the sight of her white lace panties. My dick strains in my pants, throbbing against denim, and I almost give up the game.
But Jester isn’t done. He’s doing this for my benefit, not his own. He’s making this lesson hurt.
He inches Jamie’s dress farther up her body. Over the gentle curve of her hips. Up her torso. When he pulls it over her head, her hair lifts, and I glimpse the matching bra to the dainty panties before he tosses the dress on the floor. Christ, she’s so fucking perfect. How the hell am I still rooted to this spot and not ending this shit right here, right now?
Because she needs to end it, jerkoff.
“Shut the light.” Jamie’s husky plea cuts through me.
Doesn’t take a genius to put it together. She wants it dark because she’s ashamed of her body.
Jester leans away, his expression one of abject horror. “Fuck no.”
“Please,” she grits out between clenched teeth.
He drags a gaze over her, and it’s obvious that he finally understands her embarrassment. “Shit, Jamie, we’ve all got our battle scars.” He rips off his shirt and drops it on the floor. Points to where he got stabbed a few years back, but all I see is Jamie standing between my best friend’s legs. His bare torso is offered to her like a golden fucking god. I want to peel that flawless skin off his bones because he’s everything I was before Crane turned me into…this. “Put your hands on me.”
The monster claws at my brain. Its fists pound at the inside of my skull as it screams for freedom. For bloodshed. For pain.
She stops breathing. Her arms are rigid. This is where it ends, and she calls my bluff. She won’t touch him—
Motherfucker.
Jamie flattens one hand against Jester’s pec.One. A tentative touch, but it’s enough, and he hisses when she smooths her palm down his chest. He pulls her in close. She rattles in a breath and squares her shoulders like a soldier heading into war. My stomach twists, and I have to, literally, fight back vomit when she lowers her head and presses her lips to his.
The dungeon taught me how to withstand torture. To put my mind somewhere else while my body was pushed to the limits of agony. But this…Jamie kissing Jester…is an assault on my mind and my fucking heart. I have to remind myself that I’ve never run from battle. Not once in all my twenty-four years. I’ll be damned if I start now.
And thisisa battle.
Not of physical weapons, but of wills.
Jester is just the unlucky bastard caught in our crossfire.
Without taking his mouth from hers, Jester stands and, in one smooth motion, lifts her. She clings to him as he kneels on the bed and lays her down. He settles on top of her, his legs nestled between hers, and goddamn but each breath I take is more painful than the last. How the fuck can this shit hurt more than ket? Like my heart’s being sliced to shreds. I don’t even recognize who the hell I am anymore, and I don’t give a shit. Six months in the dungeon changed me on a cellular level, and when I move toward the bed to rip Jamie away from Jester, I freeze mid-step.
I don’t have to do a good goddamn thing to stop this. Jamie’s doing it all on her own. She’s a corpse beneath him, with Jester exerting a hell of a lot of energy for a pitiful amount of payoff.
The monster retreats to its cage in the recesses of my mind.
Jester lifts his head. “Kissing’s a two-person job, James. You gotta help me out and put some effort into it.”
“I’m trying,” Jamie whispers.
“If you gotta try, you’re kissing the wrong man.” He pushes away from her and climbs off the bed. He retrieves his shirt and pulls it over his head. Pissed, he strides toward the door, stopping when he passes me. He slaps a hand on my shoulder and narrows his eyes. “I love you, bro, but if you ever do this to me again, I’m fucking you up.”
He storms out, slamming the door behind him.
