Logic dictates I should push him away. He is a predator. He is wet, dirty, and radiating a level of aggression that should trigger every survival instinct I have. My brain is screamingdanger, high voltage, system overload.
But my hands don't listen to the schematics.
My fingers uncurl from the sheet. They lift, trembling, and weave into the thick, wet darkness of his hair.
It’s heavy. Coarse. I scrape my nails lightly against his scalp.
The reaction is instantaneous.
Jax goes rigid. A sound tears out of his throat—not quite a growl, but a low, broken noise of surrender.
He lifts his head.
His eyes are wild. The amber is gone, swallowed by a pupil so dilated it looks like a black hole. There is no humanity left in that gaze. There is only hunger. Stark, starving, violent hunger.
"Don't," he rasps, his voice wrecked. "Miranda. Don't touch me."
"You're in my bed," I whisper. My voice sounds thin, unrecognizable. "You're soaking wet. You're ruining the sheets."
"I'm gonna ruin a lot more than the sheets if you don't stop ogling like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you want to be eaten."
I trace the line of his jaw, feeling the rough stubble scratch my fingertips. "Maybe I’m tired of running the calculations, Jax. Maybe I just want us to break."
He snaps.
The restraint cable snaps.
He lunges up, covering my body with his. His mouth crashes onto mine.
There is no finesse. No gentle testing of the waters. His lips are hard, bruising, demanding entry. I open for him—I don't have a choice; the force of it demands compliance—and his tongue sweeps into my mouth.
It tastes of rain. Of nature. Of the metallic tang of adrenaline.
He kisses me like he’s angry at my mouth for existing. He bites my lower lip, sharp enough to sting, then soothes it with a heavy sweep of his tongue. I gasp, arching my back off the mattress, seeking more friction.
He is heavy. A solid wall of muscle and heat crushing me into the bedding. The dampness of his clothes seeps into mine, cold water meeting fever-hot skin. The thermal shock is dizzying.
"Jax," I moan into his mouth.
"Mine," he growls against my lips. "You smell like mine."
He grinds his hips down.
My breath hitches in a choked sob.
Through the wet denim of his jeans, I feel him. He is hard—unforgivingly rigid—but the size... the dimensions don't make sense. It’s thick, heavy, pressing against my pelvis with a density that defies standard anatomy. It feels dangerous. It feels like it could split me open.
And god, I want it.
The friction sends a jolt of electricity straight to my core. My hips snap up, meeting his thrust.
He breaks the kiss, gasping for air, his forehead resting against mine. We are both panting, exchanging carbon dioxide in the dark.
"You're wet," he says, his hand sliding down my flank, gripping my hip bone hard enough to bruise. "From the rain."
