Broody McDickface is obviously used to getting his way. But like I said—fuck him.
Have I gotten myself off thinking about the heat and scent of him in the bookshop or the way his lips scorched my skin?
Yes. Yes, I have.
But part of that is so I don’t jump into bed with Jameson tonight purely because I’m horny as hell.
Honestly, there’s only one strike against Jameson.
He doesn’t read. Well, he “doesn’t read a lot,” and in my experience, there’s not an audiobook, e-book, or paperback to be found when someone says that.
It’s fine, I guess, because we’ve found other things to talk about. Except I’ve always dreamed of curling up under a blanket, tangled with someone, talking about a book we both love until the sky starts to lighten.
But hey, opposites attract, so maybe it’s okay to have some differences. I guess that could make life a little more interesting.
Tonight, I decided to wear a loose sweater, jeans, and my high-top Vans. I’m in no mood to be uncomfortable, and Jameson told me not to get “dolled up.”
What am I, a fucking moll?
My hair falls loose around my shoulders in waves, almost glowing against the olive-green of my sweater. Makeup and I don’t get along, but a little blush, bronze eye shadow, and mascara make this date feel real.
When I glance in the mirror one last time, I realize I look fucking hot. God, I hope we run into Ezra. Just to see the storm roll behind those dangerous grey eyes, knowing he can’t do a damn thing about it.
Men are such simple creatures.
Throughout the week, Eve relentlessly asked how things were going with Jameson. I know she hopes we click, that there are sparks, all of it.
But as much as I enjoy talking to him, I don’t feel any attraction to him … yet.
I’m not sure I even want to feel attracted to him.
There just isn’t room. Not when a certain bookshop owner already takes up 73% of my brain and 99.99% of my hormones.
Even though I’ve been trying to focus on safe, normal things, that doesn’t mean my mind hasn’t been working overtime to process what happened the other night.
How could I have lost control like that?
Although, if I’m being honest, it felt like we were both caught in something neither of us understood. And when I snapped, he didn’t look smug or unbothered.
He looked … desperate. Confused. Like he didn’t expect to feel anything at all.
Except … there was something gnashing just under his skin. Something with teeth. Something brutal.
And it was directed at me—not in malice, but in hunger.
A fucking Aurora-sized snack he was ready to devour.
The man is violence in a pretty package, ferality barely disguised as control. I could taste it on his skin … and I still wanted more.
But what I can’t explain—where my brain hits a dead end—are the shadows.
I know what I saw.
Shifting, frolicking animals made of light and dark. A massive Irish wolfhound with antlers, like something pulled from a nightmare … or one of my favorite books.
And deep down, in the twisted little double helix that makes me who I am, I know it was real.
Which is exactly why I haven’t let myself think about it.
