“Are you this shy with all your clients?”He fully removes his underwear and drapes it over himself.“Or just me?”
“You’re not the first pervert to drop his pants in my chair.”
But he’s the sexiest.
Not that I care.
I return to the outline, drawing carefully, aware of my knuckles moving within inches of his groin and my breath brushing the inside of his leg.Every line I sketch is another line I’ll have to ink.
It’s going to be a long damn day.
“So…” My hand glides up the inside of his leg, the jaguar taking shape in my mind and flowing from my fingers.“Why her?”
He stares ahead for a beat, then down at me.“She’s mine.”
“That’s a diagnosis.”
“You think I’m sick?”
“I think you’re obsessive.Murderous.Maybe worse.”
“Obsessive is just another word for consistent.”
“And murderous?”
“You tell me.”His hooded copper eyes dip to my mouth.“You chopped up Sitka’s beloved heart surgeon without blinking an eye.That wasn’t survival.It was pleasure.”
I pause, the sharpie frozen above his skin.
How the fuck does he know about the doctor?
“Don’t pretend you’re the gentler animal.”He drags his tongue across his bottom lip.“You think if you play hero to a woman with scars, no one will notice the ones you’re trying to hide?”
“You don’t know a fucking thing about me.”Reflexively, I clench my scarred abdomen.
“I know enough.
“How did Dove get her scars?”
“How did you get yours?”
“Your hacker skills didn’t divulge that?”
He sighs.
I return to drawing, pressing harder, making the lines bolder.More jagged.Less art.More confession.“She’s not a prize to fight over.”
“No,” Jag says.“She’s a battlefield, and we’re the soldiers.”
“We’re not the same.”
“Not when it comes to her.You hold her hand.I hold her by the throat.”
“And you think she wants that?”
“She came to Sitka.Forme.”
“To kill you.”
