That makes me smile.
This morning, I'm sitting on his kitchen counter because I know it pisses him off. My feet dangle over the edge, heels tapping against the cabinet below. I've got a bowl of cereal. His cereal, which is some kind of fiber-heavy cardboard masquerading as food, and I'm eating it dry because the milk smelled suspicious.
Jagger stands at the coffee maker, shoulders rigid, not looking at me.
"You know," I say, crunching loudly, "for a guy who claims not to feel things, you've got a very expressive back."
"Get off my counter for the love of GOD."
"Make me, Daddy J."
The words hang there. I've said them before, and he's ignored them before. It's become a thing between us—I push, he retreats, the tension ratchets up another notch.
But today, he turns around.
His eyes narrow as they darken, his stare so intense it knocks the wind out of me. The careful control he usually wears like armor has slipped, and underneath it is something raw. Something hungry.
My cereal suddenly tastes like sawdust.
"I said." He crosses the kitchen in three steps, stopping directly in front of me. This close, I can smell his soap, see the individual striations in his irises, count the faint freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose. "Get. Off. My. Counter."
"And I said make me."
My voice comes out steadier than I feel. My heart is jackhammering against my ribs, and every survival instinct I've developed over twenty-seven years of a pretty shit life is screaming at me to back down, to apologize, to do whatever the angry predator wants.
But there's another instinct too. The one that kept me investigating The Silent even when people started disappearing. The one that refused to let me stay broken even when they poured chemicals into my brain and tried to erase everything I was. The animal instinct a dog has when it catches the scent of a bone.
The one that looks at Jagger Harrison and thinks:I see you. I see the cracks and I want to know what's underneath.
He puts his hands on the counter, one on each side of my thighs. Caging me in. His face is inches from mine, and his breath is warm against my lips.
"You think you're clever," he growls. "You think the jokes and the attitude will protect you."
"Working so far. Last time you saidplease."
"Is it?" He leans closer, and now his mouth is almost brushing mine. "Because from where I'm standing, you look terrified."
"I'm always terrified. It's basically my default setting at this point."
"Then why do you keep pushing?"
"Because it's fun watching you pretend you're not affected."
His pupils blow wide. The grip on the counter turns white-knuckled. I can feel the heat radiating off his body, can see the pulse hammering at his throat.
"I'm not affected."
"Liar."
The word barely leaves my mouth before he kisses me.
It's not gentle. It's not romantic. It's teeth and fury and three days of tension exploding all at once. He bites my lower lip hard enough to draw blood, then licks it away like he's claiming the wound he made. His hands come up to grip my jaw hard, digging in, tilting my head back, holding me exactly where he wants me.
I should fight. Should push him away, remind him that I'm his prisoner and this is fucked up on about seventeen different levels.
Instead, I grab the front of his shirt and pull him closer.
He makes a sound—somewhere between a growl and a groan—and then his hands are everywhere. Shoving my thighs apart, yanking me to the edge of the counter, pressing his body between my legs until I can feel exactly how "not affected" he is. His cock is hard against my stomach, thick and insistent, and my own dick responds with an enthusiasm that would be embarrassing if I had any dignity left.
