Kill him later if I had to.
Desperate times…
I spread my arms out, posing for him
The black shorts and shirt I was wearing clung to my every curve, my full breasts straining against the thin fabric.
I had wide hips and thick thighs that had saved my ass more times than I could count.
I knew what I looked like.
I was gorgeous.
I'd weaponized this body my whole life.
Men wanted to fuck it, own it, ruin it.
Tonight I was counting on that stupidity, that weakness, to keep me breathing.
I'd let him have it—let him bend me over this counter, spread me open, choke me on his dick, whatever the fuck he needed—if it bought me time to get the upper hand.
His eyes widened, and he took a step back.
Physically restraining himself.
"Who are you?" he whispered, his voice rough and low.
"An unfortunate soul who's always standing too close to death," I replied lightly, even as my pulse hammered.
"Where are you from?"
"Everywhere and nowhere."
His eyes narrowed dangerously.
He moved like lightning.
One second he was across the room.
The next, he was on me.
His thick bicep locked around my throat in a brutal sleeper hold. It was weird at a time like this I noticed how good he smelled.
I clawed at his arm, nails digging deep into his flesh, kicking and twisting with everything I had.
Nothing worked.
He was immovable.
The room spun.
My lungs burned like fire.
Black spots exploded across my vision.
"Jamie? Jamie, you okay out there?"
Momma Graham's voice drifted from her room, faint and terrified.
