Parker
T h e p r i v a t e j e t was quiet, the hum of the engines the only sound filling the space between us. We were on our way back to the city, the night still stretching long before us. The meeting had gone better than I expected. Watching Shooter operate in business mode—without having to kill someone to prove a point—had been… something.
I hated how much I’d admired it. The way he spoke, his confidence, the way he moved and controlled the room without raising his voice, without breaking a sweat—it was sexy. And I hated that it was sexy. Hated the way it made my body react, the slow burn that curled in my stomach as I watched him handle a room full of dangerous men like he’d been doing it all his life.
I wasn’t supposed to find that attractive. Shooter was a menace. A violent, dangerous man who had no business making me feel like this. And yet, my body didn’t seem to care. I sat across from him in the jet, my legs crossed, my arms folded, my mind a mess. The flight attendant had already come by to offer drinks, but I waved her off, knowing alcohol wasn’t going to be enough to settle what was happening inside me.
Then, Shooter pulled out a blunt. He sparked it, the flame from his lighter illuminating his sharp, unreadable expression. He took a slow drag, his lips wrapping around the tip before exhaling a stream of thick smoke into the air.
Before I could stop myself, I reached across the space between us and plucked the blunt right from his fingers. His blue eyes flicked up to mine, unreadable and dangerous. I didn’t look away. Lifting the blunt to my lips, I took a deep inhale, letting the thick smoke fill my lungs, hoping—praying—it would calm the heat coursing through me.
Shooter didn’t say a word, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes. It was the same look he’d had when he slammed my college friend’s head against the counter at the store. The same look he had when he wrapped his hand around my throat before kissing me into oblivion. The blunt was already working its way through my system, but that look? That was what really had me feeling lightheaded.
Slowly, deliberately, Shooter leaned forward, rising from his seat across from me and moving to the one right next to mine. The private jet was spacious—plenty of seats, plenty of space—yet he chose to sit right next to me. I took another slow pull from the blunt, pretending like my pulse hadn’t just skyrocketed. Shooter said nothing. He just watched. The weight of his stare burned through me. His scent—that expensive cologne and the faintest trace of smoke—wrapped around me, making it impossible to focus on anything but him.
I felt his head dip slightly, the warmth of his breath fanning against my neck. I inhaled sharply. His lips never touched me, but it didn’t matter. The heat of him was enough to have me damn near trembling. Pussy dripping. This was a game. A dangerous, silent game. Shooter wanted me to break first. And damn it, I did. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and whispered the truth I hated more than anything.
“I hate that I want you.”
The moment the words left my mouth, Shooter chuckled low. Dark. Deep. Like he already knew. Because, of course he did.
The second the jet landed, the tension between us was suffocating. Shooter knew exactly what he was doing—watching me like a predator who had all the time in the world to pounce. Like he knew the second we got back to the penthouse, I was going to break.
The ride from the private hangar to the penthouse was quiet. I refused to look at him, and he let me stew in my own frustration, one hand on the wheel, the other lazily draped across his thigh. He had that damn smirk on his face the entire drive.
By the time we stepped off the elevator and into the penthouse, I was done pretending. The second the door shut behind us, I was on him. I shoved at his chest, grabbing at his shirt, pulling him toward me with a hunger that I couldn’t suppress any longer. My mouth crashed against his, and he didn’t hesitate to kiss me back, his large, tattooed hands palming my ass, dragging me against his hard, unmovable body.
He kissed me slowly at first, like he was savoring the moment. It pissed me off. I deepened the kiss, nipping at his bottom lip, trying to take control, but he pulled back slightly, his blue eyes flashing with amusement. “You good?”
His voice was low, teasing.
I glared at him, my chest heaving. “Shut the fuck up.”
He chuckled, slow and deep, like he had won. Like he had me exactly where he wanted me. “You think this is funny?”
I snapped, my hands still fisted in his shirt.
“A lil’ bit,”
he admitted, gripping my chin between his fingers. “Watchin’ you fight yourself? Watchin’ you give in? Yeah, baby, that shit funny as hell.”
I was about to curse him out when something ugly bubbled up inside me, something fueled by jealousy and frustration. “You really be with her, don’t you?”
I spat, pushing at his chest again. “I know it. The second I’m outta sight, you go runnin’ to that bitch.”
Shooter’s amusement faded. His grip on my chin tightened as he backed me against the nearest wall, his entire body pressing into mine. “Ain’t no other bitch, Mosley,”
he murmured, his voice deadly calm. “Ain’t never been. And if you want the dick that bad, all you gotta do is ask nicely.”
I clenched my jaw, hating how my body reacted to his words, how my thighs clenched involuntarily at the possessiveness in his voice. “I hate you,”
I whispered, my voice shaking with frustration.
Shooter smirked, his lips brushing my ear. “Nah, baby. You just hate how bad you want a nigga.”
I wanted to fight it. I tried to fight it. But I couldn’t. I broke. I grabbed his face, crashing my lips against his, giving in completely. Shooter suddenly pushed me away, stepping back with that goddamn smug look on his face. His hands slid into his pockets, his stance lazy, completely unfazed while I was standing there, breathless, body on fire, needing him.
“Be a good girl,”
he said smoothly, tilting his head as he eyed me up and down like he knew he had me. “Ask for it nicely.”
I clenched my fists at my sides, my whole body trembling with frustration. I was this close to losing it. “You are such a—”
“Ah.”
He cut me off, shaking his head with a knowing smirk. “That ain’t nice, baby. Try again.”
I wanted to scream. I wanted to slap that cocky expression right off his face. But more than anything, I wanted him, and he knew it.
I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, blowing out a sharp breath, forcing myself to calm down. Then I opened them and let my lips curl into the sweetest, most seductive smile I could muster. I tilted my head, stepped forward, and ran a delicate finger down the center of his chest.
“Please, Shooter,”
I murmured, my voice soft, breathy. “Give me the dick.”
His jaw flexed. He didn’t move at first, just stood there, watching me, his blue eyes dark and hungry. Then, faster than I could react, he scooped me up, his strong arms locking around me as a small gasp escaped my lips. “Good girl,”
he murmured, smirking as he carried me down the hall, straight toward the bedroom.