Chapter Sixteen
Delilah
“Fine,” I say. “Just make sure Chip over there stays off the bags while I punch something before I start improvising blunt weapons out of yoga mats.”
“Chad,” the man grumbles.
“Sure thing, Garth. Take a lap,” I say.
I jab at the punching bag. Again. Harder. Still nothing.
It bounces back like it knows my heart’s not in it.
Just like every man I’ve ever sexted. It’s not the same without Jett.
His big hands correcting my form, all that brooding menace breathing down my neck all threat and a promise.
Kevin’s trying, but it’s like expecting a golden retriever to guard a mafia vault. Sweet, but not gonna get the job done.
“You gotta turn your wrist like I showed you, Miss Darling,” Kevin says, stepping in to gently nudge my elbow.
“Who was that guy, anyway?” I ask between hits. My wrist already stings.
“Chad?” Kevin blinks like I just asked about a new vending machine. “Oh, Chad Petergrind. He’s, uh, around sometimes. Member since before Jett.”
“Petergrind?” I echo, mid-punch. “That sounds like a fake name you’d use on a porn site where you pretend to be a dad’s friend who offers college girls ‘free rent.’”
Kevin winces. “I think his parents own a dealership.”
“Figures. That man screamed ‘boat shoes in winter.’ I’d like to file a formal complaint with gym corporate, but I assume you don’t have an HR department for emotionally deranged girlies with vendettas.”
Kevin offers a kind of helpless smile, then blurts, “You maybe wanna get a drink later? There’s this dive with live music and nachos the size of your head.”
Oh, Kevin.
“Oh no, sweetheart,” I say, gently patting his arm like he’s my little cousin in a Christmas play. “I’m already dickmatized by three men and legally entrenched with a fourth. If I add you, I’ll need a project manager and a Google calendar just to keep the orgasms sorted.”
He blinks, blushes, looks at the ground.
“It’s not you, Kev. It’s my whole… everything. I’m like a haunted house. Sexy from a distance but probably filled with black mold and daddy issues.”
I tap the bag like it insulted me in a dream. Pointlessly.
Yeah. Not the same without Jett watching. Not the same at all.
After a few more awkward attempts, it’s time to go.
I zip my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and throw one last hate-filled look at Chad. He’s sweating through his shirt and breathing heavy like being detestable takes cardiovascular effort.
If hatred were a superpower, I’d melt the flesh from his bones.
I walk out without slamming the door, which feels more insulting.
And there he is.
Jett.
Leaning on my car like he’s been waiting since the dawn of time. All muscle and scowl, tattooed forearms crossed over his chest like the arms of a very pissed-off god.
I don’t say a word.
Just drop my bag by the bumper, walk over to his bike, climb on backwards, and drape myself across the handlebars, posing for the cover of Motorcycle Slut Monthly.
He stares at me like he wants to bite something.
Then he stalks over, controlled in the way of a man who’s barely holding the leash. He hauls himself up onto the seat behind me, hands on my waist, grip bruising, and yanks me. My ass lands hard against his thighs.
I gasp just as his mouth crushes down on mine.
He kisses me like he’s punishing me.
Teeth, tongue, spit, grind. His tongue sweeping deep, tasting the crazy in me, and claiming it as his own. His hand is already under my top, tugging hard on one nipple. The other slides up my thigh and stays there, fingers hovering at the edge of where I’m soaked through.
“Fucking Christ,” he groans into my mouth, like he’s furious with himself for liking it. For wanting me this much. For not stopping.
He snarls, yanks me back onto his cock, hard through denim. His hips grind up in slow, bruising thrusts like he’s trying to fuck me with rage alone. His growl low and dangerous in my ear. “I warned you about my fucking bike.”
I whimper. Bite his lip. Rock back with every intention of committing a full-on parking lot felony.
“Is this what you want?” he hisses, teeth grazing the shell of my ear as he thrusts again, rougher.
“Yes,” I pant, and grind harder. “Fuck, Jett, yes.”
His hand slips straight down the front of my shorts.
“Fucking hell,” he groans, fingers sliding through wet heat. “You’re soaked already. You waiting for me to lose it, princess?”
“Yeah,” I gasp, grinding down. “Do it. Lose it.”
He snarls into my mouth. Real. Animal.
Two fingers slide inside. No warning. Just fuck and slick heat and my body locking around him like he’s home.
I claw at his shoulders, panting, whimpering, every thrust of his hand sending shocks through my spine. His palm grinds against my clit with each motion, slick and obscene, like we’re not in a parking lot in broad daylight on a Monday afternoon.
“I’m, fuck, Jett.”
“That’s it, princess,” he growls, fingers relentless, mouth hot against my ear.
I cry out, high and sharp, clenching around his fingers. My hips jerk forward, grinding into his palm, chasing every last jolt. I’m still twitching when he pulls his hand free.
Then he licks his fingers clean like it’s the best part of his day. “You taste like fucking trouble.”
And I’m still gasping, still recovering, when a throat clears.
Loud. Judgey. Like a disappointed principal catching teenagers fucking under the bleachers.
Jett ignores it. Bites down on my shoulder. I moan like a full-blown siren.
“Jett.” It’s Chad’s voice. Flat. Threatening. All ‘hall monitor who’s had enough.’
Jett lifts his head. Slowly. Looks at him like he’s something he might scrape off his boot.
“Get the fuck out of the parking lot,” Chad says, like he’s the fucking sheriff of boring. “Before I call the cops. You’re within a hundred yards.”
Jett licks his lips. Smirks against my neck. Doesn’t move.
“Hmm,” Jett hums, like he’s seriously considering if he wants to rage fuck me or murder Chad.
I snort-laugh and grin against him, unbothered, legs still wrapped around him. Then I smile at Chad without showing teeth. “Thanks for the cold shower, Craig.”
“It’s Chad,” he snaps.
“Whatever, Chlamydia.”
“Better go,” I say, dragging my nails across Jett’s chest.
He groans. “You can keep the hat. Don’t touch my bike again. Or I will fuck you senseless.”
I arch back and smack the tank.
“Delilah,” he warns. “I’m not what you want.”
“You are exactly what I…” I start.
“Jett,” Chad says.
Jett helps me off the bike.
While he’s still straddling the bike I walk straight up to Chad and smack him full on open palm.
“Leash her,” Chad says, walking off like a man who just realized he’s the beta in someone else’s porn.
“You shouldn’t hit him. He’s keen on charges and…” Jett says sounding soft again.
Jett’s not supposed to be soft. He’s rage. It kind of panics me. “Fuck off, Jett. I’m not a stranger to charges and assholes.”