Chapter Fifty-Three
Delilah
The universe is licking my nipples. Like, with tongue. A little nibble. A little swirl. I think I saw an angel wink at me from a glitter cloud.
Because this morning? Yoga bitch had a meltdown on social media.
A full-blown, feral, face-melting fit. She was definitely in a house robe that smells like lemon Lysol and old secrets, scooping microwave mac and cheese out of a mug with a chipped spoon.
Mismatched slippers. Crying over her keyboard.
The epitome of a seasonal Hallmark divorcee.
It takes a certain kind of crazy to pull that off.
We are rare.
She is not one of us.
And she dumped Hank. Publicly.
Like in a firestorm post with “I KNEW IT” in all caps and at least five red flag emojis. She tagged him. Tagged. Him.
So I guess… Hank and Chad were a thing? Are a thing.
I mean. In what world does my court-ordered ex end up dating the guy my sexy rage monster punched into a restraining order?
This one. This beautiful, fucked-up glitter-dusted hellscape where I get to lay in Benji’s bed, his scent on my skin, his sweat still drying in my thighs, and watch Hank’s perfect, sterile little world implode in real time.
It’s better than revenge porn. It’s reality TV with stakes.
I sip the protein shake Benji left for training day, still naked, tangled in sheets that smell like heat and trust and sin, and scroll, devouring every comment in the symphony of ruin.
Also, maybe Chad hates me not just because I turned his car into a crime scene of craft store sabotage, but because Jett’s into me.
Maybe Chad wanted Jett? And Jett broke his face instead of his heart?
I don’t even know anymore. This whole thing is queer-coded Shakespeare with court documents.
Still. If Hank and Chad are shacking up in Sadboy Cottage now, why the fuck are they coming for me and Jett?
What if I just… drop off a gift basket. A “sorry I shattered your windshield and decorated it like a Lisa Frank vengeance vision board” kind of basket. Set it down at the 100-yard line in a hostage exchange. With ribbons. And peach rings.
I want to celebrate. But I’ve got training with Jett today. Which means I have to survive training with Jett today.
Benji left for work about an hour ago still glittering from last night. From this morning. From me.
God, he’s got stamina that should be illegal in three states and a moral constitution soft enough to kiss me good morning even though I came on his thigh and called him “my sweet little treehouse.”
Life is chaos. I am thriving.
After I finish explaining things to Mr. Wriggles, who is a very good listener for a worm, I hit the shower.
The glitter doesn’t all come off. That’s fine. That’s perfect. I’ll be applying more anyway. Strategic shimmer. I want Jett to sparkle like sin when I’m done with him.
Today’s outfit is war paint. Black pants. Black tank. Pink rhinestone skeleton hands, two grabbing my tits and two palming my ass. It’s not subtle. But neither is my mission: Maximum distraction. Immediate boner. Delirious rage-lust.
I have a new black scrunchie. It says fuck you in hot pink cursive with little kiss marks. It’s us in an accessory. He’ll steal it. God, I love us.
He is every part of me I thought I’d have to hide or sharpen into a weapon to survive and he wants it. Wants me. With all that hate curled up in his chest, he looks at me like I’m the last cigarette before execution.
In the kitchen, my heart does a cartoon wobble because Benji took the lunch I packed him.
With the glitter at the bottom. The dumb, flirty notes I wrote on each snack.
The kiss I left in lipstick on the brownie wrapper.
I imagine his big fingers dusted in shimmer and smiling anyway. My whole body goes warm.
But that’s not what gets me, it’s the two plastic containers he left behind in the fridge.
One is covered in little crown and heart stickers. The other just says “Jett” in angry black Sharpie.
Fuck. He made us lunch.
I open them slowly, afraid they might explode from sheer sweetness.
Egg salad sandwiches. Cut into triangles. No crusts.
Jett has flaming hot chips. I have ranch. There’s also a little bag of mixed nuts and M&Ms in each.
He packed us fucking snack bags. Benji loves us.
I blink real fast because if I cry I’ll ruin my mascara.
I send him a message before I combust.
Me: You are my heart
Benji: Same. Don’t break Jett
Me: Can’t help it. Take care of Rhys. Love you
Benji: Will do. Love you
I press my phone to my chest, squeeze my thighs together, and grab my things. Heart full. Eyes dry. Pussy charged.
I walk out smiling.
Since Jett’s not fighting it anymore, whatever this is between us, you’d think the thrill would fizzle. That the ache would settle and my chest wouldn’t still buzz like a live wire every time I think about his voice saying my name like a sin he doesn’t want to stop committing.
I see how hard he’s trying to be gentle. How he’s reaching past his own wiring to meet me in the mess.
I want to love him so hard he doesn’t have to try anymore.
I want to burn the trying right out of him.
Make him realize he’s already enough. All his fucked-up edges and his hate and heat and guilt and grief.
That he doesn’t have to be soft to be worthy.
That he, as-is, is exactly the kind of weapon I want to carve my name into.
I park next to his bike, still warm from the ride. I drag one finger along the tank. No mark, but he’ll know. The air will carry the scent of my lotion and need.
Inside, the gym hums with sweat and noise and testosterone, but none of it matters. I don’t see the world anymore. I only see Jett.
Scowling. Fists flying into the bag like it personally insulted his mother.
I sashay toward Kevin with maximum bounce and menace, fingertips grazing his arm as I lean into his space.
“I’m here for Jett.”
He jerks his chin toward the corner.
Jett’s eyes are locked on me. Burning.
Good. I didn’t wear this outfit to be ignored.
I cross the mat.
Jett doesn’t stop hitting the bag, but I can feel the shift in his rhythm. He smells me. His nostrils flare.
I trail my fingers across his waist as I pass, not even pretending to be subtle.
“What are we working on today?” I purr. “Legs? So I can ride you better? Or my upper body? Grip strength. Leverage. You know. For evil.”
His hand stills mid-swing. The bag sways pathetically behind him.
“You need a fucking muzzle,” he says. “And a leash. Did you bring your shit?”
“Do you have one?” I ask, batting my lashes. “Pretty pink leash? Rhinestones? Maybe some studs?”
“I’m the only stud you need.” His voice is deep, dark, and dipped in something dangerous. But then he laughs, low and rough and sex-soaked. “You can’t be leashed.”
“Can I leash you?” I ask, all faux innocence and filthy thoughts.
He snorts. “I can’t be leashed either.”
“Mutually feral,” I whisper. “Hot.”
“You gonna throw punches or just keep talking about riding me?”
“Why not both?” I grin. “We sparring or abusing the bag?”
“I’m not throwing punches at you,” he says, that muscle ticking in his jaw like he’s trying not to bite something. “Bag.”
“Coward,” I tease. “You scared you’ll like it too much when I hit you?”
He steps into my space. Not touching me. Not quite. But the heat rolls off him like smoke from a wildfire. His mouth brushes my ear. “You wanna wrestle, brat?”
Goosebumps erupt up my spine. “Yes,” I breathe.
He doesn’t smile. But his eyes burn, already planning how hard he’ll let me try to pin him before he flips me over and fucks me into the mats.
It starts with a smirk.
Jett doesn’t even say let’s go, he just lunges.
I shriek-laugh as I dodge left, then immediately lose all dignity because his arm snakes around my waist and we’re down. His weight crushes me into the mats, and my thighs wrap around his hips.
“Cheating,” I gasp, squirming under him. “You’re using your big stupid body.”
“Uh-huh,” he growls, mouth dragging along my jaw, “and you’re moaning like I’m already inside you.”
I am moaning. Loud. Whorish. The kind of sound that makes his eyes roll back and mine snap shut because the friction is so fucking good. His hips press into mine like he’s thinking about wrestling me right out of my pants. Or into a pregnancy. I don’t even care which.
“I’m stronger than I look,” I hiss, flipping my hips hard, trying to roll him.
He lets me. The bastard. Grinning the whole time while I straddle him. Except now I’ve got no plan. Just the thunder in my chest and the slippery heat between my legs and the sweat-slick way his neck smells when I lean down to bite him.
But Jett is chaos with muscle and a mean streak. He bucks, flips us again, and pins my wrists above my head like I’m nothing but something to be taken.
“You gonna tap out?” he says, breath hot on my throat.
“Fuck no,” I say, arching against him, “but I might come.”
He laughs, deep and fucked and real. And then he bites. Right on the spot where my neck meets shoulder, hard enough that I scream.
And that’s the exact moment Chad walks in.
There’s a horrified little cough from the doorway.
Jett freezes with his teeth still in me. I freeze with my legs still wrapped around his hips like a goddamn koala in heat.
Chad makes a noise like a dying ferret. “Am I interrupting something, again?”
I crane my head around, still panting, still grinning. “Yes.”
Jett lifts his head and says, voice wrecked and dangerous, “You’ve got ten seconds to leave or I finish what I started.”