3. Jett
JETT
I've spent forty-four years learning how to read a room, how to spot a lie, how to tell when a woman's hiding something she thinks no one can see. I've built my reputation on being three steps ahead.
But nothing in my life has prepared me for the sight of Jolie Parker trembling on the bottom step with her blouse open and her breasts bare, milk still glistening on her skin while my brother holds her from behind like he’s the only thing keeping her from flying apart.
I meant what I said. I want to see what she’s been hiding. I want to taste what she’s been keeping from us.
But now that I’m standing in front of her, now that I’m close enough to smell the sweet, thick scent of her, I’m having trouble remembering how to breathe.
My heart’s hammering against my ribs like I’m twenty years old again and staring at the first girl who ever made me feel desperate.
Except this isn’t desperation. This is something else entirely.
This is recognition. Like I’ve been walking around half-asleep my whole life, and Jolie Parker just woke me up.
Jarvis looks up at me, his dark eyes burning with a possession I recognize immediately.
I’ve seen that look on his face before, but never over a woman.
Over a restaurant, sure. Over a deal that’s about to close, absolutely.
But never over something soft and fragile and so beautiful it makes my chest ache.
He’s always been the controlled one. The kind of man who commands a room without raising his voice, who expects things to be done without having to ask twice.
Jarvis doesn’t need to prove his authority.
He simply has it. But right now, his control is hanging by a thread.
I can see it in the tightness of his jaw, the way he grips her ribs, and the way his pupils are blown wide with lust and something else. Something that looks a lot like fear.
Because Jarvis Donovan doesn’t do attachment. He does responsibility. He does duty. He shows up, fixes the problem, and moves on. But Jolie isn’t a problem to be fixed. She’s a woman to be claimed. And my brother’s finally figured out the difference.
“Jolie,” Jarvis says, his voice low and steady, but I hear the rough edge underneath.
She whimpers, and the sound goes straight to my cock.
It’s a small, broken noise, barely audible, but it hits me like a punch to the gut.
She’s trying to cover herself again, her small hands fluttering near her chest like wounded birds, but Jarvis catches her wrists and holds them gently at her sides.
"Don't hide," he tells her. "Not from him, not from me, not ever again."
I kneel in front of her, and the position puts me exactly where I want to be. Eye level with her breasts. Eye level with the proof that she’s not broken, she’s perfect. She’s more than perfect. She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and I didn't even know I was looking for her.
Up close, she’s even more beautiful than I thought.
Her skin is golden and warm, with light freckles dusting her shoulders that I can see where her blouse has slipped.
Her nipples are tight and pink, beaded with milk that’s already starting to drip down the curve of her breast. The red marks from the bindings crisscross her skin, angry and cruel, and I want to kill whoever told her she needed to suffer.
Her hazel eyes meet mine, and I see everything. The fear. The shame. The desperate hope that I won’t look at her the way everyone else has. Like she’s a freak. Like she’s too much. Like she’s something to be managed instead of worshipped.
I hold her gaze and let her read me. I don’t hide my hunger. I don’t hide my fascination. I let her see exactly what she does to me, because the only way she’s going to trust us is if we stop pretending. I’ve spent my whole life reading other people. Now it’s her turn to read me.
“You’re beautiful,” I say. My voice is rougher than I intended. “You know that? You’re fucking beautiful.”
She shakes her head, a small, frantic movement. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not saying it because I have to.” I lean closer, close enough that my breath ghosts over her damp skin.
I watch her shiver, watch goosebumps rise along her arms. “I’m saying it because it’s true.
Because you’re sitting here with milk dripping down your stomach, and I’ve never seen anything sexier in my life. ”
Her breath catches. Her cheeks flush pink, and the color spreads down her neck, over her chest. I want to follow it with my tongue. I want to map every inch of her with my mouth until she forgets what shame feels like.
Jarvis shifts behind her, his large hands still spanning her ribs. “She’s been binding herself for years,” he says, his voice tight with restraint. “She’s been hurting. Alone.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I look at the red marks on her skin, the indentations where the cotton dug in too deep. I look at the way she’s still swollen, still tender, still leaking because her body doesn’t know how to stop. And I feel a rage so pure it surprises me.
“Years?” I ask.
She nods, not meeting my eyes. “Since I was sixteen.”
“Doctors?”
“Some,” she whispers. “They didn’t help. They just stared. Or they wanted to run tests. Or they looked at me like I was... like I was disgusting.”
My jaw tightens. I want to find every single one of those doctors and show them what they missed. I want to make them look at her now, with her head held high and her body bared to us, and I want them to see that she’s not disgusting. She’s divine.
I reach out slowly, giving her time to pull away. My hand hovers in the air between us, and I wait. I wait for her to tell me no. I wait for her to flinch or recoil or run. She doesn’t. She watches my hand like she’s hypnotized, her breath shallow and fast.
My thumb brushes the underside of her breast, and she gasps.
The sound is sharp and sweet, and I feel it in my spine.
Her skin’s burning hot, softer than anything I’ve ever touched.
I cup her gently, lifting the weight of her, and she makes a sound that’s half relief and half need.
It’s a sound of someone who’s finally being touched with care instead of curiosity.
"May I?" I ask. It's not a question I've asked many women.
Usually, I take what I want. I see, I want, I claim.
That's always been my way, the way of a man who's spent his life taking control and never looking back.
But this is different. She's different. I need her to know she has a choice, even when she's trembling between us.
She looks at Jarvis, then back at me, and gives me the same small nod she gave him, her eyes searching mine for the same reassurance she found in her daddy's.
Permission. Trust. The most fragile, precious thing she's ever offered, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure she never regrets giving it.
I replace Jarvis’s hands with my own.
Her skin is hot against my palms, softer than silk, and I cup both breasts, lifting them and testing their weight as she makes a sound that's half relief and half need, milk beading at her nipples immediately and spilling over my fingers, warm and thick, and I groan before I can stop myself.
"Fuck," I breathe. "Look at you. Look how much you've been holding back."
I lean in and swipe my tongue across one tight peak.
She cries out, her back arching and her head falling back against Jarvis's shoulder as the taste of her explodes on my tongue, sweet and creamy and perfect, better than any wine I've ever tasted or any dessert I've ever had in any of our restaurants, because it's her, it's pure and unfiltered Jolie, and now that I've had it, I know I'm addicted.
I close my mouth around her and suck, drawing deeply, and the sound she makes is inhuman.
Her taste floods my senses, and I swear I've never tasted anything so pure.
It's not just sweet—it's her. The essence of everything she's been hiding, everything she's been ashamed of, and it's the most honest thing I've ever experienced.
I take more, pulling deeply, and her hands grip my hair so tight I feel the sting on my scalp.
I don't care. I want her to leave marks. I want proof that this is real.
Jarvis tilts her head back with one hand, sealing his mouth over hers. He swallows her whimpers, claims her cries, and the sight of them together while I drink from her is the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen. She’s sandwiched between us, overwhelmed, exactly where she belongs.
I pull back just enough to watch a bead of milk escape her neglected nipple. It slides down the curve of her breast, slow and obscene, glistening in the dim light of the stairwell. I catch it with my thumb, watching her watch me, and then I bring it to my mouth and suck, groaning at the taste.
I look up at her with what I know is predatory reverence. I want her to see me. I want her to see what she does to me.
“You’ve been wasting this,” I say, my voice thick. “All this sweetness. All this perfection. You’ve been binding it up and hiding it and thinking there’s something wrong with you.”
“There is,” she chokes out. Her eyes are wet again, but she’s not crying. She’s fighting. She’s fighting the truth because the lie is all she’s ever known.
"No." I grip her chin, forcing her to look at me while Jarvis keeps kissing her neck and shoulder, marking her with his teeth.
She holds my gaze, and I see the moment she stops fighting—her shoulders drop, her breath steadies, and she's not relaxed yet, but she's no longer bracing for a blow, just waiting for the good thing she's never had.
"There's nothing wrong with you, sunshine. You're a gift. You're our gift. And we're going to spend the next thirty days proving it to you." She gasps for air, her lips swollen and her eyes glazed, her chest heaving as she looks wrecked and claimed even though I haven't even gotten started.
I stand up, my knees protesting, and pull her to her feet, catching her when she sways with my arm banding around her waist, and I feel how small she is, how delicate, how I could break her without trying, but I'd rather die than hurt her.
Her gaze snags on the scar on my left forearm, a jagged line of pale skin that runs from my wrist toward my elbow. I follow her eyes.
"Kitchen fire," I say. "I was twenty-two and thought I was invincible. Thought I could put it out with a towel." I let out a bitter laugh. "I was wrong. Spent three weeks in bandages learning that some fires don't care how tough you think you are."
She reaches out. Her fingers hover over the scar, trembling, then brush the raised skin. The touch is feather-light, but I feel it everywhere.
"I spent years pretending I didn't need anyone," I say, my voice dropping. "Then you walked in, and I realized I'd just been waiting for someone worth needing."
Her breath catches. Her eyes lift to mine, and I see the understanding there—the recognition of another person who learned the hard way that surviving alone isn't the same as living.
I tighten my arm around her waist.
"Thirty days," I murmur against her ear, my hand sliding down her stomach and stopping just above the waistband of her jeans as I feel her muscles contract under my palm and her breath hitch. "You think you can last thirty days with us?"
She shivers. “I... I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” I tease, my voice dropping lower. “Or you don’t want to admit it?”
Jarvis stands behind her, his hands on her hips, holding her steady. His eyes meet mine over her shoulder, and I see the question there. How far? How fast?
I answer by kissing her.
My mouth crashes into hers, demanding and teasing all at once.
I’m not gentle like Jarvis. I don’t have his patience.
I nip at her lower lip, tasting the salt of her tears, and when she gasps, I sweep my tongue inside.
She tastes like vanilla and grief and something sweeter underneath. Something that’s just her.
She melts into me, her small hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer. I feel her breasts press against my chest, the dampness soaking through the fabric of my henley, and I groan into her mouth. She’s everywhere. She’s everything. And I’ve known her for less than an hour.
I break the kiss only because I need to breathe. I rest my forehead against hers, our breath mingling, and I feel her heart hammering against my ribs.
“Jett,” she whispers.
“Yeah, sunshine?”
“You’re... you’re different from him.”
I smile, but it’s not a nice smile. It’s the smile of a man who knows exactly what he wants and is done pretending otherwise. “That’s the point, sweetheart. You get both of us. The man who’ll hold you together, and the man who’ll tear you apart.”
Jarvis’s hands tighten on her hips. “Careful,” he rumbles.
“I am careful,” I say, not looking away from her. “I’m very careful. I’m just not patient.”
I drop to my knees in front of her again.
My face is level with her stomach, with the wet patch on her blouse, with the bare skin where her shirt has fallen open.
I look up at her, and the image sears itself into my brain.
Jarvis behind her, his large hands spanning her ribs, his dark eyes possessive and watchful.
Jolie in front of me, her honey-blonde hair tangled, her hazel eyes wide and wet, her lips parted. And me, on my knees, ready to worship.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of her jeans and tug. Just slightly. Just enough to make her gasp.
“Jett,” she breathes.
“Shh,” I say. “Let me look at you. Let me see what you’ve been hiding.”
I press my face against her stomach, inhaling deeply. The scent of her is stronger here, musky and sweet and intoxicating. I want to bury myself in it. I want to drown in it.
My hands slide up her thighs, slow and deliberate, and I feel her trembling. She’s terrified. She’s aroused. She’s confused. And I’m going to unravel every single one of those feelings until the only thing left is pleasure.
I look up at her from my knees, her milk still glistening on my lower lip, and I know I’ve never wanted anyone this much. Not in all the women I’ve known, all the deals I’ve made, all the cities I’ve conquered.
“Thirty days?” I say, my voice low and rough. “You’re not lasting thirty hours, sweetheart. Not now that we know what you are. Not now that we know what you need.”
She stares down at me, her chest heaving, her eyes dark with something that looks like hope.
And I know, with a certainty that scares the hell out of me, that she's already ours.
She just doesn't know it yet.