Dukes of Madness: Royals of Forsyth U (Royals of Forsyth University Book 5)
Dukes of Madness: Chapter 13

My feet beat hard against the pavement, ponytail whipping left to right as I stare sightlessly at Sy’s broad, muscular shoulders. I’ve never exercised as much in my life as I have these past few days, and despite the fact I’m only running off three cumulative hours of sleep, something about it is strangely soothing. Sy leads us through East End again, just like that first day he’d taken me on a jog, and every puff of breath I release sends a cloud into the cold, misty air. My ankles hurt, my eyes feel gritty, and every time my soles connect to the asphalt, I’m jolted with another spike of anger.

Does Nick think I’m stupid?

Because I’m not.

I know this is a control thing. It’s deliberate in that special way, but it’s also a manipulation, as if I’m going to see it as some sort of gesture.

Fat fucking chance.

I left him there in the cold, in the dark. It’s been four hours, but my hands still feel like they’re shaking. The memory of fumbling that gun, giving him the upper hand, still makes my face feel hot, even as the chilled wind cuts across my cheeks. So stupid. Now I’ve given him freedom. Not in a literal way, of course. But if a cage can be a state of mind, then freedom can be, too.

He’s free because he made the choice not to be.

Motherfucker.

My fists curl harder as I clear the distance between Sy and me. He speeds up instantly, as much to make sure he wins as to keep a pace with me, and I finally explode, thrusting my hands out to shove him.

He barely falters, stopping, it seems, only to pin me with an annoyed look. “What was that for?”

“You said you’d teach me how to fight!” The words are meant to be sharp, but emerge on several puffs of wheezed air. “I stepped up your training last night. Now it’s your turn.”

His mouth goes pinched at the mention of what happened last night. “That wasn’t training,” he says, eyes narrowed. “You just wanted to get off!”

I snap, “News flash, robot boy! That’s the most important lesson I could possibly give you. People using your body to feel good is the only kind of sex I’ve ever fucking known, so be grateful that you could actually throw me off when you had enough. Some of us don’t have that luxury!”

He looks me up and down, mouth twisting. “This is about Nick.” I start to argue, but before a word even escapes my mouth, he shakes his head. “You can’t beat Nick. He’s easily got a hundred pounds on you.”

It burns like lava in my throat, the knowledge that Sy is wrong. I’ve already beaten Nick. It’s such a Duke mindset that I nearly laugh in his face. Power is about more than fists.

But fists can’t hurt.

“I want you to teach me how to punch someone—the right way,” I demand, knowing that my face must be flushed a deep scarlet. Crossing my arms, I add, “If you do, I’ll teach you how to get a girl off using only your fingers.”

His face screws up. “Why would I want to learn that?” The disgust in his voice is belied by the way his eyes instantly drop to my tits, all mashed together with the way my arms are crossed.

“Because,” I answer, eyes rolling. “Girls won’t care how fast you come if you get them off first. Isn’t that why you asked me to do this? If you want to be good at sex, then it’s not really that difficult, Sy. She just has to leave satisfied.”

He stares at me, the hair at his temples dark with sweat, and it’d be easy to get a little lost in the way the morning sun shines off his bronze skin. Take away the hostility and stiffness, he looks exactly like someone I’d want to sink into, as if these sparse mornings of waking up curled into his body make more sense than anything ever has or ever will. If it weren’t for the coldness of his eyes, Sy could trick someone into believing he’s the epitome of warmth itself.

And then he opens his mouth. “Fine. Teach me how to appease the bitches of Forsyth, and I’ll teach you how to act like one.”

That’s how I find myself, an hour later, standing in front of him in the tower, the large clock face above glowing with the morning rays. We stare at each other for a long moment, though I’m not sure why at first. Music is coming from Remy’s open doorway, but it’s muted, like an afterthought to the way he’s shuffling around in there, getting dressed, collecting his things. Archie does one winding loop around my ankle, but must sense the strange tension in the air, because he ultimately totters off toward his bowl in the kitchen.

Sy and I are still engaged in this epic staredown when Remy finally emerges, looking both tired and flustered. Without breaking my gaze, Sy greets him with a dip of his chin. “Remy. Have a seat.”

“I have things to do,” he starts, not sparing us more than an electrified glance. “And I already took my pills, so don’t give me your bullshit this morning. I have to feel the sky today or I’m going to start losing colors again.” Remy seems particularly bothered by this, scrubbing his fingers through his hair, looking harried. “Everything is going to be cold soon. The sun isn’t eternal, Sy.”

Sy just nods at the rambling incoherence. “Fine.” Then, to me, he says, “Go ahead and hit me.”

Remy doubles back, dropping his bag on the sofa. “On second thought, I’ve got ten minutes.”

Frowning, I shift my feet. “You haven’t taught me anything yet.”

“Maybe I’m teaching you how to take a fucking order,” he says, eyes narrowed. “Or have you gotten so comfortable around here that you’ve forgotten who your Dukes are? Hit me, Duchess.”

The temperature of my blood rises, but even as my hands curl into tight fists, I can already tell any hit I land will be infuriatingly insubstantial. Duchess or not, I’m still a Lucia. We don’t fight with our bodies; we fight with our venom.

Remy climbs onto the couch, the soles of his shoes dirtying the cushions as he perches on the back. The flash of delight in his eyes is almost enough to dull the roar of anger pulsing through my head. “Get him good, Vinny. He might not look it, but he’s got a bit of a glass jaw under all that ego.”

When nothing happens, Sy sneers. “Look at you, wasting my time. Or was this all a ploy to get my fingers into your pussy? I bet it was. Should have known a whore like you would only care about what’s between her legs.”

It hurts.

The punch, I mean.

I throw it without a shred of thought as to function or form, my knuckles cracking against the sharp cut of his jaw. The pain shoots up my wrist, stabbing into my forearm, and the sound I make is half yelp and half growl.

Sy doesn’t even flinch, even though the hardness falls from his features. “Yeah, that was pretty bad.”

I cradle my hand, teeth clenched. “You didn’t tell me how—”

“I’m not talking about the punch,” he says, grabbing my hand. “I’m talking about the way you let me get to you so easily.”

Remy points out, “The punch was embarrassing, though.”

I shoot him a warning look. “Less commentary from the peanut gallery, Remy!”

“Do you always provoke that easily?” Sy asks, giving me a wry look. “I didn’t even get to the good stuff.”

My nostrils flare. “The good stuff?”

“I’m a psych major,” he replies, checking my knuckles for damage, “and you’re the poster girl for daddy issues. I have so much material to insult a girl like you with that it’s actually funny.”

“Know what I think is funny?” I ask, offering a cutting smile. “The fact that men fail at fatherhood on such a statistically massive scale that there’s an actual term for it, but somehow it’s used to insult women.”

Remy’s brows do something complicated and pensive. “She might have a point.”

Sy rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Try again.” He curls my fist for me this time, pressing down on my thumb. “This time, keep a straight line from your elbow, through your wrist, to your knuckles. Try to hold it through the punch.” Before he lets my hand go, however, he pins me with a serious stare, voice low. “Anger is useful if you know how to harness it. But you should never, never strike out with it. Anger is as precise as dumping two tons of water into a bathtub from a cargo plane. You want it to fuel you, not drive you. You let anger take the wheel, you’re going to crash.”

When I have my fist back, I look at it, the straight line from my elbow to my knuckles. I think of how Sy looks in the morning sun, and then I think of how he looks in the depth of night, lazy-eyed and desperate as he fumbles for my skin. I think of how he owns me here and now, but when the clock strikes midnight, I’m the one holding the leash.

It isn’t anger that drives my next punch.

It’s certainty.

Not a certainty that I can win. That was never in the cards for me—not here, not when it comes to fighting with my body. But a certainty that winning doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, a body can be a weakness just as much as a strength—even his.

This time, Sy’s head rocks to the side with the force of my punch, and it still hurts—god, like a bitch—but the pain is a lot easier to take when I can see him wincing with some of his own. “Fuck.”

Remy whistles. “Not too bad of a hook.”

“Yeah…” Sy rubs his jaw and I can see him visibly fighting back a spark of his own anger. “Of course, you telegraphed it from a mile away and your stance is all wrong, not to mention—”

“So you’re saying I should try again?” I ask, flexing my fist.

Sy pauses.

“Actually…” Remy hops down from the couch, eyes full of life. “I changed my mind. You’re coming with me this morning.”

Any satisfaction I might have gotten out of Sy’s obvious hesitation to be punched again melts away with my frown. “Where are we going?”

“Shopping.” Remy slides his hand in his pocket and pulls out a black credit card. “The sun is out and the biggest daddy issue in Forsyth is about to bankroll the Duchess’ new wardrobe. What do you say?” When I shoot Sy a wary look, Remy adds, “Come on, we’ll get you a dress for tonight. Something sexy. Something rebellious.”

Wryly, I guess, “Something skanky?”

“Not at all,” he assures, slipping into a leather jacket. “Something expensive and classy, with just a touch of skank.”

His moods are like whiplash, but that tracks with the diagnosis. Sy’s books say that shopping can be a trigger and a person with bipolar disorder can easily overspend. The glance Sy gives me confirms this. There’s no way he can let Remy loose without a monitor, and from the looks of it, that’s going to me.

I arch an eyebrow at Sy. “I suppose I could use a few things that aren’t a cutslut castoff.”

He rolls his eyes, but waits until Remy is out of earshot to say, “I don’t care if he spends every last cent of his dad’s money, but once he blows through the limit, it’ll be drugs, and then sex, and then god knows what fucking else.”

Geez, that’s reassuring. “I’ll do my best.” I give Sy a brittle smile. “Although I have recently been reminded what my place is as Duchess. Remy is my Duke, after all.”

There’s a red spot on Sy’s jaw. Not bad enough to be swollen, but not insignificant enough to avoid a slight bruise. “I was just trying to rile you up,” he says.

I shrug. “Doesn’t make it any less true, does it?” It’s fascinating how still Sy can get. The second I slide up against him, he’s just like those gargoyles guarding the four corners of the tower. A bear-headed statue, stiff and unyielding, keeping watch as his eyes dart around in search of Remy.

“What are you doing?” he asks, jaw tight with clenched teeth.

I place my palm on his warm chest, gazing up into his wary blue eyes. “Let’s get something perfectly clear. I’ve passed through a lot of hands on the way to yours, Simon Perilini. I’ve been locked in boxes, closets, rooms, and towers. I’ve spent days, weeks, months, not even knowing which way is up or down, and I’d forget my own fucking name before I forgot the most important thing of all.” I brush my lips against the red welt on his jaw, pressing my words into the tenderness of it. “You never need to remind me who I belong to.” I pull away, deliberately letting my knuckles graze the hardness bulging from his sweats.

“What is this?” I ask, turning it over in my hands. Remy had emerged from his room with it, not long after Sy had scurried away.

Remy glides smoothly down the last flight of stairs. “That’s a helmet, baby. Nicky and Sy would gut me if I fucked up that pretty face.” He’s holding one of his own, and the moment we push through the door, I understand why.

Outside, he approaches a black motorcycle.

I’ve heard it rumbling outside a few times but never processed it as belonging to Remy. He slings his leg over the seat and pats the spot behind him. “Hop on, Vin.”

Briefly, I falter. I’ve never been on a motorcycle, but it’s not the machine that worries me. It’s the driver. Remy is a wildcard, subject to sudden whims and impulses. Who’s to say he’s not going to drive the bike off a cliff? But, as I hesitate, staring at his long, lean body, the spread of his hips as they straddle the seat, the bigger part of my fear is being that close to him. Leaning on him. Figuratively and literally.

His eyebrow rises, tongue sweeping out to wet his bottom lip, and fuck. Fine. I approach the bike and he takes the helmet from me as I stop before him, shuffling my feet, uncertain. He rises from the seat to place the helmet over my head, but he doesn’t secure it. Not immediately.

First, he touches my chin, tilting my face up to his. Remy searches my eyes, his own a plundering green. I’m not sure what he’s looking for. Maybe he senses the wariness in them. Maybe he sees something deeper, evidence that I’m hiding something. Maybe he just likes the color. Either way, I remain perfectly still as he dips down to brush his lips over mine.

They’re warm, despite the cold, and the slickness of his tongue prodding at the seam of my mouth is basically fire. Sparks explode down my limbs and I let myself feel it, just for a second. I wind my fingers into his chaotic hair, overwhelmed by the scent of his cologne and leather, and the thought I have isn’t good.

I wish I were sleeping in his bed tonight.

“Just hold on to me,” he says, pulling away. “I won’t let anything happen to you.” He secures his own helmet, giving me a slick grin as he kicks the bike to growling life. I mount the bike behind him, winding my arms around his stomach, feeling the hard muscles beneath the thin T-shirt he’s wearing under his leather jacket. I feel the force of it all the way down to my marrow. The vibration against my sensitive places. The energy. The reckless, rumbling power.

The bike is sure something, too.

“That was…” I gasp, helmet only halfway off my head. “Oh my god!”

Remy grins. “I know.”

I wish I did, but I don’t know how to articulate it. Riding on the back of that bike is the opposite of being caged. It’s wild and free, fast and thrilling. For the first time in—maybe ever—I felt like I could finally just breathe. And being pressed up against the man in front of me? Jesus. If working with Sy over the past few days hasn’t made me horny as fuck, that ride sure did the trick.

“You like it smooth and fast,” he says, seeming just as breathless as I am when he tips my chin and licks my lips apart. It’s an oddly seamless continuation of the kiss he’d given me before I got on, as if he’s picking up a thread of a conversation we’d been rudely interrupted from finishing. “I’ll remember that.”

He hooks the helmets on the back of the bike, and I look around, trying to figure out where we are. It’s a narrow strip of road, with businesses on the bottom floor and apartments or offices above. I spot a tattoo and piercing parlor, a skateboard shop, two vintage-thrift stores, and a shop specializing in crystals and products that promise to ‘enhance your vibration’. I should’ve known Remy wouldn’t shop at the mall. Not with that wardrobe. His fingers thread through mine and he takes me to the nearest door. Loud, energetic punk music blasts us as we step inside.

A woman behind the counter nonchalantly glances up at us, and then does a double take. “Remington!” she gushes, coming around the counter to greet him. She’s almost as tall as Remy, covered in tats, quarter-sized gauges hanging from her ears, shoulder-length blue-black hair. I can’t even count the piercings. “It’s been months, you fucker!”

“Jade,” he says, fingers squeezing mine. “This is Vinny.”

But her focus is already fixed on me, drinking me in with eyes that grow wider once they land on our joined hands. “Really…” she drawls, eyebrows climbing high.

“Erm—Hi.” I glance around, uncomfortable with her attention. The shop is unique. The scent of new leather is mixed in with a curated collection of vintage clothing. The styles merge seamlessly, classy but aggro. “Nice shop.”

“Thanks,” she replies. “It’s a labor of—well, not just love, but also obsession.”

Remy explains, “Jade designs a lot of the clothes. We took some art classes together while we were, uh…” He scratches the back of his neck, looking at Jade for help.

“At the hospital,” she says. “That’s where we met. Saint Mary’s.” She pulls a face. “Total shithole. You should see the online review I left them.”

“Oh.” I glance between them, suddenly understanding the look they share. There’s a comfort within it, one I haven’t seen him have with anyone else—not even Sy. If I had any kind of real attachment to Remy, I might even feel threatened.

But I don’t.

Definitely not.

“Jade showed me her vision,” he continues, “and when she got out, she opened this place.”

I offer her a smile. Not her fault that she and Remy shared some kind of institutional bond. “That’s really cool.”

She gives him a warm grin. “Well, I couldn’t have done it without Remy’s start-up money.”

He shrugs. “What’s the point of money if you can’t invest in shit you like?”

“He’s modest, but speaks the truth.” She lifts her chin. “So what’s up? You here for the boots? I just got them in.”

He runs his fingers down a rack of shirts, the inked letters on his knuckles rippling. “Vinny needs some real clothes. Not this basic shit she got from the girls down at the gym.”

Jade looks me over, worrying one of the piercings on her lip. “Full workup?”

“Whatever she wants.” His hand slides from the small of my back down to my ass. He squeezes it while also pressing his lips to my temple. “I’ll be over there looking at those boots.”

He wanders off with a flippant wave, leaving me alone with Jade, who seems to be mentally cataloging my body. The scrutiny is overwhelming, and I fight the urge to cross my arms protectively. Can she tell how skinny I am? Are there bruises still visible? Has Remy told her who I am, what my last two years have been like? My last two weeks?

As if noticing my discomfort, she says, “I just need to get a sense of your style, that’s all.”

“Style?”

“Like what colors you prefer.” She reaches for an oxblood pleather dress, and then changes her mind, tucking it back in the rack. “How about fabrics? Vintage or new? A mixture?” My jaw opens, but no words come out. I look over to Remy, but he’s lacing up a pair of boots, caught in his own world. “Vinny?” Jade asks, drawing my attention back to her. “What do you want?”

I blink and think back to ‘before’.

Before West End, where I’ve been expected to dress like a cutslut.

Before South Side, where I was expected to wear what was given to me, and to take damn good care of it, because nothing else was coming.

But it’s not so easy.

In North Side, I’d worn uniforms all through high school, never needing more than jeans and a few T-shirts or casual things at home. There must have been a time where I saw something—on a rack, on a person, in an advertisement—and thought about wanting it. But I can’t remember it. Even if I could, maybe I’m not even the same person anymore. What twenty-year-old still covets the things she liked at fifteen?

I look into Jade’s dark brown eyes, dread swirling in my stomach as I admit the truth. “I have no idea what I like. I… I’m not sure anyone’s ever asked me before.”

Something passes between us, and it’s nothing as kindred as whatever she and Remy share, but it’s something. A connection. She nods, eyes clearing, like she’s seeing me for the first time. “Then he’s brought you to the right place. I understand that more than you know.”

Two hours later, we’ve picked out three dresses, four pairs of jeans, countless tops in dark, bold tones, three pairs of shoes, two skirts, and a lacy selection of bras and panties.

Remy oversaw that personally.

During the clothing changes, size adjustments, and shoe try-ons, Jade doesn’t ask about the yellowing bruise on my hip or why my ribs are so noticeable. She does regale me with stories about herself. How her father made her try out for wrestling when all she wanted was to take art. She freely goes into the reason she was in the hospital—a lifelong struggle with depression and years of gender dysphoria. It wasn’t until she got help that she ultimately made the decision to transition, and things got better. “It’s still a struggle,” she admits, sending me a sunny grin. “But I finally feel free.”

Free.

Yeah. Not me. Not yet.

“Actually, Remy was having a wicked manic episode at the time.” She tucks a tag under the fabric, letting out a chuckle. “He threw me a birthday party, complete with one of those plastic-wrapped Swiss cake rolls, a toothpick stuck in the center. We couldn’t set it on fire, of course, but it was still a really elaborate affair for a 2am shindig at Saint Mary’s.” Her smile softens. “And then he helped me pick my name.”

“Yeah?” I ask, glancing over at him. He’s picking through the clothes piled on the countertop.

“I’d spent years wanting to be a Mallory or an Ariel or something, but he suggested Jade. He said it matches my aura—that it would surround me with protection.”

“That definitely sounds a lot like him.”

We share a look and she snorts. “I know. He can be so pretentiously full of shit, can’t he?”

“Pretty much non-stop.” Still, I can’t help but relate. “But he has a way, I guess. Of making it sound and feel special.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.” She pauses, looking oddly sober. “You know, I’m glad he has someone who can appreciate that without falling headfirst into it. I always sort of worried about him. Remy’s an amazing guy, don’t get me wrong. He’s one of a kind—I suppose that’s why I had to collect him.” She gives me a crooked smile. “But I always knew it’d take a really special woman to handle his highs and lows. He’s lucky to have you.”

I lock up, fully intending to correct what’s clearly a huge misunderstanding, but suddenly he’s sauntering over, strips of black lace hanging over his finger as he politely tugs me away from her. “Wear these tonight.”

My heart and well, let’s face it, pussy, pulses at the implication. “Okay.”

“Go ahead,” he drops into the chair just inside the dressing room. “Try them on for me.”

He yanks the curtain closed, shutting out the rest of the boutique. Feeling the heat of his eyes on my skin, I lift my shirt and remove my bra, then push my jeans down, kicking them off along with my shoes. His eyes dart toward the star as I lower the cotton panties I’m currently wearing, then to my tits and below.

I don’t really give a second thought to being naked in front of him. Remy has seen every inch of my body beneath the hot shine of his tattoo table’s lamp, from the thin skin of my throat to my bony ankles.

He stands, handing me the bra, and then watches me with those intense green eyes as I put it on. His fingers blaze a trail of fire as they graze my skin, helping me with the clasp. The pads of his fingers are rough, running down my spine to the curve above my ass, and I watch, mesmerized, as his eyes follow.

“You have two little dimples here,” he whispers, fingers prodding. “Did you know that?”

My breath is caught in my throat. It’d be easy to blame it on my nights with Sy, but that wouldn’t be honest. The truth is, Remy’s had my eye since that first time he drew on me in the tower. His body and the way it moves. How his eyes feel, searing into me. The shifting ink over his muscles. Even his hair, the way it somehow matches his moods, unkempt one moment and swept back the next.

But mostly, it’s the way he touches me.

Maybe it should matter that it’s not real. That it’s only because he thinks I hold some key to what happened to him and Tate that strange night two years ago. But in moments like this, it doesn’t matter at all.

Because Remy touches me like I’m precious.

Important.

Special.

And it makes me fucking burn for him.

Our eyes meet in the mirror, and I see that same desire reflected back. It’s just as corrupted as mine, twined with something dark and unspeakable, and when he spins me around, his palms hot on my shoulders, I think I see it pulse through him, jaw flexing as he drops to his knees.

Breaking my gaze, he sweeps a palm down my thigh, behind my knee, coming to rest on the unfinished viper tattooed on my calf. Briefly, I wonder if he can smell, see, sense how wet I am.

“Lift up your foot,” he says, voice dropped and so raw that it reverberates to my core. When I do, he spreads the pair of panties apart, guiding one foot after another into the leg holes. He glides them up my legs slowly, eyes following the ascent, and I get lost in how reverent it feels, my lungs constricted around a needy whine.

He stops just short of sliding them over my hips and I give in to the instinct to bury my fingers into his hair, fisting the white, blond tresses. He looks up at me, a smirk on his mouth as he pitches forward to press a slow, hot kiss on the star tattooed beside my hip.

Without warning, he slips his fingers between my legs.

My knees nearly buckle as he slides into my folds, invading, claiming, owning. When he goes suddenly still, I know exactly why, but the look on his face when I pry my eyes open is enough to make me shudder.

His mouth is slack, bottom lip shiny, as if he’d been halfway through wetting it, and his eyes.

Fuck, his eyes are wide with shock and as hot as lava.

“Christ, Vinny.” His brow crumples in want as he slides his finger back, only to plunge deeper into my slickness. Meanwhile, his other hand is busy fumbling for his fly, popping the button and lowering the zipper.

It’s not a good feeling to know that I’d take it. I’d let him fuck me right here in some random dressing room, and it would almost certainly be the best sex I’ve ever had.

But then…

“I don’t care how much money you invested in this place, Remy,” Jade’s voice carries over the music, “if you have sex in my changing room, I’ll castrate you.”

He freezes, hand shoved into his pants, cheeks splotching with redness, and I bite back a groan as I watch him carefully pull back from the dangerous edge of need in his eyes. He mutters, “Fucking cockblock,” and angrily—roughly—pulls the panties the rest of the way up. The most I get is him squeezing my ass when he stands, but he’s still panting these sharp little anticipatory breaths when he does it. “We’re finishing this later.”

He ducks through the changing room curtain, and the first thing I do is make sure there’s no drool dripping down my chin. I get hastily dressed, calming my heart and libido as I get my shit together. My reflection in the mirror is flushed and dazed, sweat beading up on my skin. I’ve spent weeks dreading the moment one of these men would take me, and now I’m apparently fucking desperate for it.

When I step out from behind the curtain fully dressed, he’s already paid, waiting for me with a bundle of packages under his arm, stacked neatly to insert into the tail bag at the back of the motorcycle. The moment may have been broken, but the look he gives me as I approach tells me it wouldn’t need much to mend it.

We say goodbye to Jade, who gives me an uncomfortably knowing wink, and a moment later, we’re out on the street.

Clearing my throat in an attempt to shake off the fireworks, I say, “Thank you.”

Remy couldn’t really understand the significance behind it. I’m not even sure I do—not yet. To anyone else, they’re just clothes, but to me it’s a little slice of freedom. His fingers push the hair off my cheek, and he says, “Those old things were dragging you down. You’re not a cutslut. And you’re made for more than hand-me-downs, anyway. You’re Royalty. You’re the Duchess.” He tugs me close, leaning down to whisper, “My guiding star.”

The kiss isn’t deep and consuming like the ones earlier. This one is pure sweetness, his lips sealing against mine slowly, gently.

It isn’t any less hypnotizing.

“Mr. Maddox isn’t going to know what to do with you,” he says, offering me his hand as I sling a leg over the motorcycle, “but don’t you think for a minute that I don’t.”

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