“Some boys can get rough, some don’t always listen when you tell them to stop, and some boys, they’re just monsters. You gotta be careful who you play with…” ~ Jax Declan
I’m a tease, always have been. In my teens, Jax Declan tried to warn me about staying away from the bad boys. The only boy I ever wanted was Jax. But, no matter how much I tried to play with him, he rejected me.
I haven’t seen Jax Declan in years. A couple friends and I are going back to the Bayou for the summer. A little older now, and a bit wiser, I’ve decided that I’m going to find my teenage crush and I’m going to break him. This summer Jax Declan will play with me.
But the closer I get and the more I learn about the reserved, discreet, and sexy Jax Declan. Well, I’m starting to think that Jax Declan might just be one of those bad boys he tried to warn me about all those years ago.
“Emmie Rue.” I hear Jax’s deep southern drawl. I spin around, and whoa, in nothing but a pair of jeans, Jax Declan encourages my bravery to come back out and play. His eyelids lower. “Now,” he leans against the door jam, and crosses his arms over a muscle-crowded chest, “what brings you to my doorstep this evening?”
“Ah…” I go to take a step but lose my footing. I nearly fall into him. Shit, real smooth. I slap my hand next to his shoulder on the door frame so that doesn’t happen again. I blow the fallen hair out of my face and look up. Damn, he’s gorgeous. I sway a little closer. “Thought, maybe you lost my number.”
“Nope.” He shakes his head. “It’s still in my phone,” he says with a small smile, eyes gradually casting over my body from head to toe. Shit, what he does to me with those allusive gazes. “So,” he says, those sexy eyes finally making their way back to mine, “what’s up with the late night visit?”
Dammit. He’s looking all in control, all sober and shit. He knows what I’m here for, and he’s going to make me say it. I strum the tips of my fingers on the doorframe, staring at him as he patiently waits. “You know why I’m here.” There, I said it, and without a single slur.
His head tilts to the side, and he surveys me for another second. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”
“Yep.” I nod, no sense in denying it now. Hell, I nearly fell into him for Christ’s sakes. “I’ve had a few.”
He rubs the back of his neck and takes a deep breath, looking up at me from long dark lashes. “Go home, Em.”
“What?” Okay, maybe he doesn’t quite understand what’s going on here. Maybe he needs me to spell this shit out for him. “In case you’re not getting it—”
“Oh, princess, I get it.” He drops his hand and shoves it into his pocket. “You’re drunk and you want to fuck.”
“Yeah…” I flip my hands out. “So?”
He bends down to my level, and he smells so damn good, fresh and clean, like he just got out of the shower. “So,” he looks right into me, no doubt, seeing my inebriated, randy soul, “you can turn your cute little ass around and take it back home, ‘cause I’m not gonna fuck you.”
“Not ever?” Oh dammit, did that shit just come out of my drunk, desperate mouth?
He grabs me by the chin. “Now,” his thumb strokes my bottom lip. Damn him and that stroking thumb! “You know the answer to that question.”
“And still,” I lick my lip, savoring his touch, “you’re not inviting me in.”
“Not tonight, princess.” He shakes his head. “But remember what I said.” His hand drops from my face. “I want that pussy untouched. Now be a good girl, Em, do as you’re told, and head on home,” he says just before he shuts the door in my face. Yeah! In. My. Face.