Ensnared (Brutes of Bristlebrook, #1)(37)

He snorts. “That’s pretty damn clear, princess.”

Swallowing hard, I lift my hand to his chest—not to push him away, but just letting myself, and him, get used to my touch. I went horse riding once and they told me to keep my hand on the horse as I moved around it, so it wouldn’t startle. Maybe that will work here too.

After a moment, I slowly lift onto my toes and brush my lips across his, fully conscious that this is a man who can throw me over his shoulder without breaking a sweat. His full lips are hard and unyielding, and I press a second, gentle kiss to their firm crease, my pulse throbbing fearfully.

Before my heels have even dropped back to the ground, he’s spun again and is halfway toward the sliding doors that lead outside. Embarrassment is just starting to crash in on me when he looks over his shoulder.

“If you’re coming, move your ass.”

The mannered girl in me frowns at his language, but it doesn’t stop me from darting over and following him out into the darkness.





Chapter 12


Eden


SURVIVAL TIP #278

When manners fail,

go primal.

J aykob’s workshop is huge. A large jeep is parked in the far corner and machines of all shapes and sizes sit haphazardly throughout the room. Beams of wood and piles of metal crowd the space, and the walls are lined with every kind of tool imaginable. A small kitchen is just visible from where I stand. The room is only dimly lit, even with the light on.

I glance around, looking for a bed. He doesn’t wait for me, ducking under a hanging beam and making his way to the back of the workshop. I trail after him. There’s a door at the back of the workshop, only visible after I round the half-repaired washing machine. I eye it longingly, wishing I could press some kind of priority sticker to its front.

He opens the door, flicks on the light, and jerks his head for me to go inside.

The room is fairly small, almost entirely taken up by the large bed and a small bedside table. As soon as I step inside, he shuts the door behind us.

Turning, I open my mouth to ask him if he has any refreshments, but he presses me into the closed door. Thrusting his hand into my hair, he tugs my head back and claims my mouth in a rough, punishing kiss. His tongue tangles with mine, invading, demanding. My knees fall out from under me, but he shoves a thick thigh between my legs, pinning me to the door. His weight presses against my core.

I whimper my shock into his mouth, and his tongue coaxes the sound into his own. Despite myself, I shiver in pleasure. He tastes like blackberries and the wine he had with dinner. My hands flutter to his shoulders and clench in his shirt, holding on for dear life.

My head is spinning from his kiss and the wine, but my nerves are fading. The spark of irritation I’ve been nursing for him, though, that’s stoking higher with each demanding stroke of his tongue, with each throb of arousal that pulses inside of me.

“Wait,” I try to say into his mouth, but he licks the sensitive inner rim of my lips, throwing my mind to carnal places, sending me shuddering.

I press back into the door away from him, needing air, needing to think, even as my hips tilt into his.

Traitors.

He crowds me closer, not letting me escape, his other hand cupping my waist, then moving up to my breast.

Breath catching in shock, I bite his lip.

Jaykob jerks his head back, and if I wasn’t reeling, I would laugh at the shock on his face. Then he smirks, something close to surprised pleasure creeping into his expression. He touches his lip where a bead of blood has welled. Desire whips his eyes into stormy seas.

“If you want it rough, princess,” he drawls, “all you gotta do is ask.”

My eyes widen, and I squirm, instinctively trying to get out of his grip. All it does is rub me against the hard, insistent length of him until his jaw tenses.

“Just . . . slow down! There’s no need t-to throw me around like this.”

“You want me to stop?”

He’s everywhere. Big and broad and—God, does he have to feel so good? “I— N-no.”

He snorts, and my cheeks burn. I glare at him.

“Did no one ever teach you basic manners? And . . . and can we turn off the light? Please?” The throaty sound of my voice spoils my indignance.

The smirk deepens. “Manners, hmm?”

He steps back, and I’m about to reward him with an approving smile when he grasps the straps of my dress and yanks them down to my waist, completely exposing the top half of my body. My breasts swell wantonly over the cups of my bra.

I choke on a gasp, eyes widening in anger. “You—”

The words die in my throat as he yanks his own shirt off. He towers over me, and I greedily take in the miles of corded, thick muscles now naked in front of me. Tattoos cover his chest, and the intricate skulls and vines on his arms stand out in sharp relief.

His skin is taut and smooth over his powerful muscles, except for a smattering of circular scars that pattern his upper left shoulder and a thick white scar that wraps horizontally across his stomach. My eyes dip as his rough, calloused hands grasp his belt and pop it open. It’s impossible to miss the tight, substantial strain below the buckle.

I grab hold of the door handle, worried I’ll lose my legs again. I try to work moisture into my dry mouth, but it won’t come.

While I know the men I’m living with are in good shape, I’ve never seen an actual eight-pack before. Some deep, buried part of me wants to lick my tongue over the ridges.