“So now you’re the Dalai Lama? Stop acting like you know anything about me, because you don’t know shit. About me or about how the real world out there works.”
His words pelted me like rocks in the middle of my chest. My first instinct was to throw some right back at him. But I didn’t. “This world is a mighty dark, disturbing place, the way you see it. If everybody’s out to screw you, then you’re on your own, because the only person you’ll trust is yourself. You’re going to end up being very lonely.”
He said nothing, just shook his head and let out a scornful laugh. Tears were starting to fall now, and I angrily scrubbed them away when he wasn’t looking.
He had a point. It was my own fault that I cared. But it wasn’t like I was a machine. I couldn’t turn that off.
“I feel sorry for you.”
He spun, his face twisted, angry. “Feel sorry for me all you want. People shit on me, I get them back—twice over. I’m proud of that. You want to know the real reason my father won’t look at me? Because I went after the fucker who screwed him over. His partner, and, I might add, a family friend, cheated my dad out of millions. I got him because Grant Fawkes was too much of a coward to stick up for himself. So when I got the dirt on that asshole and got him to cough up the money, the old man wouldn’t touch it. Said it was dirty.” He huffed out a bitter laugh. “I took his fucking dirty money and invested it in my company. His loss, my gain. Karma is for pussies. I make my own.”
I gasped at his words that closely echoed Cynthia’s. She was right. I backed away from him, hugging myself in the chilly air but feeling even colder inside. I didn’t want him to see my emotional reaction. Why was I letting him get to me like this? I spun on my booted heel and headed back to the car.
A few seconds later, I heard the sound of his quick footsteps bearing down on me. I sped up, knowing I could never outrun him but hoping to clue him in that I had no interest in continuing this conversation. I wasn’t going to be his punching bag.
I headed around the side of the SUV in order to get in when his arm hooked around my waist, stopping me. He pulled me back against his hard body. Once again, the air was sucked out of my chest and I could barely swallow because my heartbeat in my throat felt so big and intrusive.
He pressed his face against my hair and then muttered harshly, “Who the fuck do you think you are, my conscience?”
“I’m just a person who cares…” I whispered.
“Don’t do that. You are not allowed to care.” His voice was hard, like rocks grinding together.
“I can’t help it.”
“Yes, you can.”
“Not everyone in this world is out to get you.”
“What is it you want, Weiss? You want to fix me? Good luck with that. Work on fixing yourself first.” He wound his fingers through my hair, holding my head still.
I swallowed. “You’re a bastard.”
“But I’m the bastard you want.” He pressed his lips to the back of my neck, and I would have jerked away at the contact had he not held me immobilized.
“As long as it’s just sex,” I ground out sarcastically.
“That pulse in your neck says one of two things.” He ignored what I said—as usual. “Either you want me or you are scared shitless of me. Which is it?”
I struggled to inhale. “Both.”
His breath warmed my hair, my ear, the back of my neck, sending shivers of anticipation down my spine. “Good.”
Even if he hadn’t done anything else, his words were enough to cause all the breath to escape my lungs. His mouth pressed against my ear while his hand slid beneath my jacket, under my sweatshirt and smoothed across my stomach. He angled us toward the front bumper of the car as his mouth landed on my neck, making the world spin around me. His hands on me were harsh, kneading my breasts. His mouth pressed against me, nipping and sucking. Hot desire flooded my every sense, and I was filled with a hyper-awareness of him. The way his hard erection pressed against my butt through my jeans, the way his hands cupped and rubbed me, the way they slipped under my bra, pushing it up and away from my breasts to free them for his pleasure.
Soon he had us bent over the hood, one hand working furiously at the button on my jeans. Was I going to let him use me for sex? Hell, why did I even think about it like that? He was the one who had insisted it was just sex—out-of-this-world amazing sex. I could use him for sex, too. Sex was as good an outlet for anger as it was for desire.
“Jordan—”