Finally finding the words, I type.
She sits, waiting, her heart in her throat, knowing that at any moment, she may draw her last breath because she's finally realized he's utterly mad. Although his demeanor appears calm, she knows that deep down inside, a constant bloodlust drives his next breath. He's a monster, not even sure of who he really is himself…
A floorboard outside of the door creaks, and I stop typing. I sit in the middle of the bed, staring at the door, waiting to see if the knob twists. My pulse clangs in my temples, adrenaline buzzing down my arms to my fingertips. Seconds tick by, but there is no movement, so I go back to my writing. I stare at the blinking cursor… and all the thoughts, the words, they're now nothing but a jumbled mess.
Groaning, I shove the laptop away and shake my head in disgust. I stand and make my way to the window, pull back the curtain, and peer out at Edwin's tent. Not once has he come inside. He's just been out there "finding his inspiration." I have to laugh at it because otherwise, it unnerves me. And the longer I look out at the scenery—that tent billowing in the breeze, that shed—my imagination runs wild. What if he's really crazy? What if he's out there roasting human flesh over that open fire at night? What if…
"Miranda, stop it." Tossing the curtain back, I walk to the end of the bed and flop back on the soft mattress.
I can't write. I don't want to go out of this room, and there's no TV in here. There's nothing to do but sleep. I close my eyes, but the sun's just barely crept below the horizon. There's no way I'll fall asleep. My mind goes into overdrive, sifting through thoughts about this damn book and Edwin, and then Jax and his smile and his dimples and muscles pop into my head, and there—my thoughts cease.
Something about Jax gets to me. I recall how I felt when, on the night I first met him, he told me I was beautiful. Incredibly beautiful… I don't take compliments well—always thinking it's a lie, something the person is doing just to dig at me—but for some reason, when he said it, I believed him. And that makes me uneasy. It makes me feel vulnerable because I don't let people get to me—not on that level. It was because I was drunk. That has to be why it seemed natural. A frustrated groan works its way up my throat.
Since the moment I laid eyes on him in that damn bar, I've had this crazy attraction to him. And it's not the superficial bullshit. It’s not his rugged jawline or messy hair or those muscles evident even through his clothes. No, I think it's the fact that Jax is a walking, breathing oxymoron. He looks like the type of guy that would be an arrogant asshole, but he's awkward and uncomfortable and nervous. I'm not sure many people see that, but I do. And, above that, I think it might be his eyes that draw me in. I can see a profound level of depth in him—I can see twisted demons fighting behind that smile and those dimples. What fool can't appreciate dark things wrapped in pretty packages?
The longer I think about Jax, the more those innocent thoughts morph into the image of him with his hands in my hair, my back against a wall. I find myself wondering what his lips would feel like pressed against mine, his rough hands roaming my bare flesh. What he would look like between my thighs, his skin slicked with sweat, his chest rising in ragged swells. And before I realize it, I feel my hands playing out exactly where I want his hands on my body.
My fingers skim over my stomach. Goose bumps sweep over my skin before I shove down my jeans. I let one hand trail beneath my shirt to palm my breast while a finger from my other hand slowly slips beneath the waistband of my lace thong. I imagine Jax pinning me to the bed, his mouth working down my neck as he sweeps his fingers underneath the lacy material, feeling the reaction my body has to him. And that thought has me biting my lip with a soft moan. He'd slip one finger inside me then groan at how good I felt… my finger sinks inside me, then another, my legs falling shamelessly apart as I enjoy this little daydream.
He'd kiss me, and it would be brutal—his hand gripping my jaw before his fingers wound around my throat. He'd whisper what a dirty girl I am, what a filthy little slut he wants me to be for him, right before he'd end up with his head between my thighs. The thought of his mouth on me like that, my fingers tangled in his messy brown hair—that first warm lick would be enough to send me over the edge.