Page 95 of Jensen

I can’t move. Everything is unsteady. He doesn’t shame me. No,he just lifts me up and puts me in the passenger seat. My fingers knot together. He settles himself into the driver’s side, clicks the truck in reverse. His eyes flash as he pushes one arm behind my head, the other controlling the wheel with his palm flat, and hits the gas.

My stomach wavers.

The tires scream and gravel sprays, but he doesn’t flinch. The muscles in his forearm ripple as he maneuvers the wheel, fingers flexing as it spins. He makes a hairpin turn backwards at fifty miles an hour, then he hits the brakes. I glance to the side. The silver SUV is crushed up against a tree, the entire front pulverized. Inside, a man slumpsagainst the steering wheel, arm hanging out the shattered window.

Without speaking, Jensen takes his pistol and shoots. The body on the wheel flops from impact, falling to the side. The second bullet goes into the second limp body, making it jerk. They’re both very dead.

“Jesus,” I gasp.

“Not taking any chances,” he says, pushing open the door. “Don’t fucking move, Della.”

There’s no world in which I’m going to disobey this side of Jensen. I sit perfectly still, my hand wrapped around the extra pistol. He wrenches open the door and hauls the driver out by his jacket. Ignoring the seeping blood, he picks him up in a fireman’s lift and tosses him into the bed of the truck. The other body is smaller but harder for him to dislodge. I want to get out and help,even though I’m trying not to gag, but he told me to stay put.

I close my eyes. The sick thud of the second body makes the truck bounce as it hits the bed.

Then, I feel his weight in the driver’s seat. I open my eyes. He’s putting the truck in gear,and we’re heading backwards down the mountain.

Lord, I’m going to be sick.

My nails cut into my palms. We make it to the bottom of the hill, where the gravel road meets the state route. Instead of going back the way we came, he turns right and heads out into the swamp.

“Are you dumping the bodies?” I whisper.

“Yeah,” he says, reaching into the dash. He’s feeling for something.

“What do you need?”

“I’d like a cigarette,” he says, voice hoarse. He’s got blood on his fingers,and it’s sticky on the gear shift.

I dig into the glovebox and find a pack of Camels. My hands are shaking, but I manage to light one for him. He takes it, leaving the paper bloody as he puts itin his lip. Warmth I’ve been too scared to feel until now floodsthrough my body, pounding between my thighs.

Am I aroused by his violence?

If I am, what does that make me?

He stops in the middle of the swamp, miles out, and I sit in the truck and stare straight ahead. There’s a distant splash. Then another. He stands by the door for a moment, finishing another cigarette. Then, he takes off his shirt and goes down to the water to wet it. Heart in my mouth, I watch as he washes the blood from his arms.

He gets back in.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “For saving me.”

He’s shirtless, his tattooed arm resting on the wheel. I’m turning into some kind of feral cat seeing him like this, or maybe I just have an arousal response to fear, but out of nowhere, I’m crawling across the seat to him.

“Della,” he says, turning.

My fingers dig into his buckle, pulling his belt free. It’s thick leather, worn down. There’s the faint outline of a pattern burnt into it, bumpy under my fingers. It’s his initials, I think. God, I wish he’d wrap this fucking belt around my neck so hard,it would leave his mark on me the next day.

He doesn’t push me away. Instead, his rough hand comes down on the nape of my neck.

I yank down his zipper, and there he is, all big and thick, lengthening as I shove his boxer briefs aside. Head empty, I wrap my fist around the Ruger and push him into my mouth all the way to the handle.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes, legs flexing, pushing his cock further into my mouth.

He smells like blood, like sweat, but under it all, he smells like Jensen. He’s all man, rough in a way Leland could never dream of being. The hand that cradles my head is firm, steady. His fingers weave in my hair and fist. He doesn’t force my head down the way Leland used to, but I’m surprised to find I like the thought of Jensen doing that.

I curl my tongue, stroking him. Up, down. Licking the sensitive underside.

“Good girl,” he grits out.