Page 49 of Wrecked (Dirty Air 3)

“She can go now. I promise to be the best part of your night.” She turns her back on me, inching closer to Jax.

Gross. I roll my eyes before yelling over the music. “Are you sure about that? I should warn you both then. Jax, the doctor called and said the rash on your penis is herpes. Make sure to wrap it up tonight if you plan on sleeping together.” My voice carries loud and clear.

The woman purses her lips in disgust and abandons Jax, leaving a drunken mess for me to deal with.

“Now that’s not nice.” He pouts his lips.

“I’m not here to be nice.”

“I know that. You’re here to ruin my life.” He lets out a soft sigh.

“What do you mean? Half the time you say things I don’t understand.”

“Dance with me?” He ignores me.

“Are you out of your mind? You’re so drunk you can’t even stand straight.”

He grunts. “Okay, forget dancing. How about

fucking? It can be done lying down.”

“I’d be impressed if your dick even worked after the amount of alcohol you’ve consumed.”

“Let’s test it out.” He has the audacity to act all smug at his idea.

I close my eyes as I count to ten, willing myself to be patient with him. Ten seconds too long, giving Jax the opportunity to close the gap between us.

My eyes open to find his half-lidded gaze inches away. Jax’s body presses against mine, the hard edges of him meeting my softer curves. It feels like my body comes alive, bursting with energy, pulsing like the speakers in the club. His scent of spice and whiskey wraps around me as sweaty bodies push us closer together.

He holds my chin between his index finger and thumb. “Why you? Why couldn’t it be anyone but you?” The loud music can’t conceal the pain in his voice.

“For the job? I was available. It’s nothing against you, por el amor de Dios.”

“That’s not the question I’m asking,” he slurs.

“Estás tan borracho, it’s not even funny. We need to get you home.”

Jax has another idea as he tugs me into him. One of his arms wraps around my body as his lips find mine. His kiss is anything but gentle. It demands, stealing my breath and rationality away in one go. The taste of whiskey floods my mouth as his tongue dominates mine, testing my resistance.

My fingers clutch onto his shirt, desperate for something to stabilize me. To connect me to the ground before my mind drifts away.

And damn I’m tempted to let every worry about him fly away as his tongue strokes my bottom lip.

Oh. My. God. What is he doing? And more importantly, why am I not pushing him away? His kiss heats up my body. It’s a feeling I’ve never had before—one addicting despite the wrongness of the situation.

He’s drunk.

I have a job to do.

He has too many mood swings to be deemed stable.

The list could go on and on.

“Jax.” I rip my lips away from him, unclenching my fingers from his shirt and placing my hands against his chest with every intention of pushing him away. Except I’m stuck in place, not moving, because his touch is electric. Toxic. Addictive.

It’s everything I should avoid while being everything I desire.

His mouth moves onto my neck, his tongue darting out to run down the column. A shiver works its way down my spine when he sucks on the sensitive skin.