Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 158635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 793(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 793(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Not a nightmare. A dream.
My fingers ghost over my lips and touch them tentatively. A zap slashes through my body, and usually, I’d drop my hand as if I’d been caught stealing from a biscuit jar.
Now, I don’t.
This time, I close my eyes and picture his lips, unapologetic and controlling. I had no choice but to let him ravage, suck, lick.
It was a stolen moment that I couldn’t have put an end to.
I hate myself for reliving it over and over again. For picturing his big hand around my waist and the other trapping my cheek.
For still having the distinctive feeling of his erection rubbing against my backside.
But what I hate the most is wondering about why he left and never came back.
It’s not that I want him back.
I was relieved the first few days he wasn’t around to keep an eye on me.
Jeremy is a dangerous man, the worst enigma, and a devil with distorted morals and a cutthroat personality. He’s absolutely not someone I want to mingle with, so, yeah, I was glad he got over whatever stalker kink he had.
But that relief soon morphed into something more nefarious.
Unsettling curiosity.
I keep replaying what happened after he kissed me, poured vodka down my throat, then drank it off me.
He looked mad before he abruptly announced we were leaving. No, not mad. Possibly annoyed?
I really can’t be sure, considering his never-changing angry expression, so I have no clue if he looked that way by default or due to something I did.
I open my eyes, groan softly, then fish out my phone and open Instagram. I realize I’m letting him get under my skin, but I can’t help it.
Jeremy has an account, but he seldom posts on it, and most of his pictures are blurred and unintelligible. A mass of black and white and mysterious.
A day ago, I scrolled through all of his posts twice. This is the third time.
What? I need to know the enemy.
Though is he really an enemy if he’s actually left you alone?
I ignore that voice and start at the top.
Jeremyvolkov. That’s what his account is called. He doesn’t have a bio or anything.
His profile picture is a black and white side shot of him on his bike, wearing a leather jacket. From this angle, his hair flopped by the wind, his square jaw appears ready to cut someone in half.
In most of the pictures, he’s on the bike, with Nikolai, who’s usually half naked on his own bike, or with the other guys. There are no family pictures. Not even any with Annika.
She, however, posts religiously, and some of them do include Jeremy. He’s an unwilling participant in all of them since she usually catches him in the background.
My favorite picture of them is one she posted a few weeks back. It’s from when she was young, maybe about four years old while Jeremy is no older than ten. She was laughing through her tears while he wiped them. Her caption was even more heartwarming.
Do I have the best brother ever? Yes, yes, I totally do. Thank you for being my anchor, Jer *purple hearts*
But even Annika doesn’t have a full family picture. The closest one to a family photo is one of her hugging her mum, with Jeremy standing behind them.
She captioned it: My favorite people.
There’s no trace of their father and I guess that makes sense, considering his leadership position in the mafia.
After scrolling through Jeremy’s profile for longer than needed, I groan and hit the home screen.
What the hell am I doing?
The first post that appears is of Landon kissing a statue on the mouth.
landon-king: If you know what agalmatophilia means, be mine?
I know Lan has been a highly sexualized person since we were teens. He’s had weird sexual adventures, which is different from, say, his twin, Bran.
He’s on the same level as Remi, but not really. Remington genuinely loves chasing after skirt, a playboy through and through.
Lan only wants the bizarre experiences, the things that are frowned upon by society, the kinks that most people are afraid to try.
It’s like he’s challenging himself to go further and further.
Until he’s out of reach.
It’s downright paraphilia at times. Sexual deviation and attraction to atypical individuals, situations, objects, and behaviors.
The type most serial killers have.
It’s funny how these types of posts used to tug at my heart, but now, I just smile and like his picture. I guess it means I’m emotionally mature enough to understand him better.
I don’t even mind the thousands of thirsty comments from girls—and boys—volunteering to be his object of perversion.
They probably wouldn’t feel the same if he actually acted on his kinks. Plural. I know I wouldn’t let him tie me up me in a room and let random strangers watch.
I always thought we were sexually compatible, but maybe that was just vain hope.