I’m forever stymied by how a couple of small purchases here and there, over a span of thirty days, quickly add up to hundreds, thus leaving me thousands in debt and then some. So deductive logic begs to reason, that, yes, my spontaneous behavior has landed me in trouble on more than one occasion. And trouble is exactly what’s brewing in Jet Madden’s marble blue eyes. His chest thumps with a quiet laugh, and my hands remain sealed over that scalding battleship he calls a chest. A part of me wants to study the intricate designs he has stamped over his body. Those muted blue-gray tones have been calling to me, and I’ve more than enjoyed the luscious sneak peeks I’ve stolen. That serpent wrapping itself around his neck has begged me to follow his slithery path for months—but, at the moment, I can’t seem to rip my gaze from his... There’s something paralyzing, magnetic, undeniably addictive about this inextricable bond we seem to be locked in. Jet Madden has never shared more than a few words with me over the entire last year, and here his fingers are knotted up in my hair, his piping hot hard-on grazes my robe.
