Shattered (LOST #3)(12)

He opened the door for her. A curving spiral staircase led upstairs. The staircase was one of the finished elements in the house. He fucking loved that staircase.

And I’d love fucking her on it.

“Why this place?”

He shut the door behind him. Secured the alarm system in the house. “I got a great deal on it.” He gave her a tight smile. “Not everyone wanted to be so close to the massacre house.”

She tensed.

“The La Laurie mansion,” he explained as he propped his shoulders against the door and studied her. “It’s just down the road a bit. Those haunted tours come this way several times a day, everyone so eager to get a glimpse of the place—and maybe see a ghost or two.”

She rubbed her arms. “Now I know why this house seems familiar.”

“Went on a tour, did you?”

Her dark eyes held his.

“Like you’d be afraid of a few ghosts.” And he stalked toward her. He just had to get closer. She was standing in front of those stairs and looking so beautiful that she made him ache. “I actually wonder . . . does anything scare you?”

Her hand curled around the banister. “The man and woman who used to live in that house—the ones who hurt all of those people—they scare me. Real-life people always scare me more than any ghost story . . . because I know just how evil we can be.”

We? He caught her hand. The sleeves of her coat came down to her wrists. He brought her left hand up to his mouth. “I don’t think you’re evil at all.”

“Maybe you just don’t know me that well.”

Damn, but he liked her.

He held her hand. Stared into her eyes. And thought about all the ways he wanted to have her. His hand slid around her wrist. He could feel her pulse racing right there and—

There was a long, thick line beneath his fingertips. Frowning now, he pushed back her coat sleeve as he stared at her wrist. There was a scar there, one that appeared to slice over the veins.

“I usually do a better job of keeping that covered,” Sarah said, voice soft. “Tonight, I just didn’t bother. I figured you’d be able to deal with me, scars and all.”

His index finger slid over that scar.

“If you use your dominant hand to make the first cut and that cut is too deep, then your other hand won’t be able to slice when the time comes.”

His gaze snapped back to her face.

“Just a lesson I learned.”

“You tried to kill yourself.” Fury pumped through him. Sarah—dead? No.

“I was a teenager, utterly scared out of my mind.” But then she shook her head. “It wasn’t the fear that did it, though. It was the guilt.”

He didn’t understand. “Sarah?”

“You know who I am.” She stepped closer to him. And her bittersweet smile made his chest ache. “Oh, not all the specifics, because few people know those sordid details, but you know my father—”

“—was a serial killer.” Yes, he knew that. Murphy Jacobs, a man convicted of murdering five people, though he’d been suspected in the deaths of at least a dozen more.

“You know and you don’t look at me like I’m a freak.”

“Because you’re not.” His finger slid over that scar again. They’d be coming back to that, later. “You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever met.”

The smile became less bittersweet. “If that’s the case, then why are we wasting time just talking? Couldn’t we be doing . . . other . . . things?”

Ah, so the sharing was over. For the moment. That was fine. He knew that he’d learn more about her soon enough. When it came to Sarah, he was learning that he had a rather insatiable curiosity. “You’re right,” he murmured.

Her lips parted.

“So come this way.” Then he turned and headed into the den. He made his way into the kitchen and found a bottle of wine. Chilled and rich, just what he thought she might enjoy. But when he turned back around, he found Sarah frowning at him.

“What?” He lifted the wine. “Not your style?”

“You don’t have to wine me and dine me.”

He used a corkscrew to open the wine. Jax grabbed two glasses.

“I want to fuck you, Jax. I thought I made that clear.”

Fuck you. His eyes closed for a moment. “I was trying not to strip you and take you on the stairs.” He turned back toward her. Offered her a glass of the wine. “I’m not sure what you’ve heard about me . . .” Though he could well imagine. “But I can be gentlemanly, to a degree.”

She tasted the wine. Then she downed it in one gulp—like it had been a shot glass.

His lips twitched.

“I don’t remember asking you to be gentlemanly.”

He took his time savoring the wine, the way he planned to savor her.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” she said. “So, um, not to rush you or anything here but—”

Jax put down the wineglass. “We have as long as we want.” Then he made his way to her. Slowly, letting his gaze sweep over every inch of her body. “There’s no one here but me and you. No one to see us. No one to hear us.” His hand lifted and sank into her hair. “So you don’t have to pretend here with me. You can let go.”