I pound my fist into the acrylic of the shower, followed by my forehead.

She’s not my fucking problem.

But this whole world she lives in is nothing but abuse.

Watching Bellamy and Waverly being raised to believe their worth is boiled down to sharing a husband with a group of other brainwashed women, birthing as many babies as their bodies can handle, and cooking and cleaning infuriates me.

Especially when it’s tied into religion, as if God wants them to be second-fucking-class citizens.

I slap a fistful of shampoo into my hair and lather. Hard. My fingers dig into my scalp.

“You’re never going to be good enough for one of those girls,” my father would say after church whenever he caught me checking out the deacon’s daughters. “Don’t even try. They need real men are the ones who make their fathers proud. Not some promiscuous pencil-dick like you.”

Religion and modern-day human sexuality are a dangerous mix. I told that once to my sex-ed teacher, which prompted a phone call to my father, which resulted in a belt beating that night before dinner.

I jerk the water to warm, unable to tolerate the cold a moment longer, and think of Waverly again. My cock hardens in an instant and I grip it with my left hand, rubbing and tugging as water beads down my body. When I’m fully erect, my balls tighten and swell.

I shut my eyes tight as I imagine Waverly’s pink tongue tasting the tip of my dick before her mouth takes the rest. I imagine looking down, my eyes getting lost in hers as she moans with each lick and stroke. My free hand clenches as I envision a handful of her silky hair threading through my fingers.

Everything becomes clear as day for a second.

Waverly needs me.

She needs me and she doesn’t even know it.

I’m the only one who can save her. I’m the only one who can teach her that sins of the flesh are perfectly normal—dangerous to ignore, even. Something tells me she’s saving herself for some polygamous husband who sees her as nothing but a vessel in which to plant his delusional seed.

My moment of clarity comes to a grinding halt when my mind goes blank, my body goes numb, and I cum all over the wall of the acrylic shower I share with my two “sisters.”

I twist the water off and wrap a towel around my waist before heading down the hall to my room. I don’t feel guilty. I feel clearheaded. I know what I need to do.

I’m walking with purpose now.

I strut down the hall like a goddamned peacock, gazing into Waverly’s room as I pass by. She’s not in there. She’s probably hiding from me. Shit. I’ve probably traumatized her.

Waverly makes me want sex like Beyoncé makes me want to put a ring on it.

I remind myself not everyone lost their virginity at fourteen or screwed their father’s girlfriend multiple times a week since the day they got their driver’s license. Some might say I’m oversexed. I say I’m liberated. My cock, my sexuality, is the only part of me I’ve ever been able to control.

But I’m not in it to fuck her. Unless she wants it. I’m not a predator. I’m a beacon of change. A catalyst. I’m here to bring about a longitudinal shift that will open her eyes in ways she’s only ever dreamed of.

If she chooses to accept it.

I twist the handle to my room, dropping my towel at the same time.

Only I’m not alone.

Found her.

CHAPTER 8

WAVERLY

So that’s what a penis looks like in real life.

“What are you doing in here?” He scrambles for the towel he’s just dropped, covering up as fast as he can. I’m shocked. I fully expect him to flaunt it in my face. Wag it around a little. Make a show of it.

I’m not sure if it’s big or small. I’ve nothing to compare it to. I only look at it for half a second because it’s kind of funny-looking, this situation is weird, and I’m trying my hardest to act like none of this fazes me.

“Embarrassed?” I tease.

How does he like his space invaded?

“You have virgin eyes, Waverly,” he mocks back. A system of black, tribal tattoos cover his right shoulder, snaking down his biceps, which flex as he grips his towel with his fist. “I’m being a gentleman.”

“First time for everything, I suppose.”

“Why are you in my room?” He shuts the door behind him and keeps a careful distance from me. He’s staring at me like I’m a stranger. Like he doesn’t recognize me.

Good.

I’m going to beat him at his own game, only he doesn’t know it yet. The second he walked out of the laundry room earlier, I decided then and there that there was only one way to beat him at his mind games. He wants to teach me a lesson about choices and control? I’ll show him I’m fully in control. He thinks he has me pegged? He’ll have to guess again.

I’ll teach him to take me at face value.

I was raised to be a good and faithful, virtuous and upright. I have patience a mile long and a soft spot a mile wide.

But there’s a part of me, deep inside where no one can see, that can outfox the most cunning of foxes and outsmart the smartest of smartasses. There’s rebellion in my marrow. We all have it. Most of us, if we’ve any wits about us, keep it hidden from the rest of the world. We ignore the way it calls our name when no one’s around, and then every so often, it asks us to dance when it’s sure no one’s watching.

Jensen Mackey has messed with the wrong Miller. From here on out, I’m dancing with rebellion if only to teach him a lesson.

“I thought about what you said.” I cross my legs and sit up straight, batting my lashes. I drag my hand across his comforter before scooting back.

“That quick? Don’t need a night to sleep on it?” He’s testing me, but I think he’s scared. I’m about to call his bluff.

My throat constricts. My face heats. I can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once. I unbutton my cardigan one pearl button at a time. I may as well be undressing in slow motion, but it’s absolutely intentional. Jensen stands by his dresser, his golden eyes wide as saucers and nothing coming from his rarely silent lips. The room spins like the bed is some sort of merry-go-round, but I don’t stop.

Two buttons…

Three buttons…

Four…

My cleavage peeks out from my white camisole, drawing his eyes to my milky flesh like bees to honey.

“I know you want to touch them,” I say, having absolutely no intention of letting him come anywhere near them.

This is all a bit of an experiment that will hopefully turn into a deterrent. The constant provocation since the day we met needs to stop. It ends now. Here. With me calling his bluff.

“Waverly.” My name is a low rumble in his throat. He swallows, daring my eyes to travel down to where his fist still clenches his towel around his waist. There’s clearly a pitched tent thing going on. It’s much bigger than it was before and much bigger than I expected a penis to be.

Do they get that big?

I smile and hope he can’t see me gradually losing my cool. I summon the strength of the Harlequin heroine resting on the pages between my mattress and box spring and slap a smoldering expression on my face.

What’s happening right now is a highly strategic game, not unlike chess.

Your move, Jensen.

His lips form a straight line. His eyes search mine. “You sure this is what you want?”

I could slap him. He’s should be taking the bait, not calling my bluff. Where’s the lusty gaze he threw my way earlier? Where are his needy hands? His greedy intrusion? What happened to Jensen from the laundry room?

“No, I’m just undressing in front of you for no reason.” I roll my eyes.

“I’d hardly call it undressing. You wear more layers than an Eskimo, and you haven’t even taken your sweater off yet.” He leans against his dresser like we’ve got all the time in the world.