Most men have the insight—or at least the sense of pure, dumb self-preservation—to know when to shut their mouths. But Jax has never had a feel for that kind of thing. He speaks and acts without thinking. Useful sometimes, although Gaiman and I have had to bail him out of his fair share of sticky situations over the years.
“And that body? Killer,” he continues, oblivious to the dagger eyes I’m sending his way. “That ass is tight with a capital T. But it doesn’t look like a gym body, either, you know? Au naturale.”
“f*****g Christ,” I growl. “Are you still talking?”
He shoots me a lopsided grin. “Was she tight? You know… on the inside?”
“You’re two seconds away from getting your teeth knocked in.”
His eyes go wide. “Wait, are you pissed?”
That’s the thing about Jax: you can’t stay pis
