Page 1 of Jace
CHAPTER ONE
JACE
They saythe devil is a gentleman.
Well… I try.
Though it’s not easy when you’re the head of security for a famous sex shop, and you’re in love with your cute colleague, a married woman who’s oblivious to your obsession.
It helps that I wear a dark suit every day. Add a nice tie and my sweet smile, and no one suspects the dirty thoughts I hide about Vivian Tate.
She’s our boudoir photographer, making her clients feel sexy, gorgeous, and powerful through her lens. They always leave with a confident smile. But for the life of me, I don’t know why she’s not confident too.
Because I’m the sack of muscles who guards the door, percolating drool for Vivian on an hourly basis.
Is it wrong to love a married woman? Even if her husband is a blond punk-ass dick who dresses like a ten-year-old scumbro? You know, like Justin Bieber in XXXL, everything minus the musical talent.
Maybe.
But I’m an escaped son of the head of the Russian Bratva with the uncanny ability to choke a man to death. I swear I canjust squeeze my biceps and fuckers die. Don’t use me as a moral compass.
Use Vivian.
She’s a bubbly saint sporting a ponytail and no makeup—the effervescent girl next door.
Though what kills me is… she’s not a girl.
She’s very much a woman with her casual style, white tees or camel sweaters, soft jeans, or a simple sundress. Thank God, the woman has a religion against bras. Or at least believes they should be made of tissue.
So I die every goddamn time I glimpse the outline of her small tits and perky nipples, pointing me straight to hell.
It’s where I belong.
Alright. Okay. I’m not a complete evil piece of shit in a designer suit.
I’m also smitten. Besotted. A total simp for Vivian. Like one of those little boys in overalls on a Valentine’s card, puckered up and holding a daisy for his boo.
Yeah, that’s me.
And so is this…
All six foot six of my grown-man ass trying to balance on a black wooden stool in the doorway of Delta’s.
It’s a hot winter’s day in Charleston, so I’ve opened the eight-foot front door, claiming my spot on the piazza, the iconic covered side porch of this historic, three-story single house.
To my nosy colleagues and brothers, it’s for the fresh air.
To me, it’s so I can spot Vivian strolling up the cobblestone street, her ponytail swishing, my heart exploding.
I have a big surprise for her today.
“We’ve got a meeting at six. There’s new intel.” But Nash, one of my brothers, threatens to burst my heart balloon with our vigilante business. He’s booting up the wooden stairs to thepiazza, looking like Clark Kent pledged to the Mafia. His thick, fake glasses only add to his inked mystique.
“Copy.”
I downplay the nerves performing somersaults in my veins for Vivian’s surprise.
And he cocks a brow, catching it. “What’s going on?”
