leave some marks.
But then, Jason was well acquainted with his own animalistic urges. Some might say he reveled in them.
He would never be a monk. But he’d taken this time to sit on a pretty island the father he’d always hated had bought and built a pretty house on to ask himself why he always looked for oblivion. In a bottle. Between a pair of sweet thighs. Testing his adrenaline in high-risk adventures. His mother had called him out after the reading of his father’s will, and Jason wasn’t built to ignore the woman who’d raised him—on her own, because the rich haole who’d literally left her pregnant by the side of the road couldn’t be bothered.
“You’re so busy making sure you’re nothing like him that guess what?” His mother had shaken her head at him, as if Jason had disappointed her. He would rather she’d slapped him upside his head. It felt about the same. Worse, maybe. Then she’d twisted the knife. “So many women everywhere you go. Do you know their names? Or do you like the fact you’re carrying on his tradition of anonymous encounters everywhere you go? Seems to me you’re just like him, after all.”
That had sucked.
Jason had removed himself from all temptation the very next day.
But what was he supposed to do when temptation wandered onto his very own deserted island? With an agenda all its own?
He didn’t want to be a piece of shit like his father. But he was only a man.
He watched Lucinda’s struggle play out across her perfect oval of a face. Her blue eyes gleamed from temper or emotion, and she looked at him like she was considering taking a strip or two out of his hide—or trying—but her flush mouth pressed into a tight line instead. She had a tough little chin, he noticed when she lifted it, high and belligerent like she was ready to fight.
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