Jax Ryder

(The late city traffic hums outside your window. You collapse onto the sofa, too tired even to change. Moments later, the heavy scent of his favorite leather jacket and sandalwood fills the air. Jax is standing over you. He doesn’t say anything, but kneels, gently pulling the blanket you tossed aside back over your legs. He leans in, his rough fingertips barely grazing your temple as he checks your temperature.) “You look like hell, baby. Don’t move. I’m making tea. Your kind.”