As though punctuating his monologue, he takes the last drink of his beer and slams his empty on the table. “I’m out, fellas. I’ve got a shit ton of homework this weekend, so I might as well use this time to get a jump on it. Good luck, man, and thanks for the drinks.”
Roman and Austin raise their beers in the kid’s direction and I do the same, though I’m acting on autopilot.
“Well, how ‘bout that?” Austin says after Liam is gone. “Who knew O’Donnell was such a fount of wisdom?”
I don’t answer. I’m trying to process everything the guys said, but this fifth beer is making things move a shit ton slower in the old gray matter. My friends aren’t wrong about Sandra. I realized after I broke things off that her motivations for being with me weren’t so much about love as they were about her ongoing feud with her father. Which only solidified my tenet of never letting a woman change me. But Liam’s little diatribe poses a new question: who, exactly, am I?
Certainly not the same kid who started this venture with his buddies in college. Not even the same guy who mistook an infatuation with a woman I believed to be out of my league for real love. Hell, I’m not even the same guy I was a few months ago before I met Jane. Since finding her, things I used to find pleasure in—partying on the weekends till all hours of the morning, getting mauled by strange women, the random hookups…none of it interests me anymore.
I’m still working the P4H jobs, but if I’m honest with myself, my heart isn’t in it. Even when Jane and I were together, I was anxious to get through the gigs so I could see her.
I make sure to put on a good show and fake my way through it, but every time another woman touches me, I’m picturing Jane; remembering how good it felt when her delicate hands roamed over my body and her nails scored my skin.
Somewhere along the line, being a stripper-for-hire stopped being about getting paid to have fun and became more of a chore. So what the hell am I giving up by staying behind the scenes and not stripping anymore?
The answer? Not a goddamn thing. I’d actually be gaining free time. Time I could be spending with the woman I love…with Jane.
Roman places his forearms on the table and leans in, narrowing his eyes on me like he’s about to cross-examine me on the witness stand. “I’m curious. Did Jane really say that you have to quit?”
“I know what she was getting at. I’m not stupid.”
“That’s debatable,” he counters, “but you’re sidestepping the question. Think back, Danvers, because I’m willing to bet she never actually made a demand on you.”
Roman’s confidence gives me pause. My eyebrows draw together in concentration as I search the memory for the words that will vindicate my actions that night, even if I’ve since decided to give her what she wants for reasons of my own.
Have you ever given any thought to not stripping anymore?
I’m just trying to understand why it’s so important to you.
She’d said a few other things, but those two lines pretty much summed up her half of the conversation. Jane never intended to give me an ultimatum or wanted to change me. She’d been bothered by what she’d seen—understandably so, considering I turn murderous at the thought of the situation being reversed—and wanted to talk about it. But what did I do? I’d jumped to conclusions, said hurtful things I didn’t mean, and ruined everything.
Fuck me. I’m an asshole.
My little aha moment must be showing on my face because Roman takes the opportunity to make his closing statement. “That’s what I thought,” he says, sitting back. “And if that doesn’t tell you what kind of person she is, brother, I don’t know what will.”
The realization lifts the ten-ton weight I’ve been carrying around since walking out of Jane’s apartment that night. Roman and Austin clink their bottlenecks like a congratulating fist bump for making the town idiot see the light, and I can’t even be offended because they’re right about everything. What pisses me off is that deep down I knew all of this, but I kept it buried beneath the fear of the past repeating itself, the fear of not being enough for Jane.
But no more. It’s time to step up and be the man she needs me to be. To own up to my mistakes, tell her how much I love her.
Austin’s eyes light up with childlike excitement as he rubs his hands together. “Now we work on getting her back. What’s it gonna be, boys?”
That’s a good question. I’m ready to do whatever it takes to convince her to let me back in, but something tells me talking isn’t going to be enough. I hurt her. I essentially chose something else over her, just like the fuckwads in her past did. I need to remind her that what we have together is different—better—from what she’ll have with any other man. That I know her and love her in ways no other man will ever understand.
Only me.
“Guys,” I say, getting their attention. “I appreciate your offer to help, but you’ll have to save your banana hammock and monkey idea for another time. I know exactly what I have to do.”
By now, she’ll have erected thick walls to protect her heart against further pain. I’ll have to push her mentally to the one place she always listens to me—to the one place I’ve never broken her trust. And to do that, I’ll have to push her physically, and make her body listen to me first.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jane
Getting your heart broken sucks. Even worse is when you break it your-damn-self. Standing in the steamy bathroom after my shower, I stare at my wavy reflection in the condensation-coated mirror and gingerly rub the area that hides the tattered pieces just beneath the surface. Absently, I marvel at how healthy someone can appear on the outside when everything that matters has been decimated on the inside.
It’s been weeks since Chance and I stopped seeing each other. What I felt when Justin left me was a minor nuisance compared to this soul-numbing ache in my chest. The daily reminder that Chance is no longer mine hurts with an intensity I can’t describe. So many times I picked up my phone to call him, to tell him that I’m sorry and that the stripping isn’t a big deal—that it doesn’t matter as long as I can have him back.
But in the end, I forced myself to put down the phone. That night, I’d only wanted to have a conversation—to try and understand why dancing naked for strangers was so essential to him—and he’d blown it off like my feelings were of little consequence. It doesn’t matter if I’ve since decided it’s something I could learn to live with as long as I know he’s faithful and comes home to me afterward. That he was so quick to dismiss what we had as merely temporary tells me that I was invested, mentally and emotionally, way more than he ever was. Which means eventually he’d end up choosing something else over me. Even if that something else was as simple as freedom.
I’m tired of coming in second place. I deserve to be first, goddamn it, and if nothing else, I’m proud of myself for finally sticking to my guns on this all-important issue. Unfortunately, gaining a newfound confidence and sense of self-worth doesn’t mean this still doesn’t hurt like a bitch.
I miss him so damn much. I’ve actually found myself wishing he worked in a strip club where I could sit in the shadows and watch him dance. I wouldn’t love seeing random skanks pawing at him like he’s the second coming of Christ for the sexual revolution, but I’d suck it up if it meant I got to see him even from a distance. I’d tune out everyone else in the club and pretend he was dancing for me.
Only me.
After running a towel over my wet hair, I pull on a baby tee and pair of boy shorts for makeshift pajamas, then shrug on my robe and shuffle out to the couch for my nightly Mopey Bitch routine. I curl up into the corner, hug my knees to my chest, and rest my cheek along the back cushion where he used to sit. I don’t know if traces of his scent still linger in the upholstery or if I’m merely imagining it. Honestly, I don’t care if it is my mind playing tricks on me as long as I get to smell him.
My apartment is silent with the exception of the steady ticking of the wall clock and the thunderous
rumble of memories in my head. Each click of the second hand sounds like another nail being hammered into the coffin of mental self-torture I’ve laid myself in. God, this sucks. Like, really, really sucks. But it’ll get better, right? They say time heals all wounds, so eventually this pain will have to lessen. I don’t even want to think about the alternative. It has to get better…
My eyes shoot open to the sound of someone pounding on my door. I glance in confusion at the pitch-black world outside my window, then to the clock that reads two-thirty, made visible by the low light of the nearby table lamp. I must have fallen asleep—
More pounding startles me back to the present and turns my stomach inside out. There’s only one person who’s ever demanded entry at this hour. One person who’s ever used the side of his fist like a jackhammer trying to splinter the offensive barrier between us.
“Jane. Open this goddamn door before I break it the fuck down.”
“Holy shit,” I whisper into the darkness. Before I comprehend my movement, I find myself at the door, sliding the chain lock out and twisting the deadbolt. I don’t even get the chance to touch the doorknob before it turns. I have to jump back as the door swings open to allow Chance inside, then he kicks it closed behind him.
My breath catches as I take him in—tall and muscular and so fucking sexy it almost hurts to look. He’s dressed in his favorite pair of faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt that hugs his body and makes my mouth water. Like the first time I saw him, he reminds me of Thor, the god of thunder, with his hair hanging loose around his shoulders and the powerful intensity vibrating just beneath the surface.
“What are you doing here, Chance?” I mentally cringe at the shaky sound of my voice.
He levels an intense gaze on me, his jaw hardening as he slowly advances. “What’s the matter, baby? You not happy to see me?”
I raise my chin in defiance even as I retreat, moving backwards to keep the space between us that’s essential to my immediate survival. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks. Why now—like this—in the middle of the night?”
The backs of my calves hit the coffee table and I start to fall, but Chance reaches out, his reflexes lightning-fast, and pulls me in by the lapels of my robe until our faces are mere inches apart. His drugging scent snakes around my head, and the heat from his body banishes the chill I’ve felt since the moment he left. I barely manage to swallow my sigh of relief as the warmth fills my veins.
“We have unfinished business, Jane. I’m here to tie up the loose ends.”
I suddenly feel like a little worm wriggling on a big fucking hook. I wish I could say I didn’t like it, that the notion made me scared or at the very least uncomfortable. But the flush creeping up my cheeks and the warmth pooling between my legs say otherwise.
“And what if I say I don’t want my loose ends tied, huh? Then what?”
“I’d say I don’t give a shit. And call you a liar.”
My mouth drops open with a sound of protest, but that’s as far as I get before he yanks the robe off my shoulders and shoves it roughly to the ground. Sparking with the electricity of a brewing storm, his eyes glare at my sleep clothes like he can burn them from my body with the sheer force of his will. “Take them off,” he growls.
My head is spinning. I can’t keep up with the maelstrom of thoughts whipping around in my brain: the ones ordering me to put a stop to this madness, the ones shouting at me to grab on, hook my legs around his waist and never let go. In the end, my stupid logic wins out. I wrap my arms across my middle and sidestep away from him. “No,” I say, happily surprised my voice sounds stronger than I feel.
“Take them off or get fucked with them on.”
Sweet baby Jesus. I almost give him my preference—fucked with them on, please—but come to my senses at the last second. “Just say whatever it is you’re here to say, Chance. Then you can leave.”
His head tilts slightly as though pondering my statement. “You expect me to talk? About what?”
“Stuff… Things…” I say helplessly, unable to articulate my thoughts when he starts to follow me, a stealthy predator stalking his prey. “You know,” I try again, gesturing between us, “this.”
Chance shakes his head and tsks like a disappointed parent. “That’s where you’re wrong, Jane. That’s not how this works,” he says, throwing my poor word choice back in my face. He crowds me against the wall, and I’m hit with a dose of déjà vu from that first night when I tried avoiding his advances. I’d been unsuccessful then, too. “That’s not how we do things, you and I, is it?”
I know what he means. Asking him to clarify would only be a catalyst for the inevitable, an acceptance—no, an invitation—for what he plans to do. I know this as surely as I know my own name. Which is why I shock the logical part of myself when I set my jaw, meet his steely gaze, and demand, “And how exactly do ‘we do things’?”
Pure wickedness. That’s what flashes in his eyes and in the wry twist of his lips the split second before he pounces. His fingers plunge into my hair and fist against my scalp to yank my head back to his liking. I hardly have time to register the pleasure-pain that zings through the center of my body and pulses against my aching clit when he attacks my mouth, his tongue and teeth laying siege, plundering and claiming and branding me as his.
Desperate for him, I wind my arms around his neck and jump up at the same time he uses one hand to palm my ass and lift me. I lock my legs at the small of his back and pull him in as tight as I can. He uses the delicious weight of his body to pin me to the wall as he rocks his hips forward, pressing his stiff cock along the drenched seam of my thin boy shorts.
Reaching beneath me, he makes quick work of undoing the fly of his jeans, pulling the crotch of my boy shorts aside, and poising his erection at my entrance. I try to lower myself onto his thick shaft and feel him fill and stretch me as only he can, but he holds me in place with a strong arm banded around my waist, keeping my nirvana just out of reach.
“Please, Chance,” I beg shamelessly. “Please please please.”
“That’s right, baby. This is how we fucking do things. You beg, and I do whatever the fuck I want.” The husky sound of his deep voice next to my ear and his crude words threaten to unravel me, but I gather what little strength I have and trap my protests behind lips rolled between my teeth. Chance chuckles. “I see my little slut’s stubborn streak has come out to play. I like that. Makes breaking you that much more satisfying.”
I glare at him even as my arousal spikes to hear him call me his little slut again and at his promise to break me. It’s exactly what I want. What I crave.
Without warning, he rams his hips upward, slamming his cock home so hard my vision blinks out for a few seconds. The myriad of sensations overwhelms me, wrenching a scream from my throat before he cuts it off with a hand over my mouth. The breaths I’m allowed to take through my nose ghost over his knuckles in swift puffs as the need to move on his cock becomes unbearable. Unable to take it any longer, I try to undulate my body against his, but the grips he has on my face and waist jolt me in warning.
“Don’t you dare move,” he growls. “Piss me off and I drop you to the floor. I’ll make you watch as I fuck my fist until I come all over your pretty face. Then I’ll tie your hands so you can’t get yourself off. Is that what you want?”
I shake my head as vigorously as I can with him holding it hostage. It’s not the first part of his threat I object to—I actually make a note to add that to my fantasy bucket list—but not getting to orgasm, not getting fucked by Chance now that I finally have him inside me again, would be the worst kind of torture.
“Good,” he says, “because if there’s one thing I enjoy the hell out of, it’s fucking this tight pussy of yours. I want it to be mine. To have all the goddamn time—whenever and however I want it. You’d be my own personal fuck toy. Just you, Jane.”
His words catapult me into mental ecstasy. Whimpering, I plead with my eyes to give us the physical euphoria we h
unger for. But it doesn’t matter how hard his baser instincts ride him; he won’t surrender to them until he’s good and ready.
“Yeah, I think you like that idea. But I wonder if you know what you’re getting yourself into. You think I demanded a lot before, but you haven’t seen anything yet. You’ll be my only outlet for all the things lurking in my deviant fucking mind. My permanent little slut to do what I want with.” He removes the hand over my mouth and asks, “You ready for that, Jane? Because I sure as fuck am.”
Truthfully, he just described my idea of relationship heaven, but that stubborn streak he mentioned earlier makes me defiantly silent. He smacks my ass and I cry out in surprise, then relish the sweet pain. “Answer me. Is that what you want?”
When my body jerked in response to the spanking, I got a taste, a teasing reminder, of how phenomenal it feels to ride his cock. To feel his hard flesh pumping inside me again and again, the veins and ridges dragging over my sensitive walls and rubbing the spot that could send me flying apart in mere seconds.
It’s more than enough to make me cave.
“Yes, goddamn it, that’s what I want!”
“Good answer.” With that, he makes good on his promise.
Over and over, Chance pistons his hips, fucking me for all he’s worth. All I can do is hang on and accept his gloriously punishing thrusts. My inner thighs grow tender with bruises from the repeated jabs of his hipbones, and still I don’t want him to stop. His hands are restless, alternating between pulling my hair, gripping my jaw, encircling my throat, and slapping my ass. If someone asked, I’d be hard-pressed to pick a favorite. Everything this man does to me turns me on to no end.
“That’s it,” he says. “Squeeze my cock as I fuck that hot cunt, baby. Fuck, I missed this. Missed fucking my little slut.” I cry out and a fresh wave of arousal crashes through me when he yanks my head to the side and whispers harshly. “The next time you cause me to go without this pussy, I’ll invite my friends over and let them have a turn. A good pussy should never go to waste. Just because you won’t let me enjoy it doesn’t mean others shouldn’t.”
Shameless (Playboys in Love #1) Page 14