His Virgin: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance

by Nikki Chase

  He places his phone in my hand. It's still warm from being in his jeans pocket. He stands a little behind me, looking over my shoulder at the screen.

  He's so close I can feel his bare chest on my back, his hot breath on my neck. With one hand over mine on the phone, he navigates to the song list.

  This feels intimate, although we’re not doing anything risqué. I’ve always felt like phones are really private things. Although you see them out in the open all the time, you don’t really get to touch or play with someone else’s phone. It’s like an extension of your person, in a way.

  I pick a song and the little speakers play Adele’s Skyfall. It sounds good, but to be honest I wouldn't know the difference between these headphones and my cheap $10 ones.

  As Jacob goes back to working on his big bike, I realize I miss his closeness. He wipes the exhaust with a rag and looks up, catching me looking at him. I immediately try to look busy by opening my mail, but not before noticing his lips pulling upward into a self-satisfied smile.

  I set the letters from the bank and the power company aside. One letter has caught my attention. There's no company logo or any writing at all on the envelope. It’s probably some kind of mass-produced brochure stuffed into as many mailboxes as possible. I tear open the envelope, pull out the letter, and unfold it.

  I almost scream when I see the message on the single piece of paper. I clasp my hands over my mouth.

  Jacob must've heard me dropping the rest of my mail onto his driveway because he rushes to my side and takes off the headphones. He asks, “Is anything wrong?”

  When I hand the letter to Jacob, I notice my hands are shaking. He grabs the letter, stares at it with an angry frown on his face, and looks at me with concern. “What the fuck is this?”

  My heart is pounding against my rib cage and blood roars in my ears. I can't think so I just shake my head.

  “Who the fuck would send something like this?”

  I shake my head again. “I don't know,” I say softly. All my energy has drained out of my body, leaving only fear. After everything I’ve done, everything I’ve been through, I’m right back at square one again. Just a prey being hunted. With resignation, I say, “Just throw it away.”

  “What do you mean just throw it away? This is serious,” Jacob says, holding up that horrible piece of paper for me to see.

  I’ve been trying to tell myself this is not really happening, but there it is. Little cutouts of alphabets from glossy magazines arranged on a normal piece of paper. If it weren’t for what the letters spell, it would almost look like an elementary school student’s art project. My vision blurs as I read the words again.

  RUN, WHORE

  18

  Jacob

  “Okay, we’ll file a report,” the cop says with a bored expression, like he’d rather be at the station stuffing his face with donuts.

  “That’s it? You’re not going to, I don’t know, actually try to find the person who sent this?” My voice sounds louder and harsher than I intended. Blood rushes through my veins, making me restless, making me want to do something, run somewhere, punch someone. And if this cop annoys me any further, that someone could very well be him.

  “Sir, our resources are limited,” he says without even taking his eyes off his stupid fucking notebook where he’s scribbling useless shit. What’s the point of taking notes if he doesn’t plan on doing anything about it?

  “Yeah? What big crimes have been committed in Ashbourne that are keeping you busy? Jaywalking? Bike thefts? Teenagers smoking pot?”

  “Please calm down, Sir.” The cop keeps his head facing down while glancing up at me from beneath his unibrow. He’s getting annoyed. Good. “We don’t even know if a crime has been committed here. So someone leaves a note in Miss Lake’s mailbox. She’s unharmed. It could’ve been a prank. Maybe a friend actually thinks she should take up running for health reasons. Maybe a student has a crush on Miss Lake and his girlfriend leaves her a note out of teenage jealousy. Maybe it’s a new viral marketing campaign. It could be anything.”

  “Are you being serious right now?” I glare at the cop, but he just shrugs without meeting my eyes. I can’t believe this.

  I throw my hands in the air and glance at Jessica. Poor girl. She looks pale as a sheet, just sitting there on the railing of her porch while Mr. Busy Cop and I talk on her driveway.

  I should at least try again. “Look at that woman right there. She’s scared shitless. And you’re going to tell me you’re not going to do anything about this?”

  “Miss Lake told me herself it’s probably nothing. The only person pressing the matter is you, and you have nothing to do with it, do you?” The cop flips the pages of his notebook. “According to my notes, you’re just a neighbor. Is that right?”

  “Yes,” I say begrudgingly. I have no idea why Jessica is acting like this is the end of the world, and yet wouldn’t tell the cop to work on the case.

  “And you didn’t see anybody approaching Miss Lake’s mailbox?”

  “No.” I shouldn’t have been wearing those fucking noise-canceling headphones. I would’ve been more alert without them. I could’ve caught the guy who did this to Jessica.

  “Then we’re done here,” the cop says as he closes his damn notebook with finality and flashes me an infuriating satisfied smile.

  He waddles to his patrol car, where his partner has been sitting and twiddling his thumbs the whole time. Limited resources, my ass.

  Ah, fuck it. If they're not going to do anything, I’ll take care of it myself. What can the cops do to protect Jessica that I can't anyway?

  Although technically, the cop was right. I'm just a neighbor. A strange letter in my neighbor’s mailbox shouldn't bother me this much. So why is it that all I want to do is hunt down whoever sent it and beat him up?

  My footsteps make hollow sounds on the wooden floor of the porch as I approach Jessica and sit down beside her on the railing. She's still shaking, her green eyes staring so intently at the floor I have to check if there's anything on wooden planks. She doesn't even seem to realize I’m here.

  What is she so afraid of—or rather, who—and how do I get my fists on his face? Why doesn't she want to tell the cops anything?

  Is this why she has moved here to Ashbourne? To run away from something?

  What kind of dangerous shit is she involved in? What has she done to get herself in this situation? Is the reason why she says nothing to the cops, because she's committed a crime herself?

  I have so many questions.

  I study Jessica’s face, seeing the worry in her eyes, the lines on her forehead, the way she’s biting the insides of her cheeks. Her hands grip the railing so hard her knuckles are turning white. Her spine is curved, her muscles tense.

  On impulse, I put my arm around her shoulders. She gasps in surprise and snaps her head around to look at me. I pull her closer and stroke her arm.

  She’s cold, but I’m going to warm her up. I’ll fix it for her. Just like I’ll fix this situation for her. Who cares why? All I know is I can't just do nothing. I can't just sit here and watch her suffer.

  “Are you okay?” As I continue to stroke Jessica’s arm, I feel her start to relax into me, placing more of her weight on my chest.

  “Yeah.” She nods.

  “Who's doing this?”

  “I don't know.”

  I pause to suppress my anger that's flaring up. I don't want to make her feel worse, but I need to know who's doing this to her or I have a feeling they may hurt more than her feelings next time. “Do you think it's the same guy who broke into your home?”

  “I don't know,” she insists.

  I pull away just far enough from her so I can put both my hands on her shoulders and level my gaze at her. “Jessica. We both know that's bullshit. What are you not telling me?”

  “It's none of your business.” Jessica leans back further away from me until I remove my hands from her shoulders. Storm brews in her green eyes. She's obv
iously troubled, so why the fuck is she playing this game? Why is she being so fucking stubborn?

  “I’ve made it my business and there's nothing you can do about it. I don't care if you don't want my help. I'll fix this and you’ll just have to deal with that.”

  “Why?” She frowns at me, confusion written all over her face.

  “Fuck if I know.” I shrug. “Does it matter? I'm here to help you. Use me.”

  “You could be one of them for all I know,” she says. The surprise that registers on her pretty face tells me she didn't mean to share that bit of information with me.

  “Who’s ‘them?’”

  “Forget it.” Jessica takes a deep breath and looks away at the street that runs in front of both our houses.

  “No, fuck that. You could be in real danger here, can't you? I know you hate me, but this really isn't the time to argue.”

  “I don't hate you,” she says softly, keeping her gaze on the street.

  “Just let me help you. Okay? You know you can't handle this on your own. That's why you're so scared.”

  She turns to look at me, doubt reflected in her startlingly green eyes.

  “You know you’ll feel better if you’ve got someone on your side,” I say. When I hear no reply from her, I repeat my question. “Do you know who's doing this to you?”

  “No. Like the cop said, it could be anyone.” She's starting to annoy me with her lies and I’m about to get really angry when she continues, “It could be the owner of the Pussy Cat.”

  “The strip club where you worked?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You pissed off the guy and now he's coming after you?”

  “You can say that.”

  “What did you do exactly?”

  “I don't want to talk about that.”

  “Okay.” I wonder if he's another one in a long list of Jessica's ex-lovers.

  This is why women shouldn't sleep around. Not because of morality or religion or anything like that, but because the more men they see, the more likely they are to come across some crazy motherfuckers. These nutjobs would rather kill their women than see them with other men.

  “He's in jail, so it's definitely not him personally. But it could be someone who works for him,” she says.

  “Like who? Do you know?”

  “There was this guy I went on a date with just before the break-in. Although now that I think about it, it couldn't have been him who broke into my house because he was with me when it happened.” She pauses and thinks. “I got a weird email yesterday from some guy I don't know. But the sender doesn't seem like the kind of guy who’d hide his identity.”

  “Anyone else? Anyone you can think of?”

  “Well…” Jessica finally looks at me. She gives me a wry smile. “There's you.”

  “Me? Why would I want to break your lock or send you a weird letter? What good would that do me?”

  “I don't know.” She shrugs. “You asked for anyone I could think of.”

  “Fair enough. I promise you it's not me. But then again if I were the culprit that's exactly what I would say.”

  The corners of Jessica's lips pull upward. Her smile turns into a grin, which turns into laughter. I don't think I said anything that funny, but maybe she needs to laugh to get rid of her anxiety.

  “Stay at my place tonight,” I blurt out.

  19

  Jessica

  “Stay at my place tonight,” Jacob says. “Your house is not safe. You’ve had one break-in and one threatening letter in the space of, what, two weeks?”

  I avoid Jacob’s intense, questioning gaze. Instead, I take a good look at my house. The black front door that was wide open when I got home from the date. The mailbox at the end of the driveway where a threatening—not to mention insulting—letter was placed for me to find.

  Jacob is right. I don’t feel safe here. Not anymore.

  “I can’t,” I hear myself say.

  I may have said it in a half-joking manner when I told Jacob it could’ve been him who’s responsible for the break-in and the letter. But there’s still a little voice in the back of my head that tells me not to trust him.

  I only got this far by relying on myself and making a clean cut from my past. It wouldn’t make any sense to get myself involved with someone like Jacob.

  Especially not now, when I feel like my enemies are closing in on me and mysterious things are happening around me—and it all started from the time I met Jacob by chance on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.

  I mean, everything fits together too well to be a coincidence, right?

  “Why can’t you?” Jacob puts his warm, callused hand on my cheek and turns my face until I’m looking straight at him. His hand feels safe and strong, big enough to cup my face.

  “I just can’t.” I can’t tell him anything more. He’s obviously not going to take the news that I actually believe he may be the perpetrator very well. And just in case he really is, I don’t want to make him angry.

  He stares deep into my eyes, making me feel like he’s penetrating deep into my thoughts, fumbling around in there to find the answers I’m not willing to say. I can’t help but melt into his gaze, into his touch.

  We’re not saying any more words, but somehow I feel like we’re communicating more this way. I put my hand over his hand on my cheek and close my eyes. It would feel so good to share my burden with someone… I’ve been dealing with so much on my own for years, for practically my entire adult life.

  Jacob leans in and presses his forehead against mine. I can smell the oil, grease, and sweat from his body. He hasn’t had a chance to change out of his heavily stained white shirt from before. I breathe in deeply, drawing his scent into my lungs.

  Keeping my eyes closed, I put my hand on Jacob’s face. I feel his jaw clench and his muscles tighten. I can even feel the pulse of his heart when my hand runs over the throbbing veins in his neck. As if in response, my heart hammers against my rib cage. My fingers trace the prickly stubble along his jaw and chin.

  I can’t deny it. I want to do more to this man. I want more than my hand on his face. I want to explore more of him.

  More than that, I want to see the hunger hidden in his eyes unleashed. I want to see just how much he wants me too, see what he would do to me if I let myself be vulnerable to him.

  I’m losing my mind. I’m so attracted to him I can barely focus.

  Before I can tell myself to get a grip, Jacob leans in and pulls me closer to him. His lips touch mine. They feel hot, like the rest of him. They’re firm and insistent, like the rest of him.

  I try to resist and push him away, but his touch makes me weak. His kiss reminds me of what I’ve been missing, what I’ve been longing for.

  He starts by lightly teasing my lips, coaxing me to respond. I move closer and let myself melt into his kiss. God, it feels amazing and I want more.

  He traces my lips with his tongue, nibbles on my bottom lip. I open my mouth for him, and he sweeps inside, trapping my face in his hands, pulling me closer.

  It suddenly feels so hot here. It could be the warmth of his body, so close to me. Or it could be the furnace that has fired into life within me. I fight to catch my breath when Jacob crushes his lips against mine and ravishes me with his mouth.

  I stop holding myself back. I match his force as best as I can. Soon, his fingers are tangled in my hair, my hands are gripping his muscled arms hard, and we’re both fighting for air.

  Every part of my body feels alive. Everything within me pulsates along with the rhythm of our kiss. Wetness drips between my thighs as Jacob thrusts my body against him.

  I manage to fight through my dizziness and breathlessness, just enough to push him away. When I open my eyes to look at him again, he’s still panting with his lips parted. His dark eyes look even more intense with his pupils dilated.

  “We shouldn’t,” I say in between my heavy breaths.

  Before Jacob can say or do anything, I dash toward t
he door and slip inside, closing the door behind me.

  Max immediately runs toward me and jumps up, pawing at my legs. I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the floor with Max in my arms.

  I hear Jacob’s footsteps getting closer on the creaky porch, heavy and determined. He pounds on the door, calling my name. The door vibrates against my back with every bang.

  “Jessica!” He pounds on the door.

  “Please, Jacob,” I beg. “I need some time alone.”

  The floor creaks as he shifts his weight from one foot to another. Eventually, I hear him walk away from the door and down the porch steps without saying another word.

  That doesn’t take long. I guess he doesn’t care that much about my safety after all.

  I wonder if I ever really felt safe since the night I found Nancy gone from my apartment, leaving only trails of blood leading out from the guest bedroom into the living room. In that moment, I knew two things: I had to do whatever I could to help Nancy, and I was no longer safe because Stan would hunt me down for that.

  I didn’t expect that the cops would find Nancy dead at Stan’s house only hours after I called them. I collapsed to the floor when I got their phone call and cried. Partly because I’d lost a friend, and partly because I knew I was going to have to worry about Stan coming after me from that moment on.

  Sure, the police knew he was a threat to me. But what were they going to do? Put surveillance on me 24/7? As if I’m important enough to get that kind of treatment.

  I’m sure one of the reasons why Nancy never reported Stan was because she didn’t think the cops could do anything for her.

  The cops would file a report and maybe remove her from Stan’s house, perhaps even put a restraining order, but then what? What could they do if Stan were to get to Nancy before she had a chance to call the police? What if Stan were to go after Nancy’s mom instead, because he knew Nancy would do anything to keep her mom safe, including revoking her previous reports and canceling the restraining order?