by Strong, Mimi
When he was finished his shaking, he pulled me upright, so that he was kneeling and I was somewhat on his lap. He tilted my face with his hand so he could kiss me on the mouth. His cock continued to pulse inside me, our aftershocks merging as we kissed.
He pawed at my front, and I realized with surprise I was still wearing my lightweight sweater, the one I'd chosen for our date.
The sweater confused me. The whole thing confused me. The cock in my ass confused me. What the heck was that about?
Jacob bit me on the neck, still squeezing me tightly into him.
“I love you,” he said.
My mouth dropped open. I pulled away from him rather abruptly, making him go, “Youch!”
My butt was pulsing. “Oh my god, I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?”
I stared down at his half-rigid cock. Had I broken it?
“I'm fine,” he said, smiling. “Just a little sensitive.”
I reached down behind me to my butt, and felt the condom hanging out with just the tip inside me. “Oh god!” I yelled as I pulled it out.
He looked aghast. “Did I hurt you? Oh, Lexie, I should have been more gentle, I just couldn't help myself.”
I shook my head and scrambled off the bed with the soggy condom. When he saw it, he started to laugh.
I squealed and ran into the the bathroom with it for immediate disposal.
Then I shut the door and locked it. I wasn't upset about the condom thing, as it hadn't broken, and goodness knows I wasn't worried about getting pregnant from what we'd done, but it was a good cover for what I was really upset about.
I peeled off my sweater and started the shower running. He'd said he loved me. But it was during sex, which didn't count. Or did it?
Did I love him?
I'd certainly missed Jacob while I was away. I'd looked forward to seeing him. And then, I'd thrown myself at him the moment he walked in the door.
Was that love?
He knocked on the door.
“You okay?”
“Just sweaty,” I said. “I'm going to have a shower.” I unlocked the handle, but didn't open the door. “You can join me if you want.”
There was a long pause.
“I'm hungry,” he said. “Mind if I scrounge up some crackers while I wait?”
“My place is your place,” I said, so relieved I'd bought some alone time in the shower.
In the hot shower, I washed myself off and then prodded and poked my butt to make sure everything was okay. We'd gotten pretty active in bed, but I seemed none the worse for wear, thanks to all the lube, plus starting slow.
Maybe I was ready to try new things.
Like a real relationship. With Jacob.
Sure.
We climbed into his little sports car, and I teased him about the size of it.
I said, “Your hair touches the ceiling!”
“So? It's a perfect fit. Just right.”
“Perfect fit,” I said, reaching over to squeeze his muscular thigh.
He gave me a sly look as he started the engine. How could one guy be so sexy? He was adorable.
We didn't drive to a restaurant, but away from downtown, toward the suburbs.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“My brother's.”
I folded my hands in my lap. Did I know Jacob had a brother? Hmm. Honestly, no. I had no idea how many siblings he had, let alone ever met any of his family. Or friends.
I quizzed him on the names of people I'd be meeting, just so I wouldn't make a total fool of myself. What I really wanted, though, was for him to turn the car around and take me home, but I couldn't say that. It was already bad enough he'd said he loved me and I hadn't reciprocated.
We pulled up in front of a modest-looking house in the suburbs. It looked exactly like the ones up and down the street, except with more giant, plastic kids' furniture on the front lawn.
We walked past a kiddie pool in the shape of a frog, filled with Barbie dolls and dirty water. Seeing those dolls, naked and face-down in the water gave me a sinking feeling. It's not that I don't like kids. Kids are just small people, and some are great, like full-size people. Some of them, however, are little jackasses, and I don't tolerate jackasses of any age. Unfortunately, if you're annoyed by a kid and tell him or her to buzz off, people think you're a horrible human being. And so, I'm always on my guard around kids, at least until I get to know them.
Jacob grabbed my hand and squeezed it. I realized the squeaking sound was my teeth, grinding, and I told myself to relax.
Jacob didn't ring the doorbell, but walked right into the house. He led me over a hallway full of shoes in every size and permutation. The house smelled of boiled cabbage. We walked into a family room full of people talking. Everyone turned and stared at us. A baby began to wail.
A silver-haired black lady, who I immediately realized was Jacob's mother, waved to me and said, “You must be Lexie. Come in here. Let us get a look at you!”
This made everyone else laugh and hoot and then go back to their visiting.
Some people scooted over on the fireplace mantel for me to take a seat. I shook Jacob's mother's hand, and then met his father, who was white. Both of Jacob's parents were incredibly attractive and seemed kind, which made sense. I tried to politely and succinctly answer their questions about what I did for a living, evading the questions about what I'd been doing in Indonesia.
A man who looked a lot like Jacob, except taller, came over and shook my hand. He had a kid hanging off each leg. “Why were you in Indonesia?” he asked.
I gulped. “Scuba diving.”
“Ah,” he said, beaming.
Some other people—cousins, I'd later learn—started talking about their last scuba diving vacation, and with that, the pressure was off of me.
Over the next two hours, I met a lot of Jacob's family, and was fed a cheeseburger from the grill. The burger was burnt on the outside and an unsafe-looking pink on the inside, but I ate it anyway.
When one of Jacob's nieces came over and grabbed my hand to show me her room, I went graciously. The little girl wanted to show me everything in her room, along with telling me all the related stories. She was a nice kid, and honestly, I was relieved to do this, just the two of us, away from everyone else.
I noticed she had an adjustable closet organizer system in her closet, but it wasn't organized for optimal use by a little girl. With a little work, I got everything out of the closet, put the shelves back in at better heights, and we put everything back in. I showed her how to roll sweaters and fit them into the vertical cubby-holes, and then we did a quick color-sort on everything.
When that was done, we did a sorting on her toy box.
We were organizing her sock drawer when Jacob came looking for me, ready to go home.
The little girl, Erica, was so excited, showing him what we'd done.
He smiled at her, then pulled me aside, saying, “I don't think you should have changed her room around without asking her mother.”
Although he said the words gently, they stung. I felt like a fool.
We said goodbye to everyone and went back out to his car in silence. The sun had set, and I could hear frogs at a nearby pond.
Inside the car, Jacob sighed heavily and said, “I'm sure my sister-in-law will be fine, she's just particular.”
“Okay,” I said. I couldn't remember which one she was, but I'd met a number of women, and they'd all seemed nice enough. “You know, I am a professional organizer. All we did was adjust some shelves. I didn't paint the room or throw anything out.” I laughed, trying to lighten the mood. “You're the firefighter, so you know. You'd fix a safety hazard if you saw one.”
His tone serious, he said, “I'd put out a fire.”
He pulled onto the highway, driving aggressively and weaving in and out of lanes. I was annoyed, but bit my tongue.
As we entered the city, I finally broke the silence, saying, “Maybe I did overstep my bounds by moving the shelves, but … maybe
you shouldn't have sprung your entire family on me all at once like that.”
“I thought you wanted to move to the next level.” He honked the horn at a slow-moving car in front of us.
“I didn't exactly say anything about levels.”
He turned and frowned at me, his face lit by moving streetlights. “Lexie.”
“Jacob.”
“Lexie, why do you have to act so hot and cold? I mean, I come over to take you out, invite you into my life, and you barely say three words to me before you've got my cock in your hands.”
“That's funny. I don't remember you complaining.”
“I'm not. I mean, I haven't been. Maybe I am now.”
“So … you don't want me to enjoy your body? You don't want me to wear fancy underwear for you?”
“Stop twisting my words. Damn women, always twisting words.”
I put my face in my hands and willed myself to do a mood reset. I can handle this, I told myself.
“I'm sorry,” I said, and I meant it. “Let's start fresh, right now. Tell me what level you'd like us to take this to. Let's talk.”
He shifted in his seat, opening his mouth a few times, but not saying anything. He seemed to be rehearsing something in his head.
Finally, he said, “I want what my brother has. I'll have to sell this little car, I know that. There's barely a backseat, let alone space for a carseat and all the other stuff.”
I sat silently, my eyes bulging wide open, waiting for him to laugh, to say he was joking. But he didn't.
Calmly, I repeated back to him what I thought he meant. “You want to get married, move to the suburbs, and have a bunch of kids?”
“Yeah. Don't you?”
I practically shouted, saying “No!”
He put on the signal light and pulled the car into the right-hand lane and then into an empty parking lot near a big box store. He killed the engine and turned to me. “What do you want?”
“I don't know.” I crossed my arms and uncrossed them. My throat hurt, the front of it being especially tight. “I might want the house and the kids … someday. Probably. But not right now. Don't you want to date for a while, see how it goes?”
“We've been dating,” he said. “I've already seen how it goes.”
“Jacob, you're an amazing guy—”
“But! But-but. Please don't say it, Lexie. Don't say but.”
Softly, I said, “You are amazing, though.”
He started the engine again, but didn't start driving yet. “Can I ask you a question, and you'll answer completely honestly?”
“Sure,” I said, ready to come clean about Indonesia and who I was with.
“Did you buy that fancy underwear specifically for me?”
“No.”
He laughed, softly first, but then louder. “So this whole thing is just a cosmic misunderstanding.”
“You mean life? Yeah, I'd say life is one giant cosmic misunderstanding.”
He reached over and patted my leg. “You're a good one. If you do get ready to settle down, will you look me up?”
“Oh, Jacob. This isn't the end.”
“I think it is,” he said, and he drove out of the parking lot.
When we got to my condo, he wanted to walk me to my door. He held my hand and said, “I wish when we'd had sex, I'd known it would be our last time.”
I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him. “It was perfect. It was really special.”
Huskily, he said into my ear. “Are you sure? Because I think I could do it better.”
I laughed and pushed him away, although my pussy didn't want me too. My whole body trembled with excitement. I stared up at Jacob's brown eyes, and I considered taking him up to my place and giving him something to remember, but my mouth said, “Goodbye.”
He kissed me, and he left.
As I walked into the lobby of my building, I glanced behind me to the street, but Jacob had already gone, disappearing into the night.
3: The Mentor
I spent the weekend feeling sorry for myself. On Saturday morning, I pulled everything out of my kitchen cupboards in order to give them a good scrubbing inside. By Sunday night, my canned goods and dishes were still spread out everywhere, and I hadn't washed anything. The up-side of this was it made preparing food easier. Craving candy, I ate a jar of cake decorations.
On Monday morning, I had an organizing job. I put on my little Bitch Boots, which I hadn't worn much since my first visit to Luthor Thorne's mansion, and I headed out to work, feeling disgust as I looked over my disaster of a kitchen.
I had the new girl, Martine, working with me that day. She asked a lot of questions, again, but she was getting the knack of it. I left her alone with the client, patiently sorting through the woman's overstuffed closet, listening to the woman describe the wonderful gala events she'd attended in each fancy dress.
Suzanne had booked this job on a per-hour basis, not for a flat rate, so I had no incentive to rush things along. I excused myself to the washroom and checked my phone for messages, for about the millionth time.
Part of me was hoping Jacob would call or text, saying we could go back to how things were, and that he needed me—not to marry him immediately and bear progeny, but to kiss him and hold him.
Another part of me wished Luthor would do something. Anything.
Shortly after we got back from Indonesia, Suzanne had forwarded me his phone number, and I'd almost called him a dozen times. I pulled up his number again and hovered my finger over the screen.
I put the phone away and then … I received a sign from the universe, or whatever. I glanced down at the bathroom's counter top and right on top of a stack of women's magazine was a Cosmopolitan, and in bright pink text, these words leapt out at me:
Why Don't You Ask Him Out for a Change?
So I did.
I sent Luthor a carefully-worded, just-breezy-enough text message, suggesting we meet for lunch so that I could “pick his brain” about business advice.
He returned the message within half an hour, naming a fancy hotel restaurant downtown and saying he'd already made reservations for Tuesday at noon.
Martine, who was packing up ball gowns to go to a charity, stared up at me, all big blue eyes. “What? Am I doing everything wrong? Please don't fire me.”
“You're great,” I said. “I'm just surprised by a text message.”
“Ah!” She looked relieved.
Our client had disappeared off to another room to fetch some accessories for us to help her sort.
Staring at Martine, I remembered what it was like to be nervous at a new job, so I put away my phone and gave her a little pep talk, letting her know she was doing a fine job.
Martine looked around to make certain we were alone, and then leaned in and said, “Rich people scare me a little.”
“They're just like everyone else,” I said, launching into a mini-speech I was used to giving when people asked about my career. “Our clients just want to be heard. They want someone to patiently listen without judgment, and sometimes they just need a little company. It can be very lonely at the top.”
As Martine nodded and I spoke, I heard my pre-canned speech with fresh ears.
My major issue with Luthor Thorne had been him trying to treat me like an employee, ordering me around and trying to “book” me rather than date me. And yet, if he'd been raised by nannies and other staff members, people paid to care for him, it wasn't unnatural for him to try those patterns later in life.
And goodness knows there are a lot of women around looking for “sugar daddies” to buy them things in exchange for affection. I wondered if Luthor Thorne had ever had a normal relationship. Had he dated anyone in college? Had he ever had his heart truly broken, or did he push people away before they could hurt him?
People don't mean to hurt each other, not usually. They're just unwilling or unable to stop it. Sooner or later, everyone's going to be disappointed in life, and they'll look around for someone to pi
n it on.
After my parents first separated, my father made an effort for a while. He'd pick me up and we'd go through the ritual, listing off all the things neither of us felt like doing. Then we'd go back to his sad little bachelor apartment and I'd watch TV while he went about his regular life, sometimes there, sometimes out. He'd give me the fold-out bed and he'd take a blow-up air mattress that had to be noisily re-inflated in the middle of the night.
When he drove me back to my mother's, to my house where my real life was, he'd stand on the porch and grin like SuperDad. My mother would look down at me and say, “Tell your father you love him.”
“I love you,” I'd say.
He'd beam and say, “Me too, sweetie,” and hug me goodbye.
As I got older, we fought more. He moved to a better apartment, and I had my own room, but it was also his office, and he wouldn't let me put up the posters I wanted. It was a stupid thing to argue over, as are all the stupid things families argue over, but my teenage years were not pretty.
Eventually, I'd see him only once every few months, but still my mother would put us through that ritual of me saying, “I love you,” even on days I wanted to scream that I hated him.
In my head, I pretended I was saying “Isle of Yew” and that made it a little better.
My father's not the worst guy, and we actually get along just fine now that I'm a grown-up, although we don't see each other often. When we say goodbye, I still say “Isle of Yew,” and he doesn't know.
Even dressed in my best little suit—a cream skirt and matching jacket, over a red blouse—I felt out-classed at the fancy hotel restaurant. Don't you hate it when waiters give you a snooty, appraising look? I mean, come on. They're waiters, not captains of industry. Who are they to judge? I may not wear Chanel, but I don't describe the Catch of the Day a hundred times a day for a living.