by Liora Blake
Eyes closed, head still fallen back, Jake grins lazily but doesn’t move.
“Oh, you mean Kiara? No shit, her name is Kiara. She kept spelling it for me, like I needed to know for some reason. She’s got this blonde hair with those big-ass chunky black streaks in it. And, giant, I mean enormous, fake tits. So, you know, despite her being fully clothed, it was pretty obvious she’s a stripper.”
I take and run my fingers into his hair, pressing and scratching his scalp lightly, until he finally sighs and starts to talk again.
“Rick’s fine. Seems happy, I guess. “
We don’t say anything else for a bit, Jake lying there and breathing shallowly while I rub his scalp. A few times I stop and kiss his temple, but even that gets little response from him, only a barely noticeable grunt to tell me he even knows I’m still here and putting my lips on him. I have to remind myself that at a certain point, we would have to be exhausted or pissy or whiny with each other. Apparently, that point is now, when Jake has his I’m half drunk and feeling sulky face on.
“Dusty was there.”
My shoulders rise and tense immediately, but I try to force them back where they belong and make my voice as light as possible. “Oh, the shock. You could knock me over with a feather, I’m so surprised. Dusty at Lonigan’s? Crazy talk.”
“We went to school with the guy who was working behind the bar, too. He was there last time. What’s his name?”
“Garrett. His family owns it, but he’s the big cheese now.”
Muttering the name under his breath, Jake lets out a sigh, quieter now. “He and Dusty were talking shit about me, I know it. This isn’t me being paranoid, either. I’m sitting there and every time I look up, those two are staring at me, all fucking ego and bullshit.”
His hands flex intermittently where they lie on his thighs. The curl of his fingers toward his palms, then the release. Resisting the urge to cover them with my own, I lean in and put a kiss to his neck. Normally, that move would be enough. Jake would have me wound up in his embrace or have his hands under some part of my clothing. But I get nothing this time.
“I’m sitting there, looking at this jerk, who’s staring at me like I’m still a loser, and all I can think is, really? Really? You’re going to stand there behind the bar of some dive in the same shit town you grew up in and look down on me?” His eyes open and he slaps one hand to his chest, thumb out and jabbing over his heart. “I, motherfucker, did something with my life. I’m not some washed-up has-been who’s never set foot outside of Crowell. I’ve been places you can’t even dream about on your best night. Fucking embarrassing how someone can’t see how sorry that is.”
I had a plan brewing, a very naughty plan, designed to drag him out of this funk properly. It involved my mouth doing mind-numbing things to him. The kinds of things that would prove I’m a giving, selfless, trashy-when-we’re-alone kind of girl who knows how to make a guy forget all his worries. Now that plan is disintegrating faster than nail polish remover on a two-week-old manicure.
Beer talk. Watery, weak beer talk, that’s what this is. Fused with pride and anger to rile up the mix and make him say things he might otherwise avoid. Plus, he’s talking about Garrett, right? Not me. Even if every word applies to me, that isn’t how he meant it. I continue saying that to myself, chanting it on a loop, as I pull my body back from his and lean away.
When he exhales loudly, I continue to chant the mantra, but it doesn’t help.
Not me. Garrett. Not me. Garrett. Not me. Garrett.
The words run together in my mind, devolving into a mash-up of letters and sounds that don’t mean a thing. Jake pats my leg and rises, muttering that he needs to clean up. Only after I hear the bathroom faucet turn on do I stop the strange, pointless liturgy. Beer talk or not, it’s truth. Jake has a million accomplishments and milestones to define him. But Garrett, Dusty, and I—people like us, we have Crowell.
Just as I manage to take a full breath, I hear the water shut off. Jake comes stomping down the stairs and walks swiftly over to the couch, dropping onto his knees in front of me. A blank expression covers his face, bloodshot eyes wide and intent on mine.
“I just realized how what I said might sound to you.”
I look away and shake my head. All I want is to avoid this conversation. No need to rehash things; he spoke freely and I heard every word. If we try to do more with it, things aren’t bound to end on a high note.
“No. Listen to me. I was talking out of my ass. That was guy bullshit, dick measuring and chest thumping.” Jake grabs my face and holds it still so he can steady his gaze on me. “Do not take what I said and try to make it about you. Don’t. I’m telling you, none of that applies to how I see you.”
Despite his grip, I swallow, then point out the obvious. “Every word applies to me and my life. You’re entitled to your opinion. It’s fine.”
His eyes close and his jaw clamps shut, taut and tight until the twitch in his jawbone starts to look uncomfortable. Finally, he opens his eyes again.
“You never had a reason to leave here because this is your home. Fine, I get that. All I want now, the thing that would make me happy, is to give you enough of a reason to leave. That’s it. Just that would be enough to get me through the rest of my goddam life.”
After that, coupled with a dramatic pause to build a movie on, he kisses me. Hard and adamantly, until I give in. Until I almost believe him.
16
Two hours into the flight to St. Lucia, it becomes clear that Jake will ruin what will likely be my one and only flight on a private jet.
He’s fidgeting and fussing, craning his head around and doing everything but relaxing with me. There is free champagne, for freak’s sake. Champagne in crystal flutes and a platter of buttery pastries with frangipane filling. A very comfy couch we could stretch out on and use to its best advantage. A big flat-screen television if he would rather pass the time that way.
I suppose it’s because none of this is new to him. He makes a living this way, but it’s new to me and I vaguely want to strangle him for not at least trying to indulge me by playing along. Rather, when I oohed and aahed over things, he merely grumbled. When I tried to say something zesty about the mile-high club, he snorted and rolled his eyes. When our pilot, Kevin, who happens to be a longtime coworker of Jake’s, shook his hand and strode off toward the cockpit, Jake actually curled his lip up and flopped down in his seat like a moody adolescent boy on a lame family vacation. Since then he has primarily sat stiffly in his chair while staring twitchily and longingly at the door to the cockpit.
Finally, I decide to relent. If he is at least out of my visual periphery, I might be able to enjoy this for myself. I let my magazine flop into my lap, shut it, and slap my hand to the cover loudly. Jake’s gaze twitches my way, but he continues to stare down the center pathway of the cabin.
“Go.”
Concentration broken, he turns my way. “What?”
“Go. Just go in there. You’re totally ruining this for me with all the sighing and sulking. Skedaddle.” I wave my hand toward the cockpit. “Go play with your joystick or whatever. Let me enjoy my bubbly champagne in peace.”
A grin teases at the corners of his mouth, but he holds it back. “Really? Are you sure? Because sitting here kind of makes me want to spit nails. I can’t remember the last time I was on a plane as a passenger. I hate it. Fucking hate it.”
“No kidding. I couldn’t tell at all. You’ve been such a joy to be around.” Flipping the magazine open again, I flick my fingers aimlessly away from me. “Go.”
A heavy groan leaves him and he practically leaps out of his chair. “Thank God.” A kiss lands on the top of my head. “I love you. Love you, love you. You’re a good woman not to force me to sit here for one more second.”
Deadpan, I try to hide my smile, refusing to look up as he walks away. “Just go.”
Perched up o
n a hillside, the resort is situated just above private soft sand beaches that go on and on. No clue what the staff-to-guest ratio is, but it seems if you simply thought about something you might want, a soft-spoken, ever-accommodating individual would appear in front of you with exactly what you need. After the reception staff fawns all over us and gushes their welcome to paradise; we’re here to serve speeches, Jake and I grin at each other like dorks, silently conveying a shared understanding. That the two of us don’t belong here. We’re just two bumpkins playing along while trying to avoid blatantly demonstrating exactly how out of place we are.
After the bellman shows us how to operate the complicated entertainment system and the convoluted atmosphere adjustment panel—or, air-conditioning, as normal people would call it—and shows off the overstocked bar, he finally leaves us alone. I shut the door behind him and find Jake standing in the bedroom of our suite with his hands clasped above his head, and staring out to the space where the fourth wall should be.
Here’s the pièce de résistance of this room: the entire west wall, where perhaps a balcony with French doors might typically be, is nonexistent. Instead the room is open to every warm, luscious tropical breeze. Our own private infinity pool dominates the space, half of it inside the suite, the other half outside in the sunshine. Views of the ocean and lush tropical mountains are all you can see. It’s stupendous.
But, private plane or not, traveling seems to leave me feeling slightly grimy. Before anything else can happen, I draw a bath in the oversized soaker tub while Jake meanders about the suite, occasionally calling out with some find he’s stumbled upon. “There are three bottles of champagne in the fridge!” “Oooh, cigars. Cubans!” “Even the water is in fancy bottles, Shoelace!”
Once I’m clean, smelling like the jasmine-scented bath oils, I wrap a thick bath towel around me and stand in front of the bathroom vanity drying my hair. Over the noise of the hair dryer, Jake calls out from in the bedroom.
“How do you feel about snorkeling?”
“I feel good about it.”
“Tomorrow? Or do you want to get settled, sleep in, and just explore a little?”
“Sleep in, please.”
Jake ambles in, leaning against the doorway, and cranes his head in, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. “I’m going to go over and talk to the concierge about scheduling us for a snorkeling tour the next day, then. You need anything? More alcohol? Bottle of Jäger or some jug wine? They seem set on keeping their guests perpetually liquored up around here. Who knew rich people liked to drink so much?”
It’s true, there have been alcoholic beverages available nonstop since we stepped on the private plane. I’m starting to feel a little sloshy and sloppy from it all. I shake my head with a quiet laugh and Jake winks before heading out. When the suite door clicks behind him, I take a long look in the mirror and dab on a bit of lip gloss.
The sun has nearly disappeared behind an island ridge, leaving the room dusky, bordering on dark, properly setting the mood for what I have in mind for the rest of the evening. While claiming that I plan to seduce Jake is laughable, because he’s a sure thing, when I envisioned us coming here, I wanted a night where I at least played at a bit of dress-up seduction.
I didn’t even have to ask for candles to set the mood because they’re scattered everywhere in the room, along with plenty of matches, as pointed out by that eager bellman. Once, in a home décor magazine, I read it’s important to light candles at least ten minutes in advance to let their glow soften, so I set about lighting a mass of them around the bed, then stand back to admire my work. OK, so the ocean in the background, combined with all this luxury, is probably doing most of the work here, but the room is absolutely ready for seduction. I drop my robe and slip on the pink lace babydoll I brought along. Done. Scene set properly, body costumed appropriately.
In my head, reclining seductively across the bed seemed the obvious way to await Jake’s return, but when I try it, I feel idiotic. How I ended up thirty years old without doing this, the whole surprise-your-man-when-he-returns-home routine, I don’t really know.
Reclining on my side, head resting on an upturned palm? Too passive. Lying back, arms stretched above my head, legs delicately bent at the knee? Too much of an invitation to having my hands restrained there. While that’s not necessarily a problem, I’d like the use of my hands tonight. I try a demure attempt at sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed and toe pointed, but end up feeling too prim. Finally, I end up curling onto my side, gazing out at the view of our wide-open vantage and trying to consider another pose.
Instead, the room gets impossibly still and drowns out my silly fixation on deciding how to pose seductively. I take a deep breath. Then another and another. As the minutes tick by and Jake doesn’t appear, my eyelids start to feel heavy. I’ll just close them for a bit. Rest my eyes as I wait.
I don’t need to be fully awake to recognize Jake’s touch now. Every fingertip, every tiny trace of his skin against mine, I know them all. When his body curls up behind me, one hand sneaking up under the hem of my lace ensemble, I know the instant he puts his hands on me.
His hair is damp, a few tendrils brushing against my cheek as his mouth finds the skin on my neck, tasting and teasing along until he stops at my clavicle.
“You want me to let you sleep?”
Turning into him, I just shake my head and let my hands draw over his chest. “What took you so long? Why is your hair wet?”
Jake grumbles. “Ugh. I was talking to the concierge about snorkeling and these other guests happened to walk by and started in about how amazing their excursion was. I was harangued into pretending like I gave a shit about seeing all the picture proof on their phone. Gabe and Bethany—those are their names—would not shut up. Figured I shouldn’t cuss up a storm at them since we might get stuck at the omelet station together over the next ten days. Once I got away from my new best friends, Kevin called me about setting up our departure flight. I had to wander around outside until I got a decent signal.”
Draping a leg over his, I move a little closer. “I was waiting for you.”
Another groan from him as his hands come up under the back edge and grasp against my ass. “I sure as hell hope you were waiting for me. You better not have been waiting for anyone else. When I walked in here and saw you, I decided to grab the world’s fastest shower. Figured a woman this beautiful, wearing a little negligee designed to drive a man insane, at least deserves me cleaned up for her.”
I give a quiet laugh. “I don’t think anyone uses the word ‘negligee’ anymore. Makes me feel a little like a cougar on the prowl when you say that.”
“Semantics. It’s hot. You’re wearing it. Let’s not debate the details.”
When his body turns to cover mine, I wouldn’t care if he called it a potato sack, because he’s naked and it feels as if we’ve been apart for days. We kiss until it isn’t enough, my legs spread to let him fit where his cock can rub the spaces it’s meant to be. Before I can move and urge him to take me, he tilts his hips back and shimmies down a bit, letting his mouth find one already-taut nipple as it strains through the lace. With one hand worrying the flesh of my other breast, he starts with his mouth on the first, tugging with loosely gripping teeth and flicking with his tongue until I give in to the sensation and arch my back toward him. I want him without the pretense of much foreplay, because I don’t need it. What I need is his length pressing inside until I can’t take him any deeper. I try to tell him exactly that by urging my hips up, but my aching core only finds his abs as he scoots down again. A groan tumbles from my mouth. Digging my nails into his back, I let out a whimper that will hopefully remind him what we’re aiming for here. Sex. Our style, hot and hurried, wild and worth every rough thrust.
Jake pushes his face into my hair and nuzzles in toward the shell of my ear. “Slow down. We’ve got nothing but time these next few days; no need to
rush. Let me give you all night, OK?”
Whether it’s because I need him too much, or because slowing down isn’t what we normally do, I make another sound of protest and try to wrap my legs around him.
“But I’ve been waiting on you for so long.”
His voice goes hoarse. “I know. I’m so sorry. But I’m here now. I’m right here.”
That’s when I realize what I really meant. The subtext of how long I had been waiting on him. All the years of waiting for someone I didn’t know I missed so much it made every other man in my life come up short. Every second of knowing, somewhere in the recesses of my heart, that this guy has been the only one who ever honestly knew me. Loved me.
“No. I’ve been waiting for you. For so long. Forever.”
Jake hears the slight break in my whispering voice and cranes back to take in my face. When he does, his expression weakens into a tender half smile. Then his forehead comes to press against mine. “Ah hell, Lace.” Another whispered sigh. “Me, too.”
We stay that way, foreheads pressed together, breathing heavily, for so long it feels weighted and nearly burdensome, us fighting and holding this moment so it might become more tangible. Then I can’t stand it one second longer. I can’t handle not touching him or kissing him, so I give up on a moan and dive in. Mouths together, colliding and gasping, until I press toward him again, hoping this time he will give me what I want. But I’m thwarted once more, this time almost forcefully. Jake thrusts his body against mine and sufficiently pins me to the mattress with his weight.
“Please. Just let me strip this lace off you and feel you all night. I need tonight to be about making love to my girl. Can you give me that?”
I consider flopping my head back and forth against the pillows to tell him no, because it sounds torturous. Jake and I don’t do slow. We do frenzied and fierce. And we do it well.
But Jake lays a long slow kiss on me and asks again. Finally, I nod my head, giving in to the sublime agony he’s intent on doling out tonight.