My finger flies on its own to jab him in the chest. “I knew it,” I gasp. “Wait. What made you tell me that now?”
“I don’t know. When you do something nice…” Jason nods at the tray of drinks. “I get this annoying urge to reciprocate. So knock it off.”
“You don’t really want me to knock it off.”
He crosses his arms, braced like a warrior for battle. “Don’t I?”
“No.” I hesitate to let him know I’ve been paying such attention. “You like to keep people safe. Don’t you think that’s nice?”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “It’s more of a necessity. I can’t turn it off.”
“Well, it makes people feel secure. Telling me you liked the wine and waltzing for Birdie…” I turn and fuss with the garnishes again. “Those gestures are an extension of making people feel safe. Maybe you’re nice after all.”
I can almost hear the cranks turning in his head, but it’s entirely possible he just wishes I’d shut up. “My three minutes is up.” I pick up the tray. “Come with me. As man of the house, you have to make an appearance.”
He grunts. “Let me carry that.”
“Absolutely not.” I twist away, careful not to spill a drop. “This isn’t the same thing as grocery bags. This is a presentation.”
“My mistake.”
He’s chuckling as he follows me, and my mouth moves into an answering smile. “I shall let you open the door, Mr. Bristow.”
“After you, beauty queen.”
We pass through the kitchen door, swing through the dining room and bank right into the living area. Seven teenagers are sprawled in various positions around the room, Birdie standing in the midst of them flipping through television channels. Her shoulders are bunched up tighter than double knotted shoelaces. I’m surprised by a kick of nerves in my own belly. I’m not sure if I’m anxious to make a good impression for Birdie. Or if I’ve simply gotten to the age where packs of teenagers become more intimidating than a herd of raptors.
“Hello!” I set the tray down on the coffee table, pleased when the teenagers sit up a little straighter. “Who’s thirsty? There’s no alcohol in these, so don’t go ringing the police on me. Not until I do something fun to deserve it. How was everyone’s day?”
A smattering of “goods” are issued from around the room. The girls are definitely more engaged than the boys, their phones at the ready to snap pics of my mocktails, although one of them is open-mouthed staring at Jason.
He smirks at me to let me know he notices. I shoot him back a frown.
“Listen, if you all get hungry, just holler. I’m Naomi and this is Birdie’s brother, Jason.”
I nudge him with an elbow and he coughs. “Hey.”
“He’s not as scary as he looks,” I say.
Birdie snorts. “Have you seen what he leaves in the shower drain?”
Laughter kicks up around the room and her shoulders relax. I don’t mind one bit that she broke the ice at Jason’s expense, and his nonchalant shrug says he couldn’t care less, either.
“Oh my God, these are so good,” one of girls groans. “Birdie, your house is the new chill spot. My house is gluten free—our snacks suck.”
I barely resist the urge to squeal. “We have chocolate-covered cashews. Should I go grab them?” I throw Birdie a wink. “There might be some gelato lying around, too.”
“I love gelato.”
“Please. That sounds amazing.”
“Birdie, I’m like, never leaving.”
The last thing I see when I back into the kitchen is Birdie slipping in between two girls on the couch. She looks a touch uncomfortable but relaxes when everyone lapses into an easy conversation about the school principal’s questionable hygiene. And when I hear a roll of laughter coming from the living room, I throw my arms up in a victory V, just as Jason enters the kitchen behind me. We trade a smile over my shoulder and something warm twines down my belly, slithering like a serpent over my thighs.
Not good. I’m barely able to put a name to these distracting sensations he sets off in me and they’re only getting stronger.
“I’ll just get the gelato…” I manage, moving to the freezer. I’m thankful for the rush of cool air that flows over my bare shoulders, but when the tendrils of white clear away and I reach for the gelato I tossed in earlier, my hand closes around cold, hard glass instead. I pull out the unopened bottle of wine, staring down like a foreign object. “What’s this?”
“Been keeping it in there,” Jason answers in a gruff voice. “In case you ever decided to come for dinner.”
“It’s Sauvignon Blanc.”
“That’s the one you like, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but you remembered.”
I glance back to find him watching me with a raised eyebrow. As if to say and? Oh, and this is very dangerous, this particular gesture. I’ve tried to limit the comparisons of Elijah and Jason. But this one is too on the nose. In desperation, I try to call Elijah’s face to mind, but it won’t appear as long as Jason is looking at me. Moving toward me. Taking the bottle out of my hand and putting it back in the freezer. Against my good judgment, I look up and back to find him close. To find his expression has gone from questioning to knowing. He can’t know, though. I can’t tell him why it’s significant that he remembered my favorite drink.
At this point, his knowledge of my relationship with Elijah is limited. That’s how it has to stay, right? If I confide in Jason that my ex-fiancé was a good man who unfortunately didn’t excite me physically the way Jason does…that revelation could encourage him. To push this carefully balanced friendship into something more.
To touch.
To touch, like he’s doing now. Standing behind me, his palms scrape down my hips, his mouth ghosting over the nape of my neck. What is happening? Why am I letting him do this?
My panties are still wet from earlier and even more moisture coats my sex, makes the material of my thin underwear heavy. The freezer is still open and the cold air collides with my breath, creating white puffs in the air, letting me know I’m breathing heavily. I have no choice with Jason’s hot mouth poised on my neck to kiss, to move…but remaining stationary. Waiting for a signal. My silence is a signal in itself, though, because we both know I have no problem telling him no. And he has no trouble listening.
I don’t say no, though. I can’t. His fingertips tighten on my hips and he tugs them back, bringing my backside into the cradle of his lap. Oh my Lord. No. Cradle is a soft word and there’s nothing soft happening with Jason. His manhood is long, thick and able where it presses between the split of my bottom.
“Before you tell me I’m nice for buying you wine…” he rasps into my hair. “Understand that I want to drink it out of your belly button. Want to warm it on that perfect skin, sip it into my mouth, then let it drip out all over your pussy. I’d drench that pretty pink spot real fucking good so I could push in rough.”
The ache between my thighs is so intense, I can barely speak. “Mr. Bristow.”
“Mr. Bristow, what?” His tongue grants me the barest of licks on the nape of my neck, his hot breath coasting over the damp spot. “Take you to bed? Or let you go?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“You know what you want. It’s a matter of admitting it.”
“I can’t.”
His right hand moves to the front of my skirt, splaying just over the waistband of my panties. “Tell me not to squeeze your little pussy.” I sway under an onslaught of heat and land back against Jason’s chest…but no words leave my mouth. “Can’t say that, either, huh?”
I’m not prepared for my reaction when his hand journeys lower and cups me hard through my skirt. Electricity zips along my nerve endings, my nipples bundle into sharp, aching peaks and I…I almost have an orgasm.
“I want you. I want this.” His grip tightens. “I want to brand you with a J here.”
My eyes are turning glassy and I’m beginning to shudder, because here comes my clima
x. Can I let it happen? No. No. Who is this woman who so casually casts aside years of a relationship and lands immediately in the lap of another man?
I can’t do that. It’s not me. It’s not right.
My mother’s words from our phone call ring in my ears. I’ve been working on this wedding since you were a child. I did my job. Made an advantageous marriage, secured the right connections—the kind of connections that allow you to marry the next mayor. A war hero. The son of my best friend. How dare you walk away from this and leave me to deal with the damage, Naomi. How dare you?
I’m not just tossing away years of building a relationship. I’m forgetting a duty that is so firmly ingrained in me, I don’t know where it ends and I begin. I hate that, but it’s true.
With a burst of will, I twist away and catch myself on the nearby counter. Jason slams the freezer shut and grips the appliance, as if he’s contemplating throwing it through the kitchen window. Watching the violent flex of muscle in his arms, I have no doubt he could. The front of his jeans bulges, thick flesh tunneling down into one pant leg. Those words he said to me, the things he wants to do…I should be repelled by that kind of vulgar talk, shouldn’t I? The longer I stand here remembering them, though, the harder it is not to ask for more.
Who am I anymore?
“Go. I’ll make the fucking ice cream.”
“It’s gelato,” I breathe, uselessly.
A second later, I’m out of the kitchen and up the stairs to my apartment, feeling Jason’s gaze following my every step.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ConspiracyCrowd.org
Username: UrdadsMyFave69
Good morning, Internet.
Another day, another voicing of my support for Operation Pussy Freedom.
If you’re out there, Runaway Bride, get your freak on.
Jason
Every Sunday morning, I get bagels from the same shop. Always at the same time. I get an orange juice to go and drink it on the way home, even though it’s too much of a luxury. I force myself to open the carton and drink from it, though. Force myself to recognize that I’m in a place where letting down my guard isn’t going to get me or one of my men capped. It’s my version of a baby step, even if I haven’t ventured beyond that one simple thing yet. Why should I when I’ll need to rekindle my powers of observation in a matter of months? I’ll need it.
For now, walking and drinking orange juice is just my way of sanding down a mental weakness and making sure it doesn’t get too coarse. Too strong. Because someday—God knows when—I will need the ability to differentiate between danger and safety.
Nearly at the bagel shop, I can’t stop myself from searching rooftops, looking into the faces of everyone who passes and trying to determine their intentions. The lack of heavy gear on my body leaves me too weightless and a trickle of sweat beads and slides down my spine. In the midst of this blurring between real and fake, there’s a constant, though—which is new. Naomi is real. I know because I’ve held her in the palm of my hand. Fitted her into my lap. If I close my eyes, I can hear the tiny intake of breath she took when I squeezed.
My thoughts become more depraved with every step I take. They change shape, too. One second I’m dragging Naomi’s panties down to her knees, testing her wetness. And the next…I’m simply knocking on her door to make sure she’s safe. I’m listening to one of her battle stories. She’s taking up every corner of my mind, so when I spot her up ahead in a crowd of milling people, I think my brain is playing tricks on me. But, no. Another step, another, and she’s still there. I speed up. It’s involuntary. What is she doing out here alone? It doesn’t help that she seems…nervous. Why?
I’m caught in the middle of a swallow when I reach her where she stands outside of a packed restaurant. Some remaining strand of common sense reminds me not to be obvious about positioning her between my body and the wall of the establishment, giving my back to the street. She rejected me in the kitchen a few nights ago and I shouldn’t be standing this close, no matter how badly I need it—to smell her, feel her heat—but I’m not in full control of my actions. I’m driven to protect her.
“Jason?” She lowers her silver-rimmed sunglasses. “What are you doing here?”
“Getting bagels.” My voice sounds the furthest thing from normal, but I manage to hitch a casual thumb over my shoulder. “I, uh…get bagels and orange juice at Holy Doughers on Sundays. Their cream cheese is better than their name.”
“Oh.” Her tongue dances out to wet her lips, her eyes not quite meeting mine. “Okay, well don’t let me keep you.”
It’s clear she wants me to leave. Ignoring the ridiculous shift of hurt in my chest, I run through a laundry list of reasons she’d want me gone so soon. Yeah, I propositioned her up against my refrigerator, but I’ve made it pretty clear since the beginning I’m interested in sex. I might have put my hands in places they’d never gone, but only after being positive she wanted them there. Before she didn’t. What happened aside, it’s not like Naomi to be abrupt. Is there another reason she wants me gone?
I’ll say one thing for jealousy. It stops the unwanted bout of paranoia in its tracks. When am I not jealous lately? She’s going back to a man she almost married and you’re worried about a brunch date? “Are you meeting someone?”
“What?” Naomi waves off the question with a flutter of delicate fingers. “No. No, nothing like that. I’m just trying to…oh Lord, it’s too embarrassing. Could you just forget you ever saw me?”
“Impossible,” I say, my tension ebbing so fast I momentarily forget to guard my words. Thankfully, she seems too distracted to notice my slip. I’m not dwelling on it, either, because I’m more interested in why she’s twisting her fingers in the material of her skirt, her face the color of cotton candy. “What could you possibly be embarrassed about, beauty queen?”
“You’re going to poke fun at me.”
My stomach drops. Have I teased her too much? “Swear on my life I won’t.”
Naomi fidgets for a few more seconds, then apparently takes my vow seriously, thank God. “I looked up the best brunch spots in St. Augustine and made a list of them, weighed the pros and cons. The Speckled Hen has Nutella-stuffed French toast and that moved them to the top of the list. But I got here and…I’ve never gone into a restaurant by myself. The idea of it intimidates me.”
“You’ve never been to a restaurant by yourself?”
“Isn’t that just crazy? I’m always meeting a friend or accompanied by someone. And a reservation has always been made, but the Speckled Hen doesn’t take reservations. I’m not even sure I could go in there and sit by myself, even with a reservation. Won’t everyone stare at the pathetic loner?” She fans her face. “Look away, Blackbeard. I think I’m starting to sweat.”
Not for the first time, I want to ask this creature where the hell she came from. She’s not typical. In Charleston or anywhere else. I can say that with total conviction. In this moment, I would give a limb to lay her down and study her without a time limit. Asking her where she came from wouldn’t be helpful right now, though. She’d assume I was making fun of her, when in reality I couldn’t give her a more sincere compliment. You’re like no one else.
“It took me a month to walk into the bagel shop. When I got home,” I say instead, astonished to be revealing myself out loud. To a woman I’d kill to sleep with, no less. “Too many options. Too many people around me in the line. Standing behind my back. The whole process of ordering and paying was new all over again and I was so sure…no, I’m still sure that everyone thinks I’m acting odd.”
Naomi hasn’t blinked. “Is all of this true or are you trying to make me feel better? Either way, it’s very sweet of you, Mr. Bristow.”
“Blackbeard.” I massage the bridge of my nose with a laugh. “I mean, Jason.”
Her mouth tips into a smile, the pink of her skin fading back into cream. “No one in the bagel shop thinks your behavior is odd. I’m sure of it. They’re probably wondering how m
any bagels you could eat in one sitting.”
“Four and a half.” I plant a hand on the wall over her shoulder, stopping just short of leaning down to inhale her. “No one in there is going to think you’re a pathetic loner.”
“It’s all in our heads,” she murmurs, glancing over at the boisterous line of customers waiting to get in. “Would you judge me if I chew your theory over for a week and try again next Sunday?”
“No, beauty queen. I wouldn’t.” I’m rarely impulsive, but hell if I’m not taking her hand and leading her through the throng of people to the hostess station before I know my own mind. “We still have to eat, though.”
“You’re going to have brunch with me?”
“I’m going to have eggs. They don’t need a fancy name.” I stop at the hostess station and lose some of my momentum. What the hell am I doing? I go to the bagel shop every Sunday because I crave that routine. I’ve tested the route and eaten the food. Safe. The process is safe. A glance around the Speckled Hen tells me it’s packed to the gills and I recognize no one. It’s totally foreign to me. I’m sweating under my shirt again. My instinct is shouting at me to carry Naomi out of here and retreat to the house.
She needs this, though.
Hell, I need it, too, I think. Naomi was brave enough to try something new first. Braver than me. I don’t want her to retreat, so I can’t either.
“Two for breakfast,” I say, clearing my throat.
“Brunch?” chirps the hostess, making Naomi chuckle.
“Sure,” I mutter. “Whatever you want to call it.”
“We have a thirty-minute wait. Or there’s space at the bar now.”
Naomi gives me a slow nod when I turn to her. “Sure. The bar.”
We quickly find out the hostess is either a liar or she has a different meaning of the word space. The bar is jammed with locals forking eggs into their mouths—although none of the eggs look like the ones I’m accustomed to. They’ve been primped, sprinkled with shit and arranged on other shit.
“What the hell happened to scrambled or fried?” I say to Naomi, before glancing down and realizing she’s nervous again, trying to avoid waitresses barreling past with trays and customers breezing past while staring at their phones. “Come here, baby.”
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