She’s blaming herself? “Sugar, you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s me. It’s all my fault. I told you I was a fuck-up.”
“You’re not a fuck-up, Jake. You got hurt. Really, really hurt. More deeply than I can even imagine. It’s not your fault you were scared. It’s not your fault.”
She puts her hand on my wrist. She starts to unclench my fists from my hair. All I want to do is be so careful and gentle with her that she’ll find a way to forgive me. I let her do whatever she wants to me. I let her take my hands in hers.
“Come back to bed with me,” she says.
“No.”
“Jake, please. You won’t do that again. I know you won’t. I scared you, that’s all. I’ll know better next time.”
Next time.
I look into her eyes and all I can do is hope. She’s so damn pretty.
She tugs on my hand again. “Come on. Get up. Come with me.”
I don’t have it in me to refuse her. I get up and let her lead me back to bed. “Lie down,” she orders me.
I do. I lie all the way over on the edge. So I’m not too close to her.
“Move over here. Closer.”
I don’t know why she’d want me closer, but I’ve already promised myself I’ll do whatever she asks of me. Forever. So I move closer. She lies next to me. She wraps her arms around me and gives me a hug. A real hug. She just holds me like that, for a long time.
I don’t think I’ve ever been hugged like this in my life. Ever. It feels so good. It feels so real and whole and comforting. I can feel her heartbeat. Her warmth eases into me and calms me.
I can’t help it: I sigh and it feels like I’m letting go of years’ worth of angst in that single exhale.
“You’re an amazing person, Jake,” she whispers. “The most amazing person I’ve ever met. I love being with you. You make me feel safe.”
Jesus Christ. How can she say that after what just happened?
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says, and she does: she seems to read my mind. “That wasn’t you. That was your fear. But you don’t have to be scared anymore. I’m going to fix you.”
I look into her eyes and I want to believe her. “How?”
“I’m going to replace the bad memories with good ones. Lots of them. So many that there won’t be room for the bad ones anymore.”
I love her.
“First, I’m going to kiss you. And you’re going to let me.”
I don’t know how she’s going to heal me with a single kiss, but I don’t protest. I lie there, absorbing all the beauty of her closeness.
“Okay?” She’s smoothing a strand of my unruly hair into place. “Will you let me kiss you? I want you to be ready. I don’t want to scare you or surprise you. Are you ready?”
It’s true: I’ve never been a fan of surprises. “I’m ready.”
“Are you sure? Because this is going to be the kind of kiss you won’t forget in a hurry.”
She’s so damn cute. I almost smile at that, but I’m too interested in this kiss she’s promising me. And I’m remembering her kisses from yesterday. My body’s remembering, too. My heart rate shifts down a gear, from panic mode to one of fearless, flawless anticipation. “Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah.” She’s smiling at me.
“Go ahead, then. Let me see if it’s as good as all that.”
“Close your eyes.”
I do.
I wait.
Nothing happens.
I open my eyes and she giggles. “Okay, sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were completely ready.”
“I’m ready.”
“Okay. Close them.”
I close my eyes again. And I feel the soft, silky touch of her lips on my eyelids. She kisses my cheekbone, where I have a scar from a fight I got into once, in high school. She kisses my other cheek. Then she moves to my lips. She kisses me so sweetly it makes my chest ache with longing. For more. For a lifetime of this. She nips at my lips, licking them open, dipping her tongue into my mouth. I touch my tongue to hers, opening for everything she’ll give me. Our tongues play, each touch sending darts of lust straight to my cock, which hardens instantly, painfully.
She’s moving, lower. She kisses my neck, licking and biting me in playful little lovebites. “Tell me if I’m hurting you, or scaring you,” she murmurs against my skin. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
I might die if she stops.
She kisses my chest, touching me and kissing every inch of my skin. Lingering at each scar, until I can’t remember anything but her and her sweet, gentle touch.
She’s moving down my stomach, kissing in a fluttering line. Lower.
She unbuttons the top button of my jeans and I catch her hand in mine. My eyes open and she’s looking at me. Challenging me with those sparkling blue eyes. “Take these off,” she says.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not ready for that.”
“I’ll decide what I’m ready for, Jake Wolfe,” she says, petulant and defiant and so fucking gorgeous it’s blowing my head off. “I can’t heal you unless you take them off.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I think you know. I’m going to kiss you.”
“You don’t have any idea —”
“I want to kiss you. Everywhere.”
“Sweetheart, no. Let’s take this one step at a time. You’ve never even –”
“No, I never have. But I’m ready. With you, I’m ready. I want to. I want you to forget everything except this. Except us, here, tonight. No more remembering anything. No more nightmares. No more flashbacks. Just you and me.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She’s so innocent. So pure.
“You don’t want me to?”
I exhale. “Of course I want you to. I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life. I just … I don’t want to scare you. I won’t be able to control myself.”
“I don’t want you to control yourself.”
She slowly slides my hand away.
“I want to. You want me to …” She unbuttons another button of my jeans.
I stop her.
“Please, Jake.” Her eyes have gone indigo and soulful. “Please let me.”
I can’t refuse her, or resist her. I just can’t. I move my hand away.
She unbuttons my jeans all the way and starts to lower them down my hips. My overexcited cock springs out like an enraged bull escaping its cage. I sit up to help her slide my jeans all the way off. I kick them onto the floor. Then I hold her face in my hands and take her mouth in a lusty, scorching kiss. She’s so small, so perfect. I pull back and I put my finger over her lips to quiet her so she won’t reply to what I’m about to say. “Aphrodite Calliope Diana Penelope Malone, I’ve known you for exactly twenty-seven days. I’ve spent fifty-two hours with you. And I’m in love with you. I’m a fucked-up mess, but I’ve never felt as good as I feel when I’m with you. I’ll do anything to keep you. I’ll do everything I can, every second of every day, to be good enough for you. Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything. I just wanted to tell you that.”
Her eyes are wide. Then she smiles a little smile as though to say, I already knew.
Gently, she pushes me down so I’m lying flat. She kisses my chest. Her kisses are bolder now, wetter and lustier. Slowly, her tongue licks a line down my stomach.
I groan as she takes the head of my cock into her mouth. She sucks and licks me, taking me deeper, holding my heavy cock with her delicate hands. I guess she wasn’t kidding when she said she wanted to make up for some lost time, because she sucks on my cock like she’s starved for it. My fists are gripping the sheets and I try to hold on as long as I can but it’s impossible. With those sweet lips wrapped around me, that gentle, tentative tongue playful and teasing, and those adventurous little fingers exploring everywhere, I’m a goner. Her hair, disheveled from sleep, feathers its strawberry-blond ringlets across my overheated skin like silk as
she moves and smiles and proceeds to blow my goddamn mind. I lose myself. I’m a lonely, good-for-nothing sinner who’s finally seen God. I’m a love-struck deviant who’s finally found a purpose. I’m a hard-headed son of a bitch who finally understands what it means to have something to live for.
When I wake the clock reads 10:52. Late morning.
Jake’s gone but there’s a rose on his pillow. And a note, folded into an origami wolf. I smile, unfolding it.
My Sweet Sugar,
I’ve called your work and told them to expect you later. Beatrice says everything’s fine there and that you should take your time. When you wake, I’m cooking you breakfast. Then I’m taking you shopping to buy you a new dress to wear, or possibly ten (the other one’s not back from the dry cleaners yet – sorry about that, and don’t worry, I took everything out of the pockets). Then we have an appointment (I’ll fill you in later).
I’m sorry. You are beautiful. Thank you for starting to fix me. Your methods are, so far, exceptionally effective. I look forward to more treatment soon.
Yours,
Jake
P.S. I’m extremely dedicated to returning the favor, so be warned: I’m starved, obsessed and can think of nothing but you and what I’m planning on doing to you at my very first opportunity.
Oh.
God. Jake.
It was so crazy. Insane. Amazing. I blush just thinking about it. I guess I went a little wild. Maybe that’s what happens when you wait as long as I have. Something unleashes in you when you finally get started.
Just thinking about his enormous, outrageous … manhood gets me all worked up again. He’s so freaking big. So hard. So ridiculously … explosive. I put my hands over my face and smile like an idiot just thinking about it. I swallowed. A little. But there was too much. He was like a dam bursting. In the end I cleaned us up with his t-shirt and then I just held him and kissed him for a long time, until we both fell asleep.
Now, I feel different, like this scorching intimacy has bonded us. I know his darkest secrets. I’ve seen his fury and I’ve felt his pain. I’ve taken him into my body and I can feel him there. My hunger for him has been lit at the basest, most urgent level. Something in me has become feral and ravenous, as though there’s nothing I wouldn’t do. I crave him. I almost call out to him, so I can kiss him again. So I can see what he means when he promised to return the favor.
But my responsibilities are creeping in. I’ve been gone from work longer than I should. Orders for pies are pouring in, there are full bookings in the restaurant for weeks in advance, I need to check in on Grandma Mae, who I’d promised to call once a week. Then there’s the bank loan application to fill in for the new bakery across the street I’d thought about renting – if I could even afford to borrow that much – the new menu items, which I’ve advertised will be updated every two weeks, and the fiasco with A-hole Flint to worry about. Do I still have his phone? I remember: Jake took it from my hands and set it on his coffee table. It must still be sitting there.
I get up. I walk out of the bedroom to find Jake sitting at the dining table, working on his laptop. He’s dressed in black pants and a business shirt. He’s clean-shaven. His hair’s been combed and is still wet from his shower. Playing off his clean-cut look is the blinking criminal’s cuff, the inked edge of a tattoo on his neck, where his collar is open, the shadows behind his eyes. It’s so Jake, I’m learning: his darkness and his light, constantly at war. It’s one of the things I’ve come to love most about him.
“Hi,” I say, shy despite myself as the memories of what I did to him last night flood into my brain.
He smiles, smug, clearly thinking about the exact same thing. “Hi.”
I’m still holding his note. Awkwardly, I hold it in my hands, stating the obvious. “I got your note.”
Still smiling. “Good.” He sits back in his chair, knees apart, arms folded. Like a wildly hot, arrogant sex god. “There are a couple of amendments.”
“Amendments?”
“I decided to have breakfast delivered.” The counter, I notice it then, is covered in platters of fruit, bread, cheese and all kinds of other delicacies. Chilled bottles of orange juice and champagne sit on ice, and there’s a freshly-brewed pot of coffee. “And I had the dry-cleaned dress sent to Saks Fifth Avenue. They’ve figured out your size and sent you twenty dresses to choose from. Or you can keep them all if you like them. And there are shoes and boots there, too, since you didn’t have any with you. I wasn’t sure what you liked. Beatrice said you were a size seven. And there are some coats there, too. Oh, and I also asked them to send along some make-up so we can cover your bruises. I didn’t want you to feel anxious about those. They’ll fade soon enough.”
I look at the racks of clothing and boxes labelled Balenciaga, Jimmy Choo, Chanel. The dresses are designer, haute couture but understated. The kind of clothes you could work or play in, dress up or dress down with a single accessory. “Jake. You didn’t have to –”
“There’s one other thing.” He looks down at a duck-egg-blue box sitting next to his computer. “This.”
“What is it?”
“Just a little something for you. A gift.”
“Jake. You don’t need to give me a gift.”
His slow smile is doing strange things to me. Touching on all those base urges he lit last night. “I want to. Come here.”
I walk over to him and he opens the box so I can see what’s inside. It’s a delicate platinum cuff with embedded rubies. I gasp. And I laugh. It’s like his. “I guess this makes me a criminal, too.”
“For stealing my heart.” He laughs. “Sorry. That was so cheesy. But it’s true.”
I let him put the bracelet on my wrist. “We match,” I say.
“Yeah, we match.” He stands, and kisses me lightly on the mouth. Then he gets me a cup of coffee.
“After you eat,” he says. “I’ve got some other things to show you.”
I shower, eat some breakfast and pick out one of the to-die-for dresses. A black Ralph Lauren shift dress with suede detail and a cute pearl-and-leather belt. I pull on some black Chanel ankle boots. A perfect fit. And I let Jake put some of the concealer on my face and my neck to hide my bruises, which he does with the lightest, gentlest touch.
When he’s done I feel almost human again. I look in the mirror and I look good. More than good.
I look happy.
We take the elevator down to ground level and walk out onto the street. It feels strange. Different. He carried me into his building two days ago, battered and bruised. Cold and scared. He took care of me. He shielded me. He made sure I was warm and safe. Somehow, he then showed me a side of myself I never knew about. Unwrapping parts of my soul like a budded flower that opens to the spring sun. And now that I’m enlightened in this way, I feel an almost-frantic sense of connection to him. After our cocooned days in his apartment, I don’t want to be apart from him.
It’s a relief to me that he seems to feel the same way.
As we walk out of his building, he holds my hand. “Okay?” he says, like he can sense my unease. I’m on the streets again, exposed. Visible to whoever might be looking for me.
Butch, you bastard. With that one indecent, violating act, he’s stolen something from me. He’s shattered my blind, innocent sense of well-being.
But Jake’s with me. As long as he’s here, I know I’ll be okay.
“Should we walk?” I say. It’s not far to my work. Six or seven blocks, maybe eight.
A limo pulls up. “My driver will take us.”
This is going to take some getting used to. Luxury apartments, haute couture, limos: it’s all just a little over-the-top.
When we get to my restaurant, Bea’s there and Ace, my genius sous chef, as well as Jon and Maddie, my two top waitstaff. I introduce them to Jake and they make funny faces behind his back, smiling at me, making obscene gestures. Ace, possibly the gayest man in New York, stares at Jake like he’s the second coming, then whispers in my
ear when Jake takes a seat in the corner booth. “Sweetie, you bitch, for finding him first. He’s glorious!”
I elbow him. “And very straight, Ace. You’ll have to find your own.”
Ace can’t tear his eyes away. “Honey, please, you have to tell me. Is he as good as he looks?”
I know what Ace is referring to. I don’t care that Jake and I haven’t actually come close to doing – well, except for twice – anything along the lines of what he means. It doesn’t matter. I don’t say a word but I can’t stop myself from smiling, just a little. Ace stomps his foot. “That is so unfair!” He kisses my cheek. “But if anyone deserves him, darling, it’s you.” Then he disappears in a flurry of jealousy into the kitchen.
I have a million things to do but I walk over and slide into the booth across from Jake. Once I get started, I might not see him again for a while. I want to spend just a few more minutes with him, basking in his dark-edged glow.
He’s working on his laptop, which he shuts and pushes aside as soon as I sit. “What’s the business you’re thinking of starting?” He’d mentioned it a couple of times.
“It’s an app.” He takes my hand across the table. “Designed to teach and inform people about how to trade stocks. So that all the jargon and supposed insider knowledge that the one-percenters know about becomes more accessible to people who are new at it.”
I watch his succulent lower lip. I’ve tasted those lips. I kissed them and licked them as I came. But his words are somehow reaching me even through those memories, and I’m intrigued. “That’s a really good idea.”
“It’ll have different levels, like a game. You learn the protocols of each level before you advance to the next one.”
“Jake, that’s brilliant. Do you actually trade stocks on it? Or just practice?”
His fingers weave themselves through mine. “The first few levels are practice. Then you graduate, once you’ve learned the tricks, to actual trades. You start small, then you can work your way up.”
“Can I try it?”
“You can be my first trial customer. But keep it quiet, for now. I haven’t told anyone about it and I need to get the patents and trademarks secured before I start. I also need to find just the right app developer to help me build it exactly how I want it. Some young genius who’s got a lot of free time on his hands.” He doesn’t mention the part about his files being stolen, and I don’t ask about it. We can worry about that when the time comes. We. I don’t analyze it too carefully, but it feels right. I want to be there for him, and help him navigate whatever difficulties he runs into. I want to soothe him when he gets upset and hug him when he gets scared. And kiss him again. And find out how he’s going to … return the favor. “Sugar, I need to steal you for a few minutes. Remember how I told you about that appointment? The guy just turned up.”
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