Seriously Messed Up: A Laugh Out Loud Romantic Comedy
Page 28
18
Brian woke just after 8:00 a.m. Looking out the window at the pool, he discovered it was a cloudless day. He decided to put on a bathing suit and go for a swim. After forty laps, he climbed from the pool, and walked over to the tennis court. He made his way around the court in awe. The net was in perfect condition, and he couldn’t find a single flaw in the surface. It was nothing like the courts where he usually played. Public courts were always full of cracks that caused the balls to take unexpected bounces, and the nets usually sagged so badly that you’d need to wedge a tennis ball container under the cord just to prop it up. Spotting a cabinet in one corner of the court, he walked over to it.
When he opened it, he found a ball collector containing about a hundred practice balls and a ball machine. He smiled and wanted to use it right then. It had been years since he had used a ball machine, and he remembered what a great practice tool it was. Brian wanted to be sure that Jillian was awake before he used the noisy contraption and thought he probably should ask first, anyway.
After making his way up to Jillian’s bedroom, he found her still asleep. He got the idea to make her breakfast in bed as a sort of thank you for letting him stay in her incredible home; and it gave him a good excuse to spend a few more minutes with her while she wore practically nothing. He was developing more of an attraction to her than he was comfortable admitting.
As he stood in the kitchen, mixing up the pancake batter, all the things Jillian had told him the previous night really started to hit him. Why was he being so casual about it all? This was a big deal, right? She confessed to invading his privacy and watching him—pretty much all of him—while he slept. Not to mention, she did it all on purpose. It wasn’t like she walked in on him by mistake while he was changing, or something. Sure, it may have been a spontaneous thing, but she wasn’t drunk, or anything; she chose to push the door open and look. And last night, she had shown him her most private of areas. Granted, she was under the influence of the unpredictable combination of a sleeping pill mixed with alcohol, but wow! What the hell did it all mean? I guess she’s just lonely, all alone in this big house.
Closing his eyes, he flashed back to being in her bedroom. She’s so free with her body and open about everything. Being open was so much more fun than the alternative. Sure, it was a little odd, but it was a refreshing change from his experiences living at home with his parents. Even his conversations with this older woman were engaging and so different than the ones he’d had with girls at school. He had so much in common with Jillian. He looked forward to simply speaking with her again.
He opened his eyes, and a grin spread over his face. He loved hearing that she thought his penis was gorgeous. No other woman had ever said anything about it. It was only a compliment—an incredibly intimate compliment—so he wouldn’t try to read anything else into it. Hell, she was an erotic romance novelist; she wrote about penises every day, and she probably talked about them constantly… Okay, maybe not. He decided he would try to sort all of it out later.
Brian made Jillian a fabulous breakfast. And yes, maybe arranging slices of kiwi on the plate was overdoing it just a little, but he wanted to impress her. He enjoyed cooking, and Jillian’s kitchen was so well equipped and stocked that it made cooking even better.
He used to make breakfast for his family every weekend morning when he was still at home. He used the pancake recipe he had perfected over the years with his own personal twists. He made three for himself and took a bite to be sure they were up to snuff. He poured batter on the griddle to cook up three more for Jillian while he ate his quickly. With her pancakes cooked to perfection, he arranged them professionally on a plate. He placed the plate and everything else he needed on the breakfast tray he found and took it up to her.
When Brian poked his head into Jillian’s room, he found her awake but still lying in bed curled up with her pillow.
“Hey.” He held the tray up. “Can I come in?”
“Sure.” She forced her eyes open and rolled onto her back. She didn’t seem put off that he was in there with her. They both seemed comfortable with the situation, even though he was in her bedroom, and she was barely wearing anything. She ran a hand over her face, pushed some loose tendrils of hair behind her ear then focused on the tray. “What’s all this?”
“I made a little breakfast.”
She sat up, and he placed the tray over her legs. Smiling, she eyed the spread of the decorative kiwi, blueberry pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs, juice, and coffee. “‘A little breakfast’ is a banana.”
“I like to cook, and I wanted to say thank you for letting me stay here. I also wanted to ask, but I’ll wait until…” he said trailing off.
“What is it?” She cut a bite of pancake and slipped it into her mouth. “Wow,” she mumbled with her eyes wide and her mouth full.
He grinned and sat on the bed near the footboard.
She gazed at him, nodding her head with her jaw hanging open. “This is delicious. You used my pancake mix right? I can never get it to taste like this.”
“Mix? No, I never use a mix. Pancakes are easy to make.”
“Right.” She scoffed. “Not for me.”
“They’re just flour, baking powder, sugar, salt, oil, milk, and eggs. I do have a few secrets that make them come out perfect.”
Jillian took another bite. “Secrets?”
Brian leaned a little closer to her. “First, you need to turn the griddle on before you start and set it to 350 degrees. It needs to be the right temperature and preheated for at least five to ten minutes, or they don’t cook right at all.”
Gazing at her plate, she shook her head. “How do you get them to look like they came from a pancake house? Mine always look like a greasy mess.”
“Do you use butter on the griddle?”
“Yes,” she replied.
He pressed his lips together and nodded. “That’s the problem, but I’ll get into that in a second. I’ve had this same recipe for years, except now I add a little more sugar, and instead of just two eggs, I use two whole eggs and one extra egg white. It makes them extra fluffy.” He looked at her, wishing he could take back the word fluffy, but it was too late. He tried to repair the damage by saying, “Fluffy—you probably think I’m effeminate, but I just—”
“No, you can say ‘fluffy.’ And I think serving breakfast for a woman in bed is one of the most masculine acts that a man can do,” she said, as she took a sip of her coffee. She smiled at him. “Finish telling me your secrets.”
“The real secret is, you put some butter on the griddle and coat the entire surface, but then you make two what I call ‘test cakes’ that you throw away. Cook the first one, turn it over, and move it around the griddle to soak up as much of the melted butter as you can. Then do the same thing with the second one. The first one will look like a train wreck, but that second one should look golden brown on the one side. That’s when you know the griddle is finally ready.”
She looked at him, shaking her head and beaming. “I’ll definitely have to try that.”
“Just make sure you get ninety-nine percent of the butter off the griddle. You only want the faintest hint that butter was once there—too much will kill ‘em.”
After taking another bite, she groaned satisfied. “Wow. Just wow.”
“Thanks.”
She put her fork down. “So what did you want to ask?”
“I noticed you had a ball machine out by the tennis court. Can I use it?”
“Yes, do you need me to set it up?”
“No, I can do it,” Brian said, as he was already leaning off the edge of the bed.
“Knock yourself out.”
“Cool, thanks.” He rose to his feet. “I guess I’ll let you enjoy your breakfast.”
“Did you already eat?”
“I did.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you for the breakfast. It’s amazing.” She skewered a kiwi slice and slipped it into her mouth as he headed out of the room.
When she glanced toward the pool area, she spotted a beer bottle on the table by the lounge chairs. This caused bits and pieces of a memory to emerge. She remembered that George had called and that she had been angry with him. She recalled taking a sleeping pill before the call, and then, in the heat of the argument, forgetting about the pill and drinking some wine. She could remember speaking with Brian out by the pool, but everything after that was a complete blur. She thought a moment about waking up without her panties on, and she couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. Smiling, she shook those concerns from her head. She had no other memories of the previous night, but she was almost positive that nothing happened between Brian and her.
19
Jillian spent a little extra time getting ready before going down to the court. She pulled her hair back and wore the sexiest tennis outfit she owned. The skirt was super-short, and she thought it really showed off her legs. When she went out to the court, Brian was sitting on the bench, and he’d already worked up a pretty big sweat. Approaching him, she smiled. “I saw you hitting. You’re really good.”
“You think? You’d probably kill me out here.”
“Want to hit?”
“Sure, but I’m a little tired from the ball machine and everything, so take it easy on me.”
It didn’t take long for the two to discover that they got along just as well on the court as they did off of it. They both favored a serve and volley game, and their skill levels seemed to match up perfectly. Brian stole many glances at Jillian’s body in that short skirt. He watched her bending over to pick up balls and stared as she walked away from him to the baseline. It was more than a little distracting. They played two sets, and unlike Jillian’s previous experience with Mike, the overly, hairy jerk, Brian was a good sport on the court. He even called a few of her shots in that were clearly out, but they were close enough that she didn’t argue.
She won the first two sets six games to four. During one long point in the first game of the third set, Brian rushed to the net and hit a near perfect passing shot. He grinned when he hit it, confident it was a winner. She took off after it and reached it ten feet outside the court. Once there, she stretched then grunted, as she smashed a running topspin forehand toward the back corner. He watched it almost in slow motion as it arched high and looked like it would certainly go long. She had hit it flawlessly and with so much topspin that it dropped like a rock mere inches inside the corner.
Standing there with his mouth agape, he stared at the spot, unable to move. As he watched the ball slowly roll away, he said, “Fuck me.”
In response, she whispered something under her breath that Brian couldn’t hear.
He slowly turned his head to look directly at her as she stood in the perfect finish position, with her legs stretched far apart and her racquet held high. She grinned from ear to ear. He just smiled at her, and she shrugged her shoulders. Then she popped her legs together and headed to the baseline with a spring in her step, all the while maintaining eye contact with him.
“Was that you grunting just like Maria Sharapova?”
She rubbed her forehead. “Was it that bad?”
“If it leads to shots like that, I say grunt away.” He added jokingly, “I can’t compete with that. That was so my point.” He simply clapped his hand against his racquet a few times, which is the proper tennis etiquette when your opponent hits a shot of that caliber. Retrieving the ball, he shook his head. “Sorry about dropping the F-bomb.”
“Don’t worry.” She waved her hand at him dismissively. “I got lucky. I usually can’t hit on the run like that.”
Brian won the third set six games to three. Afterward, they sat on the bench chatting about tennis and other topics, spending twenty minutes on the racquets they had played with over the years. She asked if he ever had any formal lessons. He told her he hadn’t and mentioned that his backhand was always the weakest part of his game. He asked if she had any advice for him.
After leading him back onto the court, she suggested that he adjust his grip by rotating the racquet slightly in his hand. Then added, that she thought he should keep his shoulder down as he hit the ball.
She moved behind him to demonstrate and got close enough that she could smell him. He was completely sweaty, yet he didn’t smell bad at all. She actually liked his scent. As Brian brought his hand back, she took hold of his arm and demonstrated the recommended changes to his stroke. With their bodies pressed together, and as they looked each other in the eye, they stood completely still for a few moments. Then suddenly, Jillian cleared her throat, let go of his arm, and took a half step backward.
She said, “So, um, that’s how I think you should… uh…”
He wiped the sweat from his forehead, turned away slightly as he surreptitiously adjusted his shorts. Turning back to her, he smiled. “I’ll try it.” He bounced the ball, brought the racquet back, lowered his shoulder then blasted a shot over the net.
“You see?” Jillian said with a bright smile.
“Thanks for the tip. I’ll work on that,” he said, as he rushed over and sat on the bench, covering his lap with a towel.
Joining him on the bench, she grabbed her bottle of water and poured a little down the back of her neck. She placed the cold bottle to her forehead, glanced at Brian, and touched her face. She closed her eyes and flashed back to a minute earlier when their hot bodies pressed up against each other; the memory overcame her. After fanning her hand at her face, she poured a splash of water down her front, just as Brian glanced at her.
He watched, mesmerized, as the water slowly dribbled between her breasts. His eyes widened as his cheeks reddened and he turned away from her pressing the towel into his lap. Looking over his shoulder, he said, “Thanks for the match. Maybe we can play again some time.”
“I’d like that.”
He rose quickly to his feet. “I’d better go take a shower. It’s really hot out here.”
Heading toward the house, he walked with a slightly unusual gait and as she watched him go, she poured the remainder of her water bottle down her front.
Jillian stood outside the guest room, eyeing the door and longing to kiss him, to touch him, and to shower with him. She didn’t have a plan, but she was desperate for at least one more glimpse. She figured she should probably make sure he had enough towels. That would be the proper thing to do, she thought. Although, a towel restock was usually better done when your guest was fully clothed. Regardless, it still needed to be done, she kept telling herself.
After grabbing a towel from the linen closet, she knocked lightly on the door and called Brian’s name. When there was no reply, she slowly opened the door. She entered the room, heard the shower running, and saw that the door to the adjoining bathroom was open. She heard the uneven sounds of water hitting the shower floor that told her he was actually in the shower and not just standing outside, waiting for the water to reach the proper temperature. She tiptoed to the doorframe and peered through the inch-wide opening on the hinge side, which gave her a clear line of sight to the glass enclosed shower.
A towel was draped over the clear glass door and hung down just enough to block her view of Brian’s chest and upward. The glass was clean and fog-free, and it provided her a perfect view of him as he showered. But he wasn’t showering; he was touching himself. With his left hand, he had a death grip on the towel that hung over the shower door and he worked himself with his right. Jillian’s gaze followed the bulging muscle in his right shoulder to the equally flexed bicep, down to his straining hand, as he really focused on his task.
As she watched him
, she slipped her hand under her skirt to her completely sweat-soaked panties. She closed her eyes, and the Jaclyn West third-person narrative kicked in:
Katrina watched as Dallas worked his manhood in the shower. She wondered if he was thinking of her or of someone else. She leaned against the doorframe, her breathing labored as she longed to be in there with him and doing that for him. Slipping her right hand under her skirt, she ran her index finger over her cotton-covered pussy. Her eyes remained glued on his sex, as he pumped it faster and faster. She pushed a finger under her panties and—
Jillian yanked herself out of the fantasy when she heard Brian grunt loudly as he successfully completed his mission. Slumping against the door, exhausted, he squeezed the towel hard, pulling it down into the shower as it fell from his grip. As he tried to prevent it from landing under the spray of the shower, he reached for it, missed it, slipped a little, and ended up on his knees along with the towel on the shower floor.
He tossed the soaked towel into the corner of the shower, cursing and trying to wring it out. It remained worthlessly damp. Feeling sorry for him, she considered coming clean and casually walking a dry towel to him, but she decided that was probably a horrible idea.
Suddenly startled by a noise coming from the hall, she sprinted from the guest room, rushed into the hall and closed the door. As she continued across the hallway, she saw Rob coming up the stairs. When their eyes met, she slowed and stared at him with a blank expression.
He asked, “So did you guys do it?”
“What?” Stopping dead in her tracks, she awkwardly bounced up and down on her heels with her jaw falling open.
“How is he?”
She froze, unable to speak or breathe.
He narrowed his eyes. “Tennis. Did you guys play?”
Exhaling, she smiled. “Oh, yeah, we did play. He’s really good.”
“Is something wrong?”
She narrowed her eyes in a slight panic and then paused to compose herself. “Sorry. Your father called last night, and I’m still, uh…” George’s call was the furthest thing from her thoughts at that moment, but it was as good an excuse as any to explain her strange behavior.