GILT: All Fall Down

by Geneva Lee

  “A bed?” I choke out the word. My cheeks flush with heat as the memories I’ve done my best to erase flash through my mind. There’s no stopping them now that Jameson has drained the fight from me.

  “It’s your birthday.” His voice is low and suggestive. Apparently, he hasn’t forgotten the date or why it is important. He had been the one to set the rule and force me to agree: we wouldn’t sleep together until then. He smirks as if reading my mind. “You’re 18, Duchess, and that means you’re mine.”

  Chapter Nine

  My hand stays tightly clutched in Jameson’s until we reach the airfield. The only time I let it go is to send Josie a text that I won’t be back tonight. I spot Maddox’s bulky form waiting by the plane. I guess there’s no way that I’m going anywhere without protection. Jameson gives me an apologetic smile as he releases my hand, but he’s out of the car and around to my door before the heat of his touch has fully dissipated. This time, when his fingers knit through mine, I suspect he won’t be letting go.

  We climb the stairs into the main cabin of the jet together. Jameson pauses to whisper instruction to Maddox and the rest of the crew.

  I’ve been in the West family private jet before, but that fact does nothing to lessen the excitement I feel now. Luxurious private travel had usually been available to me when it came to one route only: Las Vegas to Palm Springs and back again. Knowing this plane could take me anywhere is the best birthday present I could ever ask for.

  “We’re going to take off soon, Duchess.” Jameson guides me to a cushy leather chair, and I laugh when he begins to buckle my seat restraint.

  “I can do that myself,” I assure him.

  He does it anyway, kissing me on the forehead in the process. “I have to protect what’s mine.”

  He isn’t saying it, but I know the last few days of separation nearly drove him crazy. If it hadn’t been for Josie, I’d probably be stark raving mad as well. It’s going to take more than a few serious conversations to heal the damage that’s been done to our relationship, but right now I think we’re simply relieved to be together. We can piece together the events of the last week later.

  Jameson takes the seat next to mine, and I raise an eyebrow when he doesn’t buckle up.

  “Do I need to buckle you in?” I ask.

  He heaves a sigh and fastens the safety belt.

  “Just protecting what’s mine,” I tease him. The butterflies in my stomach take flight as the jet begins to wheel down the runway.

  “Are you okay?” he asks next to me, and I realize I’m clutching the arms of my seat.

  “This isn’t how I saw my day going,” I admit. Heading on a romantic adventure hadn’t been on my radar.

  “Monroe packed a bag of your things that you left at my house.”

  I think that information is supposed to reassure me, but I’ve met his sister. I can’t imagine what she thinks is necessary for a weekend holiday. Beggars can’t be choosers, so I cross my fingers there are clean panties. Anything else is cake.

  He holds my hand until we’re in the air. As soon as I feel the landing gear lock into place, I’m out of my seat, and scrambling onto his lap. Strong arms wrap around my waist as I straddle him, and I feel even safer than I did before.

  “I missed you,” I murmur. I can’t seem to bring myself to meet his eyes because Jameson’s right. I didn’t have faith. I’d been the one to nearly give up on us. I can blame my crappy childhood all I want, but I chose to believe the worst.

  “Look at me, Duchess,” he commands in a low voice, and I dare to lift my face to his. “It’s behind us now.”

  Such simple words, but they carry so much meaning. We’d already faced what felt like an insurmountable obstacle. Whatever comes next, I know we will have each other.

  “I don’t deserve you,” I whisper.

  “No, you deserve more.”

  I take a deep breath, a leap of faith, and choose to believe him.

  “What have you been doing while you hid from me this week?” Jameson asks, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

  I nuzzle against his hand. This week has been full of terrible and right now, I want to be with him.

  “Talk to me,” he urges. “When we were apart, I nearly went crazy wondering what you were doing.”

  “I was hiding from my life,” I confess. My life had managed to intrude anyway, and it will keep doing so. “Let’s see, my mom is getting a divorce.”

  Jameson’s eyes darken, and I know he’s thinking about the night he saved me from my stepfather. He clears his throat. “Because of what he did to you and your sister?”

  I nod as I begin to feel tears pricking my eyes. “She refuses to take the information to the police.”

  “I can handle that,” he practically growls.

  “No,” I say resolutely. “I could, but this isn’t my battle anymore. I don’t want any more to do with it. Even though...”

  I hesitate, because I don’t like bringing up money, especially not with a West.

  “Out with it, Duchess,” he commands.

  “She’s arranged for a trust fund in my name. Hans was more than happy to settle the separation quietly,” I say. I know Jameson can read between the lines. My stepfather paid my mother off. “It’s blood money.”

  “You don’t have to take it.”

  I don’t tell him that I’ve already used some for a good cause: looking into our case with a private investigator. After his miraculous feat, hiring a P.I. hardly seems like a groundbreaking contribution.

  “I won’t.” I leave it at that. “I’ll donate it. With global warming, there’s always some new disaster relief fund that needs money.”

  “Be serious for just a second,” he advises, kissing the tip of my nose.

  “I am. I can’t think of a better way to spend his bribe than to erase some of the bad from the world with some good.”

  “Whatever you think is best. Besides we don’t need money.”

  “We?” I repeat. “When did we sign up for a joint checking account?”

  It’s meant as a joke but Jameson shows no signs of laughing.

  “You get serious,” I say, smacking his shoulder. Although all signs point to the fact that he is serious—very serious.

  “Wests don’t joke about money.” He doesn’t clarify further. Before I can push the topic, because it seems pretty important that he know I don’t want his money, Maddox joins us. He’s carrying a small birthday cake blazing with so many candles I half expect that he’ll start a cabin fire. Without a flight attendant, I’m not certain if oxygen masks will drop down in that event.

  “You don’t look like a stewardess,” I say when he places the cake on the table in front of Jameson and I.

  “I left my pantyhose at home,” he says dryly.

  I don’t complain when they insist on singing happy birthday to me. I turn to face the cake but remain on Jameson’s lap. He sings the words softly into my left ear, and when he finishes he whispers, “Make a wish.”

  I don’t have to, because it’s already come true.

  When the candles are all blown out, Maddox ducks back into the crew quarters to give us some privacy. I twist in Jameson’s arms until I’m staring into his stormy eyes.

  “What did you wish for, Duchess?”

  “You.” Then I seal my mouth to his.

  Chapter Ten

  It’s a few hours before dawn when we arrive at the West Hotel in New York City. Perched at the top of Wall Street, it’s a haven for business travelers and the elite who value privacy and luxury over nightlife. It may be the city that never sleeps but I doze in and out to the sound of trash trucks and delivery vans preparing for the busy day ahead. Despite my best attempts I couldn’t keep my eyes open long enough to take in much of the city. Sight-seeing will have to come later. Right now the only sight I want to see is a pillow.

  Our car pulls up to the valet station and a weary looking bellhop rushes out to meet us. I wonder if he’s starting his shift or ne
aring the end of it. Either way I feel his pain.

  “You look dead on your feet,” Jameson notes as he helps me out of the Lincoln Continental that’s delivered us to his family’s local hotel-away-from-home.

  “I’m fine.” But the veracity of my claim is undermined when I immediately punctuate it with a yawn. The trouble is that I don’t want to be tired. Not here. Not since Jameson and I are finally together again. “I just need some coffee.”

  Jameson casts a doubtful look at me. As we step inside, he pulls me close. The lobby is nearly empty save for a few staff members milling about dusting and polishing the floors. It’s unlike the West Resort and Casino in Las Vegas. This hotel is that hotel’s big brother: grown up, sophisticated, and aiming for partner at his law firm. Its elegance is understated, relying on subtle, but expensive décor choices. I drink in the leather club chair dotting the periphery and the black veined marble I can only assume has been imported from somewhere so far away that it cost twice as much to ship as it did buy. The West New York whispers wealth while it’s casino brother screams debauchery.

  Whatever travel arrangements Jameson has made seem to be in order. Maddox and our driver bypass waiting with us at the front desk and go straight to the elevators.

  “It will only be a minute,” Jameson promises me, “and then I can get you into bed.”

  Bed.

  The word jolts me awake faster than a triple espresso. We’re going to bed. Together. And I’m eighteen.

  A middle-aged man in an expensive three-piece scuttles out from the door marked private access and zeros in on us. His hands steeple together and he bobs his head as if bowing to a patriarch.

  I’ll never get used to these reactions. Jameson has my respect, because he’s earned it. Everywhere else we go the deference he receives is born of his family name. He takes the man proffered hands smoothly, accepting the introduction while I zone out. The two can feign business talk, I have other things on my mind.

  I can’t help but be preoccupied what with words like bed being casually tossed about. This time when Jameson and I go to bed together there will be no push and pull. I won’t peer pressure, and he won’t say no. I’ve been planning to sleep with Jameson for months. Why am I getting so nervous now?

  Probably because it’s such a big deal that he’s flown me across the country to one of the most romantic cities in the world just so he can have me all to himself.

  “Ready?” Jameson asks.

  I blink. Am I ready?

  “To go upstairs, Duchess?”

  I wonder how long he’s been trying to get my attention.

  “Yes,” I squeak, my nerves showing through the thin layer of calm I’m clinging to.

  “If you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to let me know,” the hotel manager interjects before we can exit.

  “We will, Mr. White,” Jameson reassures him. His hand settles over the small of my back, directing me toward the elevators. As soon as we’re a few feet away his voice lowers, “I didn’t think we were going to get rid of him. I thought our early arrival might allow us to delay that formality. Hotel managers always think they need to greet the boss.”

  “It’s fine,” I say while absently chewing on my lip.

  Jameson studies me as we step through the gold, sliding doors into the mirrored elevator. “Don’t worry, Duchess. I’ll get you into bed.”

  Bed. There’s that word again. My stomach drops out as the elevator begins to ascend. Each button lights up, taking us from the one marked L past the single digits then the double toward the very last button emblazoned with a PH. When we reach it, Jameson extends his arm. “After you.”

  We step into something that looks more like a foyer than a hotel corridor. Other than the emergency exit and a service lift there’s only one marked door on this level.

  Penthouse.

  Jameson opens the door, but I look around in confusion.

  “What did you do with Maddox?” I ask when I spot our bags waiting for us in the entry.

  “I told him I could handle you from here.” I don’t miss the double entendre in his words.

  “Would you like to freshen up?” Jameson asks after he locks the door behind us. “Or maybe I could draw you a bath?”

  “No!” I practically shout but recover quickly. “Maybe just a quick shower.”

  Jameson’s lips twitch, but he nods. “Follow me.”

  He doesn’t bother to give me the grand tour. It’s pretty easy to make out the dining room table from the living room couch. That said, the space is huge and framed by large glass doors that overlook the city. Past them a small patio leads to a balcony. I can’t help but shiver. I’ve had enough rooftop patios and plate glass for the summer. Thank you very much.

  We pass through a corridor with several closed doors.

  “What’s behind those?” I point to them like a game show host.

  “Other bedrooms,” he says nonchalantly.

  More than one bedroom? It’s my understanding that most New Yorkers live in something roughly the size of a shoe box. We have a whole house at our disposal. This much extra space feels a bit like an insult.

  “This is the master bedroom,” he says, drawing me away from my thoughts.

  I dare a peek at the king-sized bed that commands the center of the room.

  “Maybe you should rest,” he suggests, mistaking my interest in it.

  I shake my head. I’m tired, but there’s no way I’m about to fall asleep. He doesn’t argue with me. Maybe he feels the tension, too. Instead he opens the door to the ensuite bathroom.

  “You should have everything you need in here,” he assures me before stepping away. “I’ll give you some privacy.”

  Privacy isn’t something I usually want from Jameson, but right now I’m glad to have it.

  The bathroom is nearly as big as the bedroom and decorated in warm shades of white. I’m pretty certain we could fit a cocktail party’s worth of people in the Jacuzzi. Actually, I could probably open my own spa here.

  I opt for the walk-in shower, turning the water on to the sear setting. I can barely get my clothes off because I’m shaking so hard. Rummaging through the drawers of the vanity I find toothpaste, a razor, and a few other necessities like lip gloss and a hair tie. I also discover the handful of cosmetic items I occasionally use. Jameson didn’t miss any details.

  The steam from the shower rolls through the space, misting over the mirror. Shower’s ready. I step under the cascade and hope the heat will clear my thoughts. But this isn’t a sinus infection. This is sex, and my head is a muddled mess. I decide to go through the motions. I wash my hair and shave my legs. Then I just stand there and allow the water to flow over me as if I’m cleansing myself for some type of ceremonial offering.

  “This is not your first time, Emma,” I remind myself. But really it may as well be. I don’t remember being nervous when I lost my virginity. Then again I didn’t remember all that much about that night.

  This is different. I want Jameson. I’ve wanted him since the first night we met. I’d stuck to my guns then, not allowing him entrance into my treasure chest. I’d promised myself I’d be in love before I had sex again, and I’ve been in love with Jameson for months. Now as summer days drifted away, I should be jumping into bed while I had the chance.

  We’d had other opportunities this summer and there’d been no nerves in the heat of the moment. Jameson had been the one to stick to his rule about waiting until I was eighteen. Most of the time I’d been embarrassingly ready to go. The spontaneous horniness that accompanied a good make-out session had served as some sort of readiness lubricant. There’d been no room for over-analysis in my hormone-riddled brain.

  “There’s only one thing for it,” I decide. “Close your eyes and think of England.”

  I shut off the water and realize my fingers look like raisins. “Super hot.”

  I vacillate between pumping myself up and tearing myself down as I towel off. Now comes the hard part: do
I wrap myself in this or opt for my birthday suit? My eyes land on the solution to my problem: a silky robe hanging from a hook on the back of the door. I have no doubt it’s been placed here especially for me. How long had Jameson been planning this little impromptu getaway?

  Slipping it on, I knot the sash tightly as if girding my loins. Steam escapes into the empty bedroom. I half expected to find Jameson waiting for me here. Tiptoeing through the suite, I spot him on the patio outside. The first ribbons of dawn are creeping along the horizon, casting citrus hues over the buildings surrounding the hotel. With each passing second, the noises from the street below grow louder as the city begins its day.

  So much for avoiding the roof top, I think to myself as I head toward him. Jameson doesn’t turn as I step onto the patio behind him. When I reach him, I place my hand over his on the balcony.

  “Did you find everything you needed?” His voice is thick with emotion. When he finally faces me, his gray eyes blaze with a ferocity I’ve never seen before.

  I nod. I have now. I’m not the only who’s worked up over finally going to bed together. Maybe he’s not nervous, but it’s as important to him as it is to me. It’s all I really need to know.

  “Jameson, I’m ready,” I say in a soft voice.

  He doesn’t ask me to explain. Instead he sweeps me into his arms and carries me inside. The bed welcomes me as Jameson lays me across it. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed and reaches for his top button.

  “Let me,” I stop him. My fingers tremble as I undo each one until I’m shaking so hard that I fumble. His hands close over mine and he takes over the job until the button-down falls open. He shrugs it off and I reach for the flat panel of his chest, running my palm along the carved ridges of his pecs. I pause there feeling his heart beating under my hand.

  Jameson’s eyes find mine and I see the unspoken question in them. Can I feel the connection? The thread binding me to him? With my free hand, I untie the sash of my robe and allow it to fall. It’s as good an answer as I can manage.