by S. Ann Cole
He takes us to the bathroom.
The luxury continues in here, too, with clean lines, glossy steel and clear glass, pristine terry cloth, fancy bath oils and bodywash.
He snags a washcloth from a folded pile on a glass shelf, never breaking his stride until he’s at the shower door.
He sets me down, swings the door open, and waves me in.
I go in.
He steps in behind me and takes complete control, scrubbing me clean under the spraying hot water. He lathers and rinse me, and goes down on his knees to ensure, with gentle care, that my southern region is squeaky clean—because he’s all kinds of meticulous and compulsive like that.
Then he makes me rest my head on his chest while he washes my hair with contented leisure.
Once he’s done, he orders me to take a seat on the shower bench at other end, while he bathes himself—refusing to let me return the favor.
My sex has been throbbing nonstop throughout his ministrations, and it’s only intensified now that I’m forced to watch him lather all six feet, three inches of his taut, lean self. He’s got a nice tight arse and strong legs, wide shoulders, and the musculature of his back ripples with each movement. He’s beautiful, front and back, and there’s not a damn thing about him that doesn’t turn me on.
He steps under the steaming shower and turns to face me, water chasing the soap off his body. He glances down at my clenched thighs, at my hands that are gripping the edge of the tiled bench.
“Don’t you look at me like that,” I say defensively. “You can’t possibly expect me to just sit here and not be affected.”
With his eyes locked on mine, he reaches down with the washcloth and takes hold of his stiff member.
My lips part on a hot gasp.
Up and down he drags the fisted cloth over his cock, the head swelling redder with each stroke.
“Open your legs,” he orders.
I hesitate. “I—”
“Open them.”
I do it, slowly.
“Wider,” he demands.
I go wider.
“Fuck, you’re perfect.” He sucks in a sharp breath and jerks hard on himself. “Touch yourself for me.”
My insides clench. Tentatively, I let go of the bench and bring one hand down between my legs. Focusing on his pumping fist, I rub my middle finger over my pulsing clit. An involuntary moan slips out of me, dragging a groan out of him.
“Keep going,” he orders.
And I do. I glide my fingers up and over, rubbing, pressing, going in circles, remembering all the ways he touches me.
My breath begins to quicken, pressure builds, my legs shifting wider on their own.
“Your other hand now,” he instructs. “Inside.”
My gaze glued to his hard, wet, engorged cock, I do as he instructs. I move my other hand, pushing my middle finger inside my heat.
And, sweet hell. It feels good. So good.
My mouth drops open, my breasts rising and falling with my short, pleasure-ragged breaths. My fingers work faster, rubbing with one hand and pumping with the other.
“Oh… Oh, my— Jax— Jaxon!”
My toes tip up off the tiles, and my pelvis thrusts upward.
He jerks his cock faster, harder. “It’s okay. Make yourself come, babe.”
At the word “come,” my legs press together, my eyes slam shut, and climax rips me open, wracking through me with violent, staccato tremors, his name tangled in a throat-trapped grunt of pleasure.
As I fall from glory, ripple effects of orgasm waving through me with tempered turbulence, I open my eyes and find he’s right in front of me, his redheaded member damn near touching my nose.
Taking my hands, he pulls me to my feet, cups my face, and kisses me deep, hard, and long. “You belong completely to me now.”
With an unexpected swat to my backside that makes me gasp, he steps around me, takes a seat on the bench, and pulls me astride him.
Positioning his rigid member at my entrance, he encourages me to lower myself down onto him. Once I have all of him inside me, my body opening up and accommodating him, he growls, “Ride me,” and captures one of my nipples into his mouth.
I move. I experiment. I go slow. I go fast. I pay attention to all his sounds and hisses and sudden jerks, memorizing the moves that cause them, so I can remember what he likes.
Gripping my hips, he encourages a pattern of his own. I go along with it. For a while. Then I take back control, reveling in how undone he becomes.
By me.
Yet, I’m the one who combusts first, clenching around him, shaking, screaming.
Before my orgasm begins to wane, he abruptly lifts me off him and begins fisting himself to his release.
Goes without saying, we shower again.
We attempt to get dressed to go downstairs for breakfast, but halfway through that, we wind up naked and writhing in bed again.
Eventually, around noon, we order food from room service. Then he leaves the room for an “important” phone call for over an hour.
When he returns, he powers off his phone and promises he’s all mine for the remainder of the day. No disruptions. No important calls.
But to my delight, he becomes all mine for the following day, and the day after that, too, his phone turned off the entire time, his attention all on me.
We stay in, we eat, we have sex. I talk random facts and traveling. He talks animal cruelty and superheroes.
We eat. We have sex. We talk. Repeat.
For three straight days.
I could live the rest of my life with him in this studio and never miss the outside world.
But…alas, all good things must come to an end.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
It’s been four weeks since the demise of my innocence. Four weeks of lying to my best friend. Four weeks of falling, falling, falling for Jaxon King.
I’ve gone from snuffing at the idea of sex to being wholly and unhealthily obsessed with it. Every chance I get, I’m either beneath, on top of, or kneeling in front of Jaxon.
He’s accused me of enervating him to the point where he’s begun to hide from me. Because he needn’t touch me. One glimpse of him and the first thing I think is…sex.
For his part, he’s more focused on romancing me. He takes me out to dinner. He takes me ice skating. He takes me to weird art exhibits. He even forced me to sit through an opera once—I yawned my face off.
Two mornings ago, I woke up with the weight of diamond earrings dangling from my ears—because he’s too much of a wuss to be a sap and gift them to me when I’m conscious. Too much of a wuss to let me see him do it.
I’m so caught up with Jaxon in this place of extreme serenity and contentment, that I’ve pushed all thoughts of Markus and the music box into the background.
Selfish of me, I know. Melanie’s depending on me, and I’ve been doing nothing but lie to her, all so I can spend more time with Jaxon.
At the start of each new sunrise, I tell myself, “Just one more day.” Now, it’s a whole month later, and I’m craving Jaxon no less than I was craving him before.
If anything, the cravings and desires I have for him have intensified. I keep falling. Deeper and deeper. With every touch, every kiss. Making it that much harder for me to rob him and leave.
I don’t know how I’m going to gather up the courage to do it, but I know I must.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
A gust of cool wind lashes at me from behind when I step out of the cab, making a mad mess of my hair.
It’s the last leg of August, and after a rather sticky, airless July, I admit the weather thus far has been near perfect. Not too hot, not too cold, but just right. This evening, however, is bizarrely windy—it keeps messing up my bloody bangs. At half past eight, in the sun’s absence, the lights of the city grin with delight, twinkling up at the sky, outdoing the stars that are almost never seen here.
Now that we’re official, Jaxon doesn’t just disappear without war
ning anymore. He gives me the courtesy of a heads-up that he’s going to be gone for X amount of time and will not be able to contact me during the period of his absence. Even so, getting an advance notice doesn’t make me miss him any less.
After waking up without him two mornings in a row, and missing him with all the energy in me, I couldn’t have been happier to hear my sister ring me this evening. She flew in three days ago for an award show and—yay!—we’re having drinks tonight. She’s everything. And I’m obsessed with my little nephew, Abel. Eight months old, chubby as a Teletubby, and so darn cute it’s tempting to run off with him. I babysat for her earlier while she was at the show.
One hand pressed to my bangs to keep them down, I straighten my peacoat, power-walk through the elegant and opulent doors of the imposing Roosevelt Hotel, and navigate up to the rooftop lounge, Mad46.
I’m found as soon as I’m off the lift. By Thomas, the loyal muscle man who’s been working for my sister since the start of her career. He clears me from the check-in entrance, and we make small talk as he guides me to Ma—my nickname for my sister since childhood.
The buzzing chatter of boozed patrons, mixed with the windswept notes of Sia’s “Chandelier,” creates the typical after-work ambiance. There are cocktail shrimps and martini glasses everywhere, the scent of french fries and melted cheese in the air.
Ma has an entire section roped off for herself—of course. A massive L-shaped sofa that can easily seat a party of eight, runs along the low wall of the rooftop, backed by tall, groomed shrubs. An even larger C-shape sofa that seats about ten sits across from it. Considering how the other patrons keep craning their necks and staring over at our corner, cell phones pointed and snapping pic after pic, I can understand why she sectioned off almost half the roof to herself.
When Thomas and I finally reach the section, we stand there for more than a minute, neither my sister nor her husband aware of our presence. That’s because her husband has his tongue so far down her throat I’m surprised she’s able to breathe, all while he cradles their son in one arm.
It’s only when Thomas clears his throat for about the third time that they break apart. Both rest their foreheads on each other’s, catching their breath. Then, as one, they both turn and face us—Ma with a smile, her husband with a scowl.
The scowl I take no offense to—he’s always scowling. But…breathtakingly beautiful. Both of them. One of the hottest and most loved couples in the world—Saskia and Jahleel, aka Sahleel to their fans.
Her blond curls are wild, long, and bountiful. Mine can’t compare. Her eyes are big gray disks, her skin flawless, with a perfect nose, mouth, and cheekbones. In my eyes, she’s as perfect as it gets.
Jahleel—let’s not even attempt to describe his beauty. Mere words would not do him justice. He has gold eyes—really, his eyes are gold—full, wavy hair bouncing on his shoulders, a razor-blade jaw, sculpted lips, a Roman nose…and a bad-boy attitude. Jahleel Kingston makes women go insane.
And my sister has him.
They both have each other, and it’s a beautiful sight to behold.
Gesturing to the eight-month-old in his lap, I ask, “Is it appropriate to have him in this environment?”
Ma laughs it off. Jahleel just continues to scowl.
Ignoring his stupid scowl, I set my purse down and round the coffee table to lift my nephew out of his hands. Abel comes easily to me with a gummy grin, but Jahleel is reluctant to let go.
“Hey there, little man,” I croon. “Look at you, hanging out with the grown-ups.”
“A na naan ta!” he garbles at me, his arms flailing. “A daaada. A da da da da da ta. Mna.”
“Of course, it’s dada,” I say through a laugh. “Your dada is infamous for breaking all the rules and doing whatever he wants.”
“Ooh, he sold you out, JK,” Saskia sings, laughing at him. “And he hardly ever sees Timber. Better be careful, Dad.”
With a barely there smile, Jahleel gets up and pries his son from my hands. “That’s it, no more grown-up scenes for you.” And, unexpectedly, he plants a kiss to my temple before leaving us, muscle man number two moving alongside him.
I doff my coat and toss it over the seat, moving to sit next to Ma. “That was…uncharacteristic. What’s up with him?”
She smiles, gazing after him. “Hell if I know. He’s still an arse, yeah? But ever since Abel, he’s been having these reoccurring moments of being obsessively grateful.”
“Well, it’s kind of strange,” I say. “He’s usually so bloody rude and unpleasant.”
Now that her husband is no longer in view, she gives me her full attention. “I like it.”
“Good thing. You’re the one who has to live with him.”
A howl of wind sweeps across the rooftop, threatening to blow us all off the edge. I grab my coat and drape it across my lap for warmth.
Big gray eyes zone in on me, twinkling, assessing. Her grin is as wide as a ruler.
To hide from her, I open and scan the menu. “What, Ma?”
“What, what?”
“You’re staring and grinning like Jerry does every time he outruns Tom. It’s creeping me out.”
Grin still in place, she waves at the menu. “Why don’t you hurry on up and order. Then you can tell me all about this bloke you’re shagging.”
I almost choke on my tonsils. Blushing profusely, I shift across the seat, putting more space between us. “I—uh, what?”
With a knowing smirk, she picks up a half-empty bottle of sparkling water and takes a sip. Then says, “I’m not stupid, Timber. I figured it out. Been trying to put my finger on what’s different about you since I first saw you two days ago. No incessant chatting. No fact spewing or auto-correcting. You’ve matured. And then I saw it—in your confident posture and secret smirks. You’ve given up your V-card. You’re shagging. Your brain isn’t filled with random facts anymore. It’s filled with sex. And possibly thoughts of love. That’s the change in you.”
She pauses and waits for me to refute her conjecture. When I don’t, she goes on. “I know what it’s like when you think you’re in love with someone. Thoughts of that person fill you up and consume you. For a while, you forget who you are, forget your purpose. You know only him, feel only him, think only of him. You’re lost in his spotlight. It’s a nice place to be, all up in your feels. But it’s also a very, very dangerous place to be.”
My heart thuds ponderously in my chest. “I… I—”
“No, no.” She wags a finger. “Not yet. Order first. Then we talk.”
Chapter Forty
We talk.
We order pizza, french fries, and sparkling water. And we talk some more. Well, mostly I talk.
Excluding the hostage, conning, and stealing bit, I tell her all about Jaxon. The times we’ve spent together, the things we talk about, his thoughtful moments, his closed-off moments, his muddling moments. I even tell her how much I don’t know about him.
She listens.
And by the time I’m done, I feel light and refreshed. It’s freeing to be able to talk to someone I love and trust about all the confusing things I’m feeling. Instead of judgment, her eyes show understanding. And it’s exactly what I need at the moment.
“It’s new, Timber,” she tells me. “And if he’s anything like my husband, you’re going to have to learn to be patient. He’ll open up, but gradually. In my honest opinion, that’s the best way going forward—allowing him to reveal bits and pieces of himself to you at his own pace. Where’s the fun in knowing someone all at once? You’ll get bored, fast.”
I consider that and nod.
“Look at it this way,” she says. “Each time he gives you a piece of himself, it’s an act of investment, a sign that he’s staying. Sometimes, people fall in love too fast, give too much of themselves too fast, trust too fast…and so, it ends too fast. Just relax, give only as much as he gives. Don’t rush, don’t push. Trust the pace.”
“Easier said than done,” I murmur.<
br />
“That said, always trust your instincts, your gut. If it tells you to back off, then back the hell off. No hesitation. Run.”
I snicker. “Usually, it’s my instincts and my brain that call the shots. They’ve saved my butt countless times. Over the past few weeks, however, it’s my heart that’s been in control.”
Her eyes widen in alarm, as if I just told her the sun is exploding and she’s all out of time. “No.” She points a stern finger at me. “Never listen to your heart. Your heart is a moron.”
And I can’t help it, I bust out laughing. “Bloody ace! That’s exactly what I said!”
We both fall back into the cushions, our bodies wracked with laughter.
A gaggle of girls close to our corner that has been snapping pictures of us every now again, partying rowdily, and blocking most of our view to the happenings on the rooftop seem to be calling it a night. They all link hands and lead each other out.
I’m still in fits of giggles when our view that’s been blocked all night finally becomes clear. Just beyond the benches the group had been occupying is a four-seater cabana with draping sheer curtains.
Sitting there all cozy and relaxed is Jaxon.
His hand is caressing the long, toned leg of a woman I’ve never seen before.
She’s gorgeous. Bobbed black hair. Big tits pressed up against his arm. Pouty lips inches from his. French-tipped nails on his cheek.
Everything fades. The music, Ma’s laughter, the whipping wind, the buzz of chatter… It all fades.
And all I see is pain and heartache in the form of two people cozied up to one another, touching, caressing, flirting.
It’s not supposed to hurt, but it does.
“Timber?” Ma’s worried voice punches through my tortured haze. “Are you hearing me? What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
My mouth opens, but I can’t find the words to assure her I’m fine.
Maybe because I’m not fine.
All I can do is stare.
At them.
Ma follows my gaze. “Oh my God.”
My heart cracks from her whispered words.