by Max Monroe
“Oh,” Elle says with a laugh, pointing at my lips and then the bottom of hers. “You have something right…there.”
I reach up to wipe away whatever food remnant is there, but she takes over, pushing my hand out of the way gently and offering, “Let me.”
Next thing I know, her lips are on mine.
I’m shocked, so shocked that I don’t pull back immediately, and she grabs on to my head to try to deepen the kiss.
What the fuck?
We’re kissing. Well, she is kissing me. For my part, I don’t do much else besides stand there in shock, giving my best impression of a dead fish, until I gently put an end to her lips’ attempts at slipping her tongue into my mouth.
Without delay, a pit of inexplicable guilt grows roots in my stomach and sets my mind to swirling.
How in the hell did that happen so fast?
I don’t know, but in this case, what I do know is even more troubling—Holley is watching.
Holley
I scoop my notebook and phone into my bag in a rush, knowing without a doubt that I have to get out of here. I don’t know the reasons, and I don’t want to know them.
I don’t want to think about Elle’s lips on Jake’s at all—not for the rest of my life.
Sure, I’ll have to face it at some point when it comes to writing the article—it’s too important a milestone for Bachelor Anonymous to leave out—but I’ll do it when I’m good and entrenched in the solace of my dark, moody townhouse with half a bottle of wine in my veins. Not in the bright lights of this state-of-the-art chef’s kitchen.
Not where other people can see me, and not where there’s this much stuff available to emotionally binge eat.
I wave casually at Jake and Elle—Ha. Ha-ha-ha, have to go—and make a charge for the door, but by the time I get there and get my hand wrapped around the handle, Jake grabs me by the elbow and pulls me through a side door, into an abandoned hallway.
“Holley?”
“What’s up?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can manage while completely out of breath, as though the two of us aren’t displaying any behavior that’s at all out of the ordinary.
“Where are you going?” he questions in response.
“Home. Sorry to take off without saying goodbye, but it looked like it was going well, and I, well, I really have to get home and write this article since the last date is tomorrow and the big reveal party was moved up an entire week. Can’t get behind, you know?”
His eyes narrow, so I blather on.
“I also think I might have had some iffy meat at lunch. My stomach isn’t really agreeing with me.”
He considers me closely before letting go of my elbow. “We normally go somewhere. Talk about the date afterward.”
“I know,” I say with a fake wince. “And I’d love to. But I really don’t feel well.”
“Do you want me to take you home?” he asks then, his eyebrows drawn together in concern.
I shake my head—almost violently. “No, no! Go on back in. Finish your date! I’ll be fine.” His eyes narrow again on my word choice, and I rush to correct myself. “Good! Good, I’ll be good.”
“Holley—”
“I’ll be okay, Jake,” I say softly, pleading desperately with my eyes for him to give me this. To give me this moment of peace as I crawl off to my townhouse with my tail between my legs.
It’s more than obvious by the expression on his face that he doesn’t like it, but in the end, he relents.
“All right.”
I try to make myself sound chipper as I promise, “I’ll see you tomorrow for date number five! Bowling! Woo-hoo!”
He doesn’t smile.
“Hopefully without gastrointestinal issues,” I add, blushing at the amount of TMI, even if it’s fake TMI, almost as soon as the words leave my mouth.
I give a little wave and test the waters by stepping away a little.
He lets me go, even stepping back to give me some room.
I force another smile and turn for the door, striding through it and back to the front door.
When the slap of the hot evening air hits my face, I deflate instantly into the sack of misspent emotion I really feel like being.
I don’t dally, though, walking right to my car, climbing in, starting it up, and driving straight home without pausing to have any kind of a moment.
I parallel park on the street—which, I admit, takes me a while—climb the steps to my front door, unlock it, step inside, close it behind me, and secure the lock before falling against the door in collapse.
I allow all of my anxiety to wash over me in a wave, bringing enough moisture to my eyes that I can barely hold back from actually crying.
What in the hell is wrong with me?
I take several deep breaths and pick myself up off the floor and head down the hall to my living room. I toss my bag onto the couch, and desperate to wash this feeling off of myself, I trudge down the hall, intent on taking a shower so hot it would burn the flesh off a desert ant.
Once in my bathroom, I turn the taps to hot and set about stripping off my clothes. They smell a little like Jake thanks to his close proximity when I was leaving, and it’s almost enough to send me into another tailspin.
I grab my strongest smelling bottle of body wash from under my sink and take it into the steamy shower with me.
Of course, at first contact with the water, I jump back into the glass door so hard it jars my elbow, and I reach carefully around the boiling stream of water to back it down by about a million degrees.
When it finally cools to a tolerable temperature, I climb underneath the spray and hose down my head. Water runs all over, down and into my eyes and coating the strands of my hair until I have to surface long enough to breathe. I scrape at the hair plastered to my face and push it back into a smooth fall down my back.
The water feels good—cathartic—and as a result, I stay under it long enough to turn my fingers pruney.
When I emerge as a new woman, I forgo underwear and settle for just putting on one of my baggiest men’s T-shirts. It’s not any man’s shirt—it’s mine. I bought it from Walmart. But as far as sleepwear is concerned, the oversized nature of it makes it more comfortable than anything else I’ve ever owned.
Now that I’m out of the hot water, the air seems chillier, so I grab my short silk robe from the hook on the back of the door of my closet and toss it on before turning off the lights and heading for the kitchen.
I grab a bottle of wine from the cabinet where I keep my supply, a glass from the cabinet in the corner, and make the two one with each other. And let’s just say, I go extremely heavy with the pour.
I toss back a couple gulps quickly and then move on to the sipping portion of the evening. I want just a tiny buzz. Enough to take the edge off my feelings, but not so much that I’m not coherent. That wouldn’t be very helpful in writing my article at all.
Scooting out of the kitchen and grabbing my laptop from the shelf with my free hand, I pull out a chair at the dining room table, open up my computer, and get ready to get to work.
The blinking cursor taunts me as I chew my lips, so I take another swig of wine and bolster my confidence.
I’ve been here so many times. In the space right before the creative flow. I just have to force myself to type things—anything—and once I’ve moved past the blockage, it’ll pour out of me without inhibition.
BA and Elle sure concocted a recipe for love at their one-on-one cooking class, a romantic experience they’ll never forget.
I hate it instantly, but I keep it anyway. It’s always easier to keep typing when there are already a couple words on the page. I set my fingers back to the keys and give it another go.
“The rapport was extraordinary,” I say aloud as I type. “But really, would you expect anything less from the devil’s mistress when thrust upon one of God’s most noble men?”
I snort at myself and hold down the delete button with unrepressed angst. I don’t think m
y editor will take kindly to a five-hundred-word essay of female hate speech in place of my fun, fluffy article about the latest date with Bachelor Anonymous.
Let’s try this again.
“The chemistry between the two was something out of a ninth-grade biology lab—hormones galore.”
Ugh. I groan. I’m not built for this, dammit. I don’t know how to write about a svelte, supermodel-esque woman and her terrific chemistry with the man I’m getting way too emotionally attached to. At least, not without making it seem like anything less than the ninth circle of hell.
But who would? It’s not normal. It’s not natural. It’s not sane!
Come on, Holley. It’s just a crush. A simple, harmless crush on the first decent, adult male you’ve been in contact with in the last god-knows-how-many years who isn’t over the age of seventy.
After numerous attempts to type something halfway decent and a lot of self-deprecation, I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes and sit back in my chair. I’ve been at this for far too many hours and have had way too many glasses of wine. My productivity is best found in the mornings, before the sun gets going full blast—before my brain is awake enough to give any credo to anxiety.
Maybe I’m better off calling it a night, giving in to the will of the writing gods, and taking a small, stinging loss in the tally. I’ll still have plenty of time to finish up writing the article in the morning, go over it with fine-tooth obsession, and turn it in by tomorrow evening, well before the print deadline and the start of Jake’s fifth and final date.
The only problem is…if I stop working now, what will I do for the rest of the night?
Obviously, the simple, logical answer would be to get some sleep.
Yeah, but you’ve had too much wine for all that rational bullshit…
An evil bird nips at one ear, and I’m too tipsy to recognize its wordless warning.
Instead, I do exactly as my heart wills, grabbing my phone and typing out a text message.
Me: Are you still awake?
My God. What have I done?
Jake
Holley: Are you still awake?
I sit up in my bed and grab the chain to the lamp on my nightstand, flooding the room with ambient light.
I’d just settled into a light sleep, and the buzzing of my phone against the wood top of my nightstand woke me almost instantly. Groggy eyes had to make sense of a blurry-looking screen, but it wasn’t long before Holley’s name stood out starkly.
I read the words again and type out a quick message, fibbing only slightly.
Me: Yes. Are you all right?
Holley: Uh…yeah. I’m fine. GOOD. I mean, I’m good. How did the rest of your night go with Elle?
Me: Anticlimactic. The date ended not too long after you left.
Holley: Oh. Interesting, interesting. It seemed like you guys were really hitting it off.
She saw the kiss. I know she saw the kiss. She knows that I know she saw the kiss.
What she doesn’t know is that neither one of us liked that kiss.
As I type my next message, I try my best to rectify any misgivings she may have.
Me: We weren’t. Things were fine at best, but when I almost got served a tongue down my throat I didn’t order, things took a turn for the worse. Damn near getting molested while I’m wearing oven mitts isn’t my idea of a good time.
When she doesn’t respond right away, I send another.
Me: Holley, are you sure you’re okay?
Leaving things the way we did tonight was hard. Harder than I’d ever have imagined something so simple would be after surviving the Hell Week portion of SEALs training without ringing the bell.
But emotional challenges, it seems, are unique. They exercise an entirely different muscle—the heart. And when one of the body’s most important organs gets involved, it’s hard to stop a situation from feeling like life or death.
I watch as the bubbles wiggle in my text thread and disappear. Over and over again, she seems to be typing without ever coming up with something she deems worthy of sending.
With a flick of my wrist, I toss the covers to the side and jump from the bed, heading to my closet to get dressed. It’s impulsive and not at all thought-out, but there’s a simple need inside me I can no longer deny.
I need to see Holley.
And I think she needs to see me too.
Thankfully, Chloe is spending the night at Hailie’s, so my decision is easily made.
I yank on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and smash the switch in the closet to turn off the light. I stalk to my bed and pick up my phone, but there’s still no reply from her.
I start typing immediately.
Me: What’s your address?
The bubbles start to move again, but this time, a message comes through when she’s done.
Holley: 848 Longmire Rd.
I don’t bother with a reply. I make my way through the silent, dark house on quiet feet, grab my keys and a pair of shoes, and lock the door behind myself before firing up my truck and pointing it in Holley’s direction.
I raise my hand to knock on the front door of Holley’s townhouse-style home in one of the quiet sections of San Diego, but it disappears, swinging back into the entry to reveal a wild-eyed Holley, before I even make contact.
She looks electrified with both upset and exhilaration, her jade eyes glowing brightly in the moonlight and her hair down around her shoulders. She’s wearing an open satin robe, a big, simple V-neck white T-shirt underneath, and the lengths of her long, tanned legs are bare.
My heart thrums in the silence between us, beating against the bones in my chest as I try to hold myself back enough to keep from scaring her.
I’m not sure what changed or when it did—or if it even had to. Maybe this feeling for Holley has been here all along, and I’ve just been too confused to realize it.
She shakes her head, raises her shoulders, and opens her mouth to say one simple word. “Jake.”
And that’s all it takes.
I move, launching myself through the door and slamming my lips down on hers. They’re open thanks to her gasp, and I slide my tongue inside immediately, settling both of my hands on the smooth line of her perfectly delicate jaw.
There’s a brief, minuscule moment of surprise—and then she returns the affection in earnest.
Groping hands and exploring tongues, we’re a tornado of activity as we sink into the feel of each other and allow ourselves complete and total emotional freedom.
I run my tongue down the line of hers, and she moans. My dick practically bangs at the zipper of my pants, begging with a desperation I’ve never known to be inside her.
I kick the front door shut behind us and pick her up by the ass, carrying her down the hall. I’ve never been inside her place before, so I don’t know the way to anything, but I’m not exactly in my most discriminating mood. I’ll literally fuck her on the first flat surface other than the floor I can find.
“Bedroom,” Holley breathes, prying her mouth away from mine momentarily to direct me. “Down the back hall.”
I slam my mouth back down on hers and do my best to follow her directions without the aid of sight. We bump into a few walls as a result, but the way it makes Holley giggle is more than worth it.
She smells freshly like lavender, like she took a shower not long ago, and I suck a huge gulp of scented air into my lungs and try to hold it there.
The sound of her groan as I run my tongue down her neck forces me to let out a breath, though, along with a grunt of my own.
She feels so goddamn good.
I nip at her earlobe and lick the skin just behind it, and she shivers in my arms.
My waist bends automatically when my knees hit the soft end of the bed, and I lower our connected bodies to the surface. Eager hands rip the edges of her robe back and tear her T-shirt right down the middle.
It’s a little barbaric, and honestly, a little unexpected for both of us. But her bare breasts bounce f
reely into the open, heavy and supple and so fucking beautiful I can’t take it.
I lean down and suck a perfect pink nipple into my mouth, and she grabs my head to hold it there. “Jake!” she breathes, the sound of my name on her lips in this capacity making my dick jerk violently in my pants.
I need to be inside her.
When her nails scrape at the hem of my T-shirt, digging gently at the skin of my back as she pulls it up and over my head, I know she feels the same way.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, Holley,” I tell her softly against the skin of her breasts just after my shirt clears my head.
She roams her hands over my skin, touching everything and anything within reach.
“You are too,” she says seriously, and I can’t help but smile against the hollow of her throat and groan.
God, I love being around this woman.
I push back quickly and undo the button on my jeans, shoving them and my boxer briefs down to the floor in one movement.
Holley’s magical green eyes widen as my dick springs free, and the ridiculous man in me takes great pride in the expression.
“You like what you see?” I ask teasingly, and Holley, ever the participant, nods enthusiastically.
“That thing’s like an old-timey warrior’s sword.”
I chuckle, raising my eyebrows as I wait for her to explain.
“Strong. Mighty. Powerful and just in its rebellion against anything that might challenge its owner’s reign.”
“Jesus Christ, Holley,” I say through a smile.
She blushes a little but giggles, and that’s the end of any and all self-control. I sink down between her knees, run my fingers through the center of her to make sure she’s wet enough to handle me, and push my way inside.
Her eyes roll back, fluttering her lashes seductively. I have to bite my lip and steel my spine to stop myself from coming right then like a fucking teenager.