Chapter 17
Jensen
Of all the idiotic decisions I’ve made in my life, thinking it would be a good idea to allow Lord Augustus to finger-bang me senseless is so high at the top of that list, it occupies an entire page of its own.
I didn’t sleep well last night, but I feel that goes without saying.
Post-nut clarity hit with chilling lucidity once the lord left.
I spent hours awake, tossing and turning, desperate to talk to someone about how stupid I’ve been.
I haven’t told Lucien about the lord being a Casanova alpha, and obviously, I haven’t told him about the fake dating because I know he’ll tell Branson.
I know Branson well enough to know that both of those admissions are exactly the kinds of things he’d be inclined to tell our mother about, and that’s the last thing I need, believe me.
So, of course, without Lucien knowing about the fake dating, there’s no way I can casually segue the conversation to land on me being chased through the maze by my employer.
And thus, there’s absolutely no way I could drop the finger-banging into one of our chats.
Not that I’d want to tell him about it per se, but I do want to talk to someone about it, and in the past, he’s always been that person.
Eventually, at five a.m. this morning, I sit up in bed and message Lucien about something that’s probably completely inane but feels highly relevant.
The lord’s favorite book is The Story of Ferdinand.
Three dots appear and disappear on my screen, replaced by an incoming call from Lucien.
Branson must have snatched his phone from him and placed a call from it because his face fills my screen completely when I swipe to answer.
The angle Branson presents me with is a little more up-the-nostril than I’d recommend if he were trying to look his best, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“Jensen!” he says with such determination that I suspect he might be trying to alpha me through the line. “You are being seduced. Leave England and come home at once!”
Thankfully, it’s impossible to alpha someone over the phone, so his attempt has no effect other than to thoroughly irritate me.
“Jens,” Lucien croons, taking the phone from Branson and smiling at me as if I’m suffering from a concussion. “You know how Wilder and Christian are backpacking through Portugal at the moment?”
I nod, unimpressed. I can tell exactly where the conversation is headed.
“Well, Branson and I have been thinking it might be super fun if they popped over to see you. It’s a quick flight to where you are, and it’s not all that expensive.
We’d be happy to pay for them. We just think it might be nice for you to see someone from home, you know?
Just catch up and touch base. What do you think? ”
“I’m a grown man with a fully developed prefrontal cortex,” I tell him firmly.
“I don’t need to be checked up on. And if I did, I definitely wouldn’t need to be checked up on by the likes of Wilder or Christian.
My God. Did you see the last TikTok Christian posted?
He was dancing on a bar, and Wilder was drinking alcohol out of a shoe.
I’m not being funny, but I will not tolerate those two checking up on me just because they’re alphas.
You of all people should know that about me, Lucien. ”
“That’s not what I meant,” Lucien says solemnly.
“That’s not what he meant at all, Jens,” Branson confirms, annoying the hell out of me. “We’re just worried about you, that’s all.”
I hang up after that because I’m a little worried that their worrying about me will go to my head, and I’ll accidentally confess to a series of sins that will definitely end with Wilder and Christian turning up at Beaumont Craven House with or without my consent.
I finally fall asleep and wake a while later with a headache from hell and a revolting taste in my mouth. The sun is up, dancing in dappled dots around my room, making me feel vaguely nauseous. The hangover—which I richly deserve—isn’t even close to being the worst thing about today.
I have to face Lord Augustus at the breakfast table in fifteen minutes.
To think I found our stilted breakfasts together uncomfortable when I first got here. Oh, how I wish I could go back in time and revel in that minor level of discomfort.
I’m a hundred percent confident that if all those awful encounters were rolled into a single, hideous encounter, they still wouldn’t begin to scratch the surface of the heinous social interaction that is sure to transpire this morning.
I dress, drink some water, and brush my teeth before limping to the dining room. I’m greeted by a visibly alarmed Sid, who takes one look at me and rushes out of the room, only to return a minute later with a bottle of paracetamol that he offers to me on a small silver tray.
I take two tablets and ask him to bring me the strongest coffee any human being has ever consumed. He gives me a curt nod and dashes off again, leaving me alone in the room.
I appreciate the solitude, though I’m not able to enjoy it fully because I know it’s likely to be short-lived.
Anxiety punches each individual vertebra in my spine as I hear Lord Augustus approaching.
His footsteps are brisk, but not as brisk as usual.
There’s a lag between heel and toe placement that makes me think he’s also feeling the effects of last night.
Oh, how I regret everything, including being born.
Especially being born.
It’s a toss-up what embarrasses me more: the fact that the lord knows I fantasize about primal play on the regular, or that he knows exactly, precisely how I like to be fingered.
Neither of those are things I usually tell people.
The being-chased fantasy, especially, is a me-exclusive situation.
I’ve never even dreamed of telling anyone about it.
It’s for me to think about when I’m alone, not for others to know about.
Admittedly, the prostate pummeling is something a few people know about, but only people who know me very well.
The worst thing is that, as bad as those issues are, they’re still not the worst things about today.
The worst thing is that I actually had a good time with Lord Augustus last night.
It was nice being out with him. It felt like there might be some common ground, a basis for friendship between us, and now that’s completely ruined.
I’m so embarrassed that my cheeks are glowing bright red by the time he enters the dining room.
Obviously, he’s also going to be embarrassed as hell, and his embarrassment will amplify my embarrassment.
Between the two of us, we’re going to be such a complete mess that poor Sid will probably be embarrassed on our behalf as well.
And maybe Mrs. Thompson will get in on the action.
Between all of us, the delicate balance that’s taken months to achieve will be left in tatters.
Secondhand embarrassment is easily as bad as firsthand, maybe even worse, so realistically, I can’t see any way I’m likely to survive breakfast.
The dining room door silently swings open, and I flinch hard despite actively trying not to.
I attempt to get my face under control, but I’m pretty sure the expression I’ve landed on looks more like a small, rabid dog that’s been offered a bowl of water rather than something anyone with a lick of sense would read as a smile.
Lord Augustus takes me in calmly. As he looks at me, my forehead, upper lip, and the crack of my ass all begin to perspire simultaneously.
“Bloody hell,” he says, squinting handsomely. “D’you think we left any champagne for anyone else?”
Oh. I see. He’s going with hangover humor. Good one. “I’m afraid not, Mr…” Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I’ve got myself in a muddle about what to call him now that we’re not role-playing a happy couple anymore. “My Lord.”
Tiny lines form near his mouth, dipping in gentle apostrophes on either side of his lips. “Mr. My Lord, huh? There’s a new one.”
There’s something very, very off about Lord Augustus right now.
He’s being completely normal. It’s like he didn’t get the memo about being embarrassed by what happened between us last night.
He looks hungover, no doubt about it. His eyes are puffy and a little more bleary than usual, and when he moves, he takes care not to move his head unnecessarily.
He’s making eye contact with me with no difficulty whatsoever though.
He takes his seat and raises his cup of tea to his lips, taking a grateful sip before placing the cup back on the saucer without looking down at it.
His eyes are on me, his expression matter of fact, bordering on serene. “Did you enjoy your run last night, little mouse?”
Oh fucking fuck.
Oh Jesus, take the wheel.
This man is talking about what happened. He’s discussing a base interaction we shared. Opening a dialogue about a personal matter. Of all the insane times for an alpha to decide to have above-average communication skills, he’s choosing to do it now?
Fuck my fucking life.
“I, er,” I splutter, sounding more constipated than I can ever recall sounding in my life.
He hardly pauses, fixing me with a brilliant, personable smile. “And your orgasm? I trust it was to your satisfaction.”
To think I thought I was blushing before.
I didn’t even know what blushing was. I’d read about it in books, but I’d never come close to experiencing what’s happening in the upper quadrant of my body now.
My cheeks are glowing violently. My neck too.
And I think my forehead might be in on the action.
His smile and gentle eye contact are unwavering.
Oh God. His question wasn’t redundant. He expects an answer.
“I, er,” I attempt again. I flick through words I’ve heard in the past like a secretary with long nails and a bad smoking habit would have flicked through a Rolodex in the old days.
Various words flash before me. None of them seems particularly appropriate.
After several long seconds, I land on, “Fine.” When that seems a little brusque, I bow from the neck and add a slightly over-sincere, “Thank you.”
The thing that’s throwing me off my game more than anything else is how composed the lord is.
He isn’t showing the slightest sign of embarrassment about our antics last night.
By the look of him, he’s not surprised or taken aback by what happened.
Or even particularly interested in how or why our behavior devolved as it did.
Do you have any idea how much sex a human being has to have had before they’re this comfortable talking about it?
An obscene amount. That’s how much.
Unfortunately, in my hungover state, the thought of Lord Augustus being a rampantly sexual being sinks down my body like hot oil running down skin. It pools in my lap, robbing me of a few much-needed brain cells.
“I had fun too,” he says, his smile alarmingly attractive. If ever there was a time I could do with him being a little less good-looking, a little less broad-shouldered or dark-haired, now would be that time. “Tag was my favorite game to play when I was a boy.”
Oop.
There I’d been thinking I was as embarrassed as I could possibly be. No, no. I was wrong, I can definitely be more embarrassed than that.
Can one’s eyeballs blush? Because not going to lie, it feels scarily possible right now. I’m not even joking. I think my eyeballs might be bulging out of their sockets, and I’m positive they’re blood red.
I attempt a reply, but it doesn’t go well. “Meep…ooh…tag.”
“Did you experience any worrying side effects? You shouldn’t because of my medication, but I think it’s best to check anyway.”
“Oh, no.” I gulp my coffee urgently. “No worrying side effects at all.”
Unfortunately, the lord is on a roll and appears to be far from done with causing carnage.
“I’m happy to play with you anytime you want,” he assures me with a broad, relaxed beam.
“Just let me know when the mood takes you. I haven’t done anything like that since I’ve been on my treatment, and I wasn’t sure if I’d enjoy it, but I did.
I truly did. I felt useful for the first time in a very long time.
” His smile softens at the edges, turning sweeter and more personable than it was.
“I had a really good time last night. Thanks for being my date.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, voice lilting up stridently.
As insane as all this is, I think I know what’s happened. I’m not the only one who thinks we’ve formed a friendship. I think the lord thinks we’re friends now too.
It’s lovely, of course. It’s nice to make friends, everyone knows that. I’m not complaining about it. It’s fine.
I sip my coffee gingerly and attempt to digest everything that’s happened. It’s not all that easy because the lord is using his knife and fork, handling the silver cutlery with a mammoth pair of hands.
Thick palms and thick fingers.
Fingers that have been in my body.
His movements are slightly sluggish this morning, which, strangely, makes them appear even more graceful than they usually are. More masculine. More sensual.
He raises his fork, parting his lips and taking the food off it mindlessly.
Reflexively. His lips close around the fork, tiny lines forming in the middle of his bottom lip as he chews.
Soft pink flesh peeks out from under the thick mat of his beard, curling up slightly at the corners when he catches me looking.
The way he smiles at me is fond. Friendly.
The way I take it is anything but.
I see his lips move, and I’m no longer at the dining table. I’m transported back to last night. To the way my heart pounded and my dick throbbed.
To the two of us in my doorway.
To the way his lips looked when he said, “I’d be happy to blow you if that is what you want.”
I throw back the rest of my coffee and attempt to shake the memory off as fast as I can.
The rest of the day passes without incident, though it’s far from the most productive day I’ve had since arriving at Beaumont Craven House.
I feel like hell and my anxiety is easily a ten.
I put myself to bed early in an attempt to recover, making a firm decision to stay in my nest all night, no matter what.
I’m done with my nightly wanderings, and not only that, I’m done with my early-morning excursions to the stable as well.