Chapter 16
JAMIE
I’m screwed. Royally, spectacularly. In every way except the one I want.
Since my catastrophic ‘date’ four days ago, Tyler has been in a full bodyguard-slash-motherhen mode.
I can’t even sneeze without him barreling through the apartment to make sure I’m not dying.
He also randomly pops in to check if I need anything.
Do I need water? Another pillow? Is Fiona bothering me?
Spoiler alert, I’m fine and not dying. Only a little on the inside. Because as much as I try to convince myself otherwise, I kinda not so secretly like this arrangement. Love it, actually. It’s for the wrong reasons, but for these past few days, I have been the center of Tyler’s world.
It’s addictive.
And dangerous. Because it’s everything I’ve been hoping for since I moved in with him, and also the one thing I know will never be truly mine. I only get to have it for a little bit. I’m aware of that.
It’s so easy to give myself over to the illusion that this is how it’s going to be from now on, but that’s not possible.
For one, I’ll need to go back to work next week (certain someone practically bullied me into taking sick leave for the rest of this week), and Tyler will need to catch up with his.
He’s been slacking since he dragged me home from the club, taking way more ‘snack breaks’ than normal, just so he could hover.
He also hasn’t brought anyone over since that day.
Tyler never mentioned it, but I’m not totally oblivious.
I tried hard not to say anything, but he must’ve picked up on my discomfort when I met Lisa.
I’m aware he’s had women over since then—their perfumes always lingered in the air—but he must’ve made a conscious effort to do it when I wasn’t home.
I know it was for my benefit. Which is why I can’t possibly tell him that it only made everything worse.
It felt as if it was happening behind my back, even though we’re nothing to each other.
I’m not Tyler’s boyfriend, he doesn’t owe me anything.
If only I could get the message through my thick skull.
He must be starving for physical contact, because he’s been very touchy-feely with me. Or is it all part of his protective tendencies?
Whatever it is, I can’t get enough. It started quite innocently; a shoulder squeeze here, a comforting pat on the back there. The way he would touch my face reverently to check how everything was healing.
It’s not so innocent anymore. It’s almost as if he took all those weeks when I kept him at arm’s length and decided to do reverse Uno on me.
Now, if we sit down to watch a movie, he’ll be plastered to my side, sometimes even have an arm around my shoulders.
If I’m cooking, he’ll come up behind me, rest a hand on my hip and lean over my shoulder to ask how much longer it will take.
The other day, as I was getting ready for a shower, he even barged in insisting on helping me remove my t-shirt, because it had caught on my face earlier when I was putting it on, making me groan from the pain.
Yeah, I’m being spoiled.
It’s fucking amazing.
Except for the part where I’m constantly trying to hide how much I’m enjoying all the attention and touching. And I enjoy it a lot. The problem is I don’t get much opportunity to take care of it. As I said, Tyler hovers. The only time I can get release is when he’s at the gym.
I check the clock. Twenty-five minutes left. Then I’ll have the apartment to myself.
I can’t believe that I’m wishing for Tyler to get the hell out, but these are desperate times, okay? It’s all his fault anyway.
Twenty-four minutes later, like clockwork, Tyler grabs his pre-workout mix from the fridge before heading to the front door, his trusted gym bag slung over his shoulder. He turns to me with a smile.
“What do you feel like today? I was thinking Indonesian?”
“I can do Indonesian,” I agree easily. I’m not fussed. But I am bursting. Whatever will get him out quicker works for me.
“Cool. Any preferences?”
“Surprise me.” I wave him goodbye. “Shoo. You’ve been slacking lately, don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
He puts a hand over his heart dramatically. “Are you telling me I’m getting out of shape?”
To my horror—and glee—he tugs his shirt up, exposing his chiseled abs, pretending to look at them appraisingly. Meanwhile, I swallow the saliva that threatens to dribble out of my mouth.
“I take it back, you’re very ripped. Best shape of your life. Now go. The sooner you go, the sooner dinner will be here.”
“Figures all you’re interested in is food.” He pretends to sulk, but I catch his grin before he turns to leave.
The second the door shuts behind him, I run to my room, pull down my pj’s and throw myself on the bed.
My largest, hot pink dildo is already waiting for me in the top drawer of my nightstand.
I feel particularly needy today, so it has to be the largest one I have.
Although, even as I look at it, I wonder if it will be enough.
It’s long alright, ten solid inches, but I guess it’s time for an upgrade regarding the girth.
Something I would struggle wrapping my hand around.
The thought sends a shiver through me, my ass clenching around nothing. It’s decided—a bigger dildo just made the top of my shopping list.
Since I’d already loosened myself up earlier in the shower, I jump straight into it.
I lie on my back, head propped by two pillows, and spread my legs wide.
Squeezing a generous dollop of lube on the tip of the dildo, I spread it around the shaft, then wipe my hand on a towel to ensure I have a good grip.
I take a huge breath in as I bring the bulbous head to my entrance, which flutters at the contact.
I can feel my heart hammering in my throat from anticipation.
No matter how many times I do this, that feeling never goes away.
I’m barely aware of my body, my whole nervous system hyper-focused on that one spot between my legs.
I time the first push with my breath, the dildo sliding inside of me as air leaves my lungs. Fuuuck. It’s been a long while since I used the largest size, I forgot how insanely good it feels.
A blissed out smile forming on my lips, I allow myself to bring up the image of kind, hazel eyes and strong hands. I might not be able to have the real thing, but I can pretend. In moments like this, I can pretend.