Chapter 19 Jenna
Jenna
As I pull into Grayson's underground parking lot, I breathe deeply, bracing myself for whatever awaits in the penthouse above.
He's not the type to take humiliation lying down.
Ever since the jacuzzi fiasco, he's had time to plot his revenge, and I'm sure he has something devious ready.
What he has planned I do not know, but I guess I'll be finding out shortly.
I can hear it already—that teasing lilt at the end of his sentences. He'll either do something to rile me or ask for something unhinged to appease his even more unhinged family. Whatever the details, God only knows, but humiliation for me is probably part of it.
I sigh and close my eyes. Steph's story about Marina changed how I see him.
Knowing what he's been through, I see the hurt under the armor.
His parents have a lot to answer for, as does his brother, and Marina most of all.
What a bitch. To take up with Grayson's brother George, after all that time together with Grayson…
that's low. Very low. How can I possibly not feel for the guy?
Of course, that doesn't mean I'm going to put up with any shit from him. It's not my fault his family's batshit crazy, and his ex is every bit as bad if not worse. Why should he be given a free pass to take his emotions out on me? Answer is he shouldn't, right?
I mean, what the hell are his parents thinking about?
What they're doing to him is so unbelievably unfair that I want to spit in anger every time I think about it.
I'm absolutely furious with his parents.
Sure, I get it… it's not like I expect them to ostracize their son George because he's marrying Grayson's ex-fiancée, but still.
They love both their sons, and they can hardly throw George out over his choice of bride, poor choice though it might be.
What's pissing me off is that they won't give Grayson the same option.
Why are they giving Grayson such a hard time about who he does and doesn't marry?
Seemingly, George can marry Grayson's ex, who cheated on Grayson and broke his heart, but she's still fine.
Yet Grayson can't marry the woman he loves, because they think she's not good enough?
Okay, Grayson isn't actually in love with me or anything, but they don't know that.
For all they know, he could be madly in love with me, and instead of them supporting him in finding happiness again after the whole shitshow he's endured with Marina, they're making it worse for him by giving him a hard time over me.
In any case, why does he need to get married anyway, just to take charge of a company he's worked his ass off for already, all these years? It doesn't make sense.
Whatever.
It's none of my business, of course, but the truth is that the more I think about it, the madder I get.
That being the case, I resolve not to think about it anymore.
After all, it's not really my problem, and it certainly isn't anything I can do much to resolve.
That's between Grayson and his dumbass parents.
I take another breath to quell my anger, gathering my purse, my Stanley cup, and the take-out as I get out of the car.
Instead of heading straight up to the top, I take the staircase up one flight to the lobby. I have a small mission to accomplish before I head upwards.
"Doing well, Alvaro?" I call as I step into the lobby. The ever-on-duty doorman greets me with a grin big enough to catch.
"Great as always, especially now that you're here, ma'am."
"Oh, you flatterer." I flick a hand, and he laughs. "Hey, I brought you something from a fancy place downtown. You said you like steak; this is the best I've had. It even comes with a side of caviar, if you can believe it. You did say steak was your favorite, right?"
"Really?" His eyes widen, and his already wide smile deepens until it practically splits his face as he accepts the take-out bag from me. "Aw, you didn't need to do all that."
"Oh, trust me. I did. My lunch guest was paying, and she made me wait, so I needed to make her pockets hurt a little.
See, you were actually doing me a favor, not the other way around.
"Not that an eighty-dollar steak from an overpriced eatery—or even twenty of them—could do much to make Steph's pockets hurt, but it was still enjoyable to try.
"Still, ma'am, it's very kind of you to think of me. Thank you."
"No problem, and please, call me Jenna. If you want wine with it, just knock on our door. We have plenty." Well, Grayson has plenty, but the way I see it is that since we're fake-engaged, his wine is my wine.
"Thank you, Miss Jenna," he says. "I have a feeling I'm really going to like you living here."
"Thanks, Alvaro, I'm very pleased you're here too.
" I pat him on the shoulder before I head for the rank of elevators, wondering whether Grayson's chef is cooking dinner for us today, and if so, what it might be.
My stomach rumbles. It's been a long time since lunch, and I've been dreaming about her lobster rolls most of the afternoon.
Right now, I'd give up half my kidney just to taste them again.
I swipe my keycard and walk inside, cutting past the main living room to get to my own room.
"Grayson, I'm—"
I freeze. My throat goes dry, my heart stops beating, and there's a piercing whine in my ear.
Oh my God.
Grayson is in the living room, and he's… I don't know how to describe it.
Technically, I suppose, he's jacking off, but that sounds too simple, too crude, and too… small for what he's doing.
His powerful legs are splayed wide, his body sunk into the cream-colored leather couch.
His head tips, and one could almost think he was asleep, except that I'm staring at the mountain of a cock rising from his open fly.
It's thick, veined, and angry-looking in its hardness.
Even his oversized hand is barely enough to cover its huge girth, and I'm in awe that all that must have fitted inside me.
He drags it through his fist lazily, his body already tense, muscles twitching. A drop of precum glitters at its crown.
I stand there, frozen, my heart thudding in my chest. My throat feels dry, my tongue is parched, and I can already feel myself tracing those veins with my tongue. God, I can feel the shape of him on my tongue. I can almost taste him.
He strokes himself, slow and sensual, intermittently pausing at the base to squeeze lightly. A sound rumbles from his throat, his jaw clenched to show the strain it takes for him to go this slow.
He squeezes once more, near the head, and his body jerks in pleasure.
"Fuck."
His head drops forward as he speeds up, rolling and thrusting his cock through the tightened grip of his fingers.
This cannot be real. It cannot be happening.
I should leave. I shouldn't be watching this, invading his privacy like this.
But he had no qualms about invading my privacy yesterday, and by this stage, temptation has me by the throat.
In any case, my horny brain argues, if he wanted privacy so much, then why is he doing this here, where anyone can see?
Either way, I can't move. There's too much hunger inside me, and my imagination is running wild. It's almost as if I'm watching him deliberately perform for me, and as I watch, I cannot help but imagine that instead of his hand, it's my pussy he's thrusting into.
Or my mouth.
"Oh God."
A small cry escapes my lips before I can catch it. Before I can turn and run, his eyes lift and find mine. He doesn't look shocked, doesn't stop what he's doing. Instead, he smiles—slow and wicked—mischief glinting in his gaze.
That's when it hits me. He planned this. He knew I'd be home soon and set the whole thing up.
Why? Does he want me to do something about it?
Or is this just payback for yesterday?
If it's the latter, it's working. My throat is tight, my pulse wild, and I'm so turned on it's hard to breathe. Watching him stroke his cock with his eyes locked on me makes everything worse.
I can't move. It's embarrassing how easily he's trapped me, how lust scatters my senses and leaves me helpless. Pride insists I should walk away, show him his trick didn't work—but my feet refuse. I'm starving to see more, to experience more.
I want to watch him come—more than I want to breathe.
"Like what you see?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough as thunder.
"What are you doing?" My voice cracks, hoarse and stupid. The question deserves no answer. Why would I ask what's already obvious?
My brain is gone. My wet, needy body has taken control.
My purse slides off my shoulder, my Stanley Cup slips from my hand, clattering somewhere I can't see.
Even knowing I should back away, I drift closer instead, drawn by the magnetic pull of him.
He strokes himself with deliberate calm, his eyes following every inch of my slow approach, his gaze thick with heat and challenge.
When I'm only inches away, I stop. I want everything. I want to unbutton his shirt, to taste him, to ride him until I forget my name. The sheer number of choices paralyzes me. His expression doesn't help; he's watching me like a test I might fail.
"I don't know what to do next," I whisper.
He smiles. "On your knees."
It's both an order and a request. Defiance stiffens my spine. I should turn and walk out just to prove I can. I should make him wait, make him pay.
But instead, I obey. I sink to my knees before him, my mouth watering at the sight of his hard, slick length. I don't wait for another command. I reach for him—but he catches my wrist midair, stopping me cold.
"You remember we said we can't do this again, right?" His grip is firm, his tone unreadable.
"We did?" I blink up at him. I don't remember that. Honestly, I don't remember anything that matters right now.
He smirks. "Yes. We said no more sex."
I don't think he means it. The way he says it—the way his hand tightens on his cock a heartbeat later—proves otherwise. "Fuck," he groans, the sound hitting me like a blow to the gut. My clit throbs; my whole body hums.
"Well, this won't be sex," I say quickly, the words tumbling out. "I'll just touch it a little. Maybe use my tongue a little." Or a lot.
I shift closer, pleading with my eyes and the tremor in my voice. "Don't you want my mouth on you? I'll make it so good for you, I promise."
"God, I love when you beg." His eyes flutter closed, his composure fraying at the edges.
I see it then—the truth behind his calm. He's hanging by a thread. The control he's known for is just smoke and show. Every breath he takes looks like a battle not to give in.
He's still picturing yesterday. Watching me touch myself left him starving, and now even a whisper of contact threatens to undo him.
I edge forward. My lips brush the skin of his thigh as I whisper, "You sure you don't want it?" My tongue slips out, tracing the seam where his balls rest against the base of his cock.
"Oh, fuck, Jenna." His voice breaks. It's not a demand anymore—it's a plea.
"I can stop anytime you want," I murmur, smiling as I swirl my tongue in slow, teasing circles around him. His hands clench, his jaw tight. He thought seeing me on my knees would mean submission—but I'm the one in control now.
I decide when, and how, and whether he comes.
And I'm going to make him pay for trying to seduce me like this.
I draw one ball into my mouth, sucking gently, moaning at the warm, clean taste of him. I love the scent of his cologne, the deeper masculine musk beneath it. I take my time, savoring it, breathing him in while my tongue explores every tense, ridged vein of his shaft.
"Jenna," he rasps, grabbing my hair. The hold isn't rough, just enough to warn how close he is. I don't care. He won't come until I say so.
I keep my slow, merciless rhythm even as he growls and mutters, "Faster."
Instead, I wrap my hand loosely around his length, barely skimming the tip while he curses and tightens his grip on my hair. He's begging without realizing it, trying to hold back and failing.
I ignore him, running the flat of my tongue up the thick column until I reach the swollen crown. Then I flick the tip lightly, fast and sharp.
"Oh God." His back arches; his eyes flash down at me, glittering and wild.
He has no idea what I'll do next, and that uncertainty drives him crazy. Every time I change rhythm, he groans and digs his head into the couch, muscles trembling.
When I finally close my lips around him and start to suck in earnest, the sound that tears from his chest is unlike anything I've ever heard. It's raw, primal, and it feeds me.
He grips tighter, enough to sting, but the small pain only makes me hungrier. I push myself deeper, jaw straining, loving the way his breath breaks apart into harsh gasps and ragged pleas.
Even now, in the middle of it, he's still careful—his thrusts restrained, protective, never forcing more than I can take. That care makes me love it even more.
"Jenna," he warns again, voice cracking. "Fuck, Jenna!"
"Say it," I whisper against his skin. "Say it, and I'll let you come."
He grits his teeth, fighting me to the end. His lips press together, a last act of defiance. I smile against him, then scrape my teeth just lightly beneath the sensitive rim.
His body jerks, a raw curse bursts out. "Fuck me, Jenna—alright, alright… you win!"
Triumph sparks through me. I swallow him down as he comes, hot and pulsing, filling my mouth in desperate waves. His whole body shudders as if the orgasm is tearing him apart.
I stay there, letting him empty every drop, then finally lift my head and meet his eyes. His chest heaves; his face is flushed, undone.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The only sound is our breathing—his ragged, mine trembling.
And when he finally reaches out, fingers brushing my cheek, I can't tell if it's gratitude, affection, or surrender. Maybe all three.
Whatever it is, I feel it sink straight through me, deeper than lust, heavier than logic—something I probably shouldn't name.
Not yet.