Chapter 8 Jessie #2
Every night is the same as the first night.
The same, but worse. I wait until I hear him start jerking off and then tell him what to do.
Every night I edge him harder, and my instructions are darker and dirtier than they were the night before.
On Wednesday night I make him pinch his nipples so hard they’re dark pink and peaked the next morning and he flinches when he sinks down into the ocean.
I spend the whole time we’re at the beach after our run trying not to look.
I try not to look when he’s on the lounger at home and I try not to look when Gould and Chase come round in the afternoon and he’s wearing a soft cotton tank that clings to his chest. I do allow myself brief leeway to fantasize about strangling Gould with the phone charger he finally remembered to bring over when he drapes his arm around Luke and his hand hovers a little too close to those tight, pebbled nipples for my liking, but I feel that can’t be helped.
On Thursday I make him taste his precum and tell me he likes it. I make him squeeze the tip of his dick until he’s squealing and begging for release. Then I make him wait until I’m convinced he’s lost his ability to speak or reason.
On Friday I resolve to be gentle. I do my best, but gentle has never come naturally to me. I make him ride the wave of his peak over and over, pulling back at the last second each time. The fourth time he says, “Jessie, please.”
I tell him to lick the middle finger on his free hand and I make him circle his hole.
I make him repeat my instruction back to me and I make him swear he’s doing as I say.
I make him tell me he likes it. I tell him the only way I’ll allow him to come is if he presses his finger inside himself all the way up to the second knuckle.
His orgasm comes less than two seconds later.
It sounds guttural and harsh. Almost violent.
I spend all day trying not to think about the sounds he makes when I tell him to touch himself, low groans when I tell him to stroke and anguished whimpers when I make him back up.
The sounds travel through plaster and paint and land like a soft caress on my skin.
I try not to think about how when it’s over, I lie on my side, facing the wall, pathetically pressing my hand against the wall and I wait. Every night I wait for him to say it.
“Jessie.”
His throat sounds dry when he says it. I try not to think about how much I like the way my name sounds coming from him.
I lie there aching, arousal running so thick in my veins, my heart feels like it’s taking serious strain pumping blood to my limbs.
I don’t touch myself. I don’t allow it. I wait until I’m positive he’s asleep.
He sleeps with his door open. Last night I stood in his doorway and peered in, making sure his eyes were closed and his breathing was deep.
I watched him for a while then I jacked it in the shower, like a grown-up.
And yes, I’m someone who currently takes at least two long showers per day.
Why do you ask?
Most of all the thing I try not to notice and the thing I try not to think about is that as the days go by, Luke looks worse and worse.
He looks tired in the morning. Dark circles have appeared beneath his eyes.
Yesterday we watched an entire episode of The White Lotus and he didn’t say a single word the whole time. Not one.
This morning he’s wearing his goddamn sleeping shorts again, his hair is standing on end, and he has two cups of coffee and only one breakfast. No fruit snack whatsoever. No assault, sexual or otherwise, on any part of the yogurt container.
I’d love it if I didn’t have to see his bare chest all the time. His nipples look normal again. Flat and soft dusty pink. The sight of them makes me feel dangerously inflamed. “Could you put some clothes on?”
He looks at me for several beats longer than such a simple request warrants.
He holds my gaze and clenches his jaw so slightly you probably wouldn’t notice it if you weren’t a person making an idiotic habit of studying his face.
He lowers his jaw. I do the same. An image of two bulls locking horns comes to mind.
“No,” he says lightly.
“D’you mind if I take your car? I want to go for a drive, get my bearings a little.”
“Sure,” says my dad, tossing his keys to me.
“Can I come?” Luke’s lips are quirked up at the sides. They’re soft and puffy. A little too soft and too puffy for his masculine face. Something about them makes me want to hold his head firmly in both hands and bite down hard on his bottom lip.
“I’m a nervous driver,” I lie. “I like to get to know the car before I drive a passenger.”
Luke’s face falls but my dad looks impressed at how responsible I am.
“Why don’t we dust off the boards, Lu?” says Rachel. “The waves look good today and it’s been ages since we went for a surf.”
“Nah, I don’t feel like it. Might just chill here.”
I swing my backpack over one shoulder and head out. As I turn to give them a wave, I see Rachel leaning down, feeling Luke’s forehead with the back of her hand.
“Don’t forget to drive on the right side of the road!” calls my dad before I close the door to the garage.
My dad is probably the only guy on the entire coast who owns an SUV that doesn’t have a grain of sand in it.
His car is in pristine condition. It’s all sleek surfaces and soft cream leather interiors.
I stamp my feet a few times to shake any dust or sand off my shoes before I get in and then I set off.
It’s exhilarating being on the open road.
It feels like freedom. My dad has the radio set to a station that heavily favors nineties rock.
I don’t change it, I love it. I crank up the volume and open the windows.
The sea breeze whips around the car and coastal views are so spectacular I feel like good things are not only possible, but probable.
I head up the coast for ten miles or so and on my way back I make the stop I’ve been promising myself all week I wouldn’t make.
The store isn’t as seedy as I was expecting.
The service is good. Great actually. The sales assistant, Laurel, sets me at ease.
She has curly blond hair, loads of tattoos and wears librarian-style glasses.
She’s reading what appears to be a hardcore BDSM romance novel when I walk in.
Far from being embarrassed about it, she holds up a hand to me and says, “Give me a sec hun, I just got to the good part.”
I browse around, feeling like an odd combination of a pervert and someone who’s woefully sexually inexperienced.
Despite my assurance that I don’t need any help, Laurel saunters over and makes a bunch of suggestions.
I end up getting what I was looking for and a couple of things I had no idea I needed or wanted.
Even though I already have my own (and I know for a fact Luke does too), I buy a bottle of lube on the strength of Laurel’s endorsement; “I’m telling you, hun, you could park a minivan in a garden hose with this stuff. ”
When I get home, my dad is waiting on the front steps for me.
“What do you think of the car?” he asks.
“I love it. The steering is direct and it handles well on the open road.” To be clear, I have no idea what I’m talking about.
I’ve heard guys talking this kind of nonsense in reference to cars and I’m emulating them just for the hell of it.
I guess my little visit with Laurel has left me in high spirits or something.
My dad’s eyes crease deeply. “I was hoping you’d like it. Been thinking of getting a new car and was thinking it might be nice for you to have this one.”
I’m shocked. I can hardly believe it. “Are you kidding me?”
“No, I’m dead serious. You’re going to need a reliable car for school in LA. The X5 is only a couple of years old and has a list of safety features as long as my arm. I want you to have it.”
“Sweet!”
Oh Jesus. It is catching.
I don’t have time to mind though. My dad wraps his arms around me and crushes me against him.
I close my arms around his neck and for the first time in a really, really long time I let myself inhale as I do it.
The comforting scent of the man who used to smell like home hits me at once.
It makes me feel like something deep inside me has been tensing, bracing for impact, and as I breathe in it starts to release.
When he lets me go my first thought is that I want to call my mom and tell her about my new car.
My second is the all-too familiar sense of dread and inevitability, knowing beyond doubt that as much as she loves me and wants to be happy for me, she can’t find it within herself to hear my dad’s name and not get upset about it.
Instead, I send her a message asking her how she slept and leave it at that.
“Are you pumped to meet Izzy, or what?”
“Mm,” I say for the fourth time.
We’re on our way to Ribera Beach to meet the elusive Izzy.
I don’t remember agreeing to go, but that doesn’t seem to matter.
We park and pick our way down to the beach.
I follow, both hands free, while he carries a huge YETI, two beach towels, and a picnic blanket.
The beach is secluded, a mix of soft sand and pebbles with tide pools that empty and fill as the waves come in.
I stand to the side and watch as he lays out the picnic blanket and snacks Rachel packed for us.
Izzy and Chase arrive a few minutes later.
“I told you to take that first parking spot,” grumbles Chase as they approach us.
“What’s wrong with a little walk? Fresh air might do you good. Might get your head out of Overwatch and into real life.”
“There’s more chance of you getting your head out your ass.”
She cracks a smile, though I can tell she’s trying not to.
Luke bounds over to them, embracing Izzy and swinging her feet off the ground.
“Jessie! Get over here. Izzy’s here.”