21. Jane
CHAPTER 21
JANE
I don’t believe that the Spanish fly is an aphrodisiac that turns women into nymphomaniacs, but if it were, it would feel a lot like the way dancing with Adrian makes me feel. I’m not sure if it’s the closeness, his bespoke suit, or the intensity in his silver eyes, but my glasses keep fogging up, as well as my panties. Relatedly, he moves with such rhythm and precision that he can add “dancer” to his already-long list of things he’s amazing at.
Miss Miller believes that dancing in general—and the waltz in particular—isn’t something that an unmarried lady should indulge in. Nor should a lady dance with the same gentleman so many times in a row. Nor ? —
The music stops. I suppress my crushing disappointment. Turns out, I’m one of those girls who could dance the whole night away—who knew?
“People are about to pledge their donations,” Adrian explains. “Lots of showing-off is about to ensue.”
I nod knowingly. “That means you have to be there.”
He grins. “Actually, I already donated online.”
“I guess when you’re rich enough and everyone knows it, you don’t need to publicly flaunt your wealth. You’ve got nothing to prove.”
His grin widens. “Don’t let the other members of the one percent hear you—you might start a new trend.”
Why is my chest feeling so light? “This stays between us,” I say conspiratorially. “What should we do now?”
Example: go to some club to dance.
“Want to talk in the lounge area?” He extends his arm to me.
Since I’m not brave enough to push for more dancing, I accept his arm, and we promenade to the area in question where a waiter tempts us with a tray of champagne.
Adrian grabs a drink, so I follow his lead.
“What do you think of the event so far?” Adrian asks.
I sip the champagne—and it’s divine, of course. “In my favorite books, they would call it ‘the squeeze of the season.’”
He chuckles. “That sounds like we’re talking about orange juice.”
I take another sip of champagne and shock myself by asking, “So what’s the deal with you and Sydney?”
Why not marry her for real? She’s attractive and rich, and only slightly bitchy.
Adrian blows out a breath. “She and I went to prep school together—insert joke about entitled rich kids here.”
I snort. “If anyone makes fun of prep schools, it’s because they’re jealous they couldn’t get their kids into them, or themselves. That or they watched too much Gossip Girl .”
“Right,” he says. “Sydney was one of the mean girls back in school, which I found abhorrent back then—and my opinion on it only worsened over the years. We were both popular kids, so she decided that she wanted me as a feather in her cap, but I wasn’t interested so she dropped the pursuit.” He sighs. “Cut to about a year ago when I was in a phase of my life when I partied too much. I was at a club on molly—the drug, not a woman—and bumped into Sydney. It started off as us asking each other about what happened to so-and-so from our school days, and then the rest played out like a ‘Just Say No’ ad: I fucked a woman I despise, got her pregnant, and here we are.”
My head spins, and not just from the magnificent champagne. He told me before that she’d lied about having an IUD—and that she might’ve poked a hole in the condom they used, which means she never gave up on her prep school ambition.
I put a hand on his leg—a reassuring gesture that has nothing to do with wanting to feel the powerful muscle under my fingertips. “I get why you don’t want to marry her.”
“If I thought marrying her would actually benefit Piper, I’d make that sacrifice,” he says. “But it would only harm our daughter. Even marriages based on love end in divorce half the time, so what chance would I have with a woman who is like the oil to my water?”
I squeeze his leg—again, not because I’m a perv. “I wasn’t judging you for not wanting to.”
“The crazy thing is, even if a time machine existed, I wouldn’t change that night—not after meeting Piper.”
“I get it,” I say as my heart tightens in my chest.
I’m glad Piper has a father who loves her this much, but I’m also jealous and curious about what it must be like.
Adrian covers my hand with his. “The two of us have only known each other for two days, yet I’m confident that if our marriage were to be real, we’d have a much better chance than me and the mother of my child. How sad is that?”
I stare at him, my heart now fluttering somewhere around my uvula. Did he just say that we’d be good together for real? No, can’t be. He’s just contrasting me with the woman that he despises, so naturally, I come out the winner.
Pulling my hand away from his, I down my champagne and feel bubbles assaulting my nose.
“Sorry,” he says and waves at the nearby waiter to get me another flute. “I don’t mean to be a downer tonight.”
“You’re not a downer,” I say, accepting the drink. “Besides, I was the one who asked.”
“You did,” he says. “Which means now it’s your turn.”
“For what?”
His silver eyes seem to penetrate into my soul and all the way down to my coccyx as he says, “Tell me about you. What do you like?”
I cock my head. “You mean besides books?”
Sipping his drink, he nods.
“I like classical music.” I move my glasses higher up my nose. “And you already know about my movie watching with my mom, as well as?—”
“No,” he says with a headshake. “Tell me something more intimate.”
A blush spreads over my cheeks. “If you mean former relationships, there isn’t much to tell. Back in high school, I went on a couple of dates, but I was too busy in college with studying. My plan was to get on something like Tinder once I became a librarian.” At which point I’d have my GD—but there’s no way I’m bringing that up again, especially not when the champagne is making me feel like I want Adrian to handle that particular task.
“I’m sorry you’re not going to get the chance to date for the next couple of years,” he says, but he doesn’t look like he means it.
If anything, there’s an almost satisfied gleam in his silver eyes.
I frown, then decide I’m imagining it. “It’s fine. Getting on Tinder doesn’t mean I’d actually meet anyone.”
He rolls his eyes. “You’d have to swat men away with a stick. Trust me.”
Is it the champagne bubbles again, or are there drunk butterflies in my stomach?
“Tell me an embarrassing secret,” he says.
I smile weakly. “You mean besides being a virgin?”
“Yeah, that one isn’t embarrassing in the slightest.”
“Fine,” I say—and can’t believe I’m about to admit this. “I often think about myself in third person, where I roleplay a Victorian lady named Miss Miller.” He’s already grinning, but I go on. “I also always dress up as Miss Miller for Halloween and have more corsets than a dominatrix.”
His grin turns devilish. “Just Halloween? Be honest.”
My face is so hot it must be a shade of pink only bees can see. “Sometimes I dress up that way just as a pick-me-up.”
His eyes grow hooded. “Once you move in tomorrow, you’re welcome to promenade around my apartment in cosplay any time you want. In fact, I’ll pay you an extra million dollars if you do so.”
“Oh, God. I completely forgot about the move.”
He waves his hand dismissively. “I hired the best movers money can buy. They’ll take care of everything. You don’t need to worry.”
Yeah, no. The logistics of moving aren’t what I’m worried about. It’s living with the proverbial sex on a stick.
Miss Miller will henceforth forgo eating anything on sticks ever again, including but not limited to: ice cream, kebabs, and—just in case—a sandwich if it’s held together by a toothpick.
“I think you’re trying to trick me,” I say as a way to change the topic to something less blush-worthy. “I told you my embarrassing secret. You have to tell me yours.”
“Right,” he says. “But before I do, I have to remind you about the NDA.”
I bite my lip. “You make it sound juicy.”
He takes in a big breath, then blurts out, “I can’t swim.”
I wait for some sort of punchline, but it never comes. “You don’t know how to swim?”
“I know how. I just can’t.”
“That makes no sense.” I gulp my drink, but that only makes the whole issue murkier.
Miss Miller does not think getting foxed on champagne will improve a lady’s skills at conversation.
Adrian shrugs. “Cats can instinctively swim, but few like to get wet.”
“But you have a pool room in your place,” I say. “Or was that a joke?”
“Oh, I have a pool,” he says. “But ever since the thing with my parents, I won’t get into pools, or any other body of water bigger than a bathtub. Relatedly, I don’t go onto pool floats, boats, cruise ships, ferries, giant ducks—or anything else that goes over the surface of water.”
I was just about to tease him about this mercilessly, but if it has to do with his parents’ deaths, I won’t even smile.
“The pool is now a ball pit,” he continues. “But the name of the room kind of stuck.”
Now I grin. “You have a pool-sized ball pit?”
“It’s actually very fun, and I’m sure Piper will appreciate it when she’s older.”
I feel that pull toward him again. I think it’s the way his eyes lit up when he mentioned his daughter’s name. He must feel it too because his eyes flare and darken, and he leans toward me.
Heavens. Our lips are close. So close I feel the heat coming from his.
And then the damned music turns on again.
Adrian snaps out of whatever spell came over us and straightens. “Seems like the pledging is done. Would you like to dance?”
I would, but I shouldn’t. This already feels too much like a date. If we dance any longer, my heart is going to get even more confused.
I shift away from him on the couch. “I’d better go home so I can get good sleep tonight. Before the move and all.”
“Ah. Of course. I’ll take you now.”
Should I be flattered by how disappointed he looks and sounds?
“Have the limo take me,” I say, feeling like a coward. “There’s no reason for you to personally shlep to Staten Island and back.”
His face is hard to read. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is,” I lie.
Standing up, he offers me his elbow again, and we walk to the car. As we approach it, my heartbeat skyrockets. The night has felt so much like a date that if he were to try to kiss me at the end, it wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest. It would give me palpitations, but wouldn’t surprise me.
He opens the door. “Have a safe trip.”
He leans in.
I almost have a heart attack.
He pecks me on the forehead—because of course he does.
I slink into the car, my cheeks so hot you could fry an omelet on them.
On the trip back, I replay everything that’s happened since I met Adrian, and it feels like a dream.
And tomorrow, I’ll move in with him. This fact is difficult to even wrap my mind around—but I try, for the whole ride home.
When I walk into the house, Mom and Mary demand every detail, so I tell them, and by the time I’m done, I start to yawn.
“Go to sleep,” Mom says when Mary matches my yawn with one of her own.
Good idea. I go through all my nightly rituals and get into bed—which is when sleep decides to become elusive.
Fine. It seems I’m too wired and have too much Adrian swirling through my busy mind.
So be it. I begin a new novel, and it keeps me busy until I get to the very shmexy scene where the rakish duke rips off the heroine’s bodice.
I close the book.
I have an idea about how to make myself sleepy and release some of the tension Adrian has caused.
Miss Miller can foresee what is coming and must prophylactically reach for the smelling salts.
Yep. Just because I’m a virgin doesn’t mean I don’t masturbate—which is exactly what I need if I want to get any shut-eye tonight.
I reach under the blanket and begin brushing my fingers over my clit—and as I do, I picture Adrian as the duke from the book and myself as the bodice-less lady.
Boom. The orgasm bursts through me like a cork out of a well-shaken champagne bottle.
Finally satisfied, I fall asleep, and Adrian appears to me in a dream, naked and hard. Naturally, he deflowers me, and there’s only one word that can describe the act.
Grand.