Chapter 5 Tit for Tat #4
My stomach does a weird flip at your type—hilarious, given I’m a natural blonde currently cosplaying as a brunette because the bridesmaids ran the numbers and upgraded the presentation.
“He responds to confidence,” West says. “Not desperation. Needy, whiny women bore him. What holds his attention is someone desirable who never quite feels attainable.”
"So I'm supposed to be... unavailable?"
"Intriguing. There's a difference." His gaze flicks over me, assessing. "He notices authenticity more than polish. He's been around enough performative women that genuine reaction—real emotion, real laughter—stands out."
I process this. "So... be myself and make him work for it?"
"Basically." West's mouth twitches. "Which should be easy for you, since you already make everything difficult."
I throw a couch pillow at him.
He catches it, grinning. Then his expression sobers. "But here's the thing, Jane. Knowing what attracts him and actually executing it are very different skills."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning you've spent two days either freezing up or going nuclear. You don't have a middle gear."
The observation lands like a slap. Because he's right. At the pool, I panicked. On the yacht, I went scorched earth on Scarlett. Tonight, I invented an entire fake family to sabotage his evening.
I'm all extremes. No control.
"So teach me," I say quietly.
West goes very still. "What?"
"You said you'd help me. So help me." I turn to face him fully. "Teach me how to... how to be in the middle. How to seduce and hold his attention without combusting."
"Jane—"
"Look, I know I bombed at the pool. I know the yacht was a disaster.
And I know that if I keep winging it, Blake's either going to get bored or Scarlett's going to get me banned from the resort.
" I take a breath. "Grace's tuition depends on this, West. So either help me figure this out, or watch me fail spectacularly while you keep dodging your family's matchmaking brigade. "
“So I owe you now?”
I nod emphatically.
West drags a hand through his hair. Looks at the ceiling like he's asking for divine intervention. Then back at me.
"This is a terrible idea," he says.
“Most of mine are.”
He laughs—short and sharp. Then stands, paces to the window, looks out at the dark ocean.
I follow.
When he turns back to me, his expression is resigned.
"Fine," he says. "But if we're doing this, we're doing it right."
My stomach drops. "What does that mean?"
"It means you need to understand proximity. Control." He moves back to the couch, and sits. "How to be close to someone without losing yourself in the process."
"Okay..."
"Come here."
I blink. "Why?"
"Because theory and practice are very different things." His voice is steady. Professional. "And you can't learn this from across the room."
I cross the space between us, back to the couch.
He watches me approach with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
“You don’t tense up with me,” he observes.
My pulse kicks.
“You don’t shut down with me,” he says quietly. “Not because I’m safe—but because you don’t have any adverse reaction to me.”
I frown. “That’s… a lot of self-flattery.”
“It’s useful,” he corrects. “With Blake, he’s a job. A lie. And you don’t like him.”
“Which is why your current approach won’t work. You can’t seduce a man who repulses you. Not convincingly. Not without him sensing the fakeness.”
I swallow. Because that’s exactly it.
“So what do you suggest?” I ask, frustration creeping into my voice. “Give up? Let Natalie marry him blind?”
And say goodbye to the fifty thousand dollars for Grace’s tuition?
“Listen, this isn’t about teaching you seduction,” he states calmly. “It’s about learning how to stay present while you’re performing interest—long enough to control it.”
I stare at him. “So I have to build… tolerance.”
“Control,” he corrects. “Tolerance implies suffering. This is about staying present long enough to sell the lie. Then seduction can happen.”
It’s logical. Insane, but logical. And the best part—it’s fixable. I just need practice.
“So teach me,” I say again.
“Jane, what are you even sugges—”
“I know the risks,” I cut in. “But I can’t seduce someone I don’t like if my body keeps short-circuiting. And I’m out of time.”
I lift my chin. “So either help me learn how to override it—or watch me blow the job.”
He exhales slowly. Long. Measured.
“This is a bad idea,” he says.
“Most effective ones start off that way.”
A beat. Then he nods once.
“Fine,” he says. “But we do this deliberately.”
“Deliberately… how?”
He shifts closer, voice focused.
“You learn how to stay in your body when every instinct wants you to pull away.”
He gestures to the space in front of him.
"Sit on my lap."
My brain short-circuits. "I—what?"
"You asked me to teach you." His expression doesn't waver. "So I'm teaching you. Blake will get close. He'll test your boundaries. And when he does, you need to know how to control the situation without freezing or running."
He pats his thigh. "Sit."
This is crazy! Absolutely insane.
But I asked for this. And he's right—I can't keep shutting down every time Blake gets in my personal space.
I take a deep breath.
Okay, Jane. You can do this. You watched Fifty Shades. You read that one article about ‘The Art of Seduction’ while waiting for laundry. You’ve got this.
I meet West’s gaze, trying to channel smoky confidence.
I push up from my end of the couch and step across the cushions toward him. One step. Then another, like I’m daring myself to keep going.
He doesn’t move. Just watches me, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips.
I stop when I’m close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough to smell the salt on his skin, the clean scent of his soap.
“Okay, Prescott,” I say, aiming for sultry but landing somewhere near ‘nervous chipmunk’.
“Lesson one.”
I lift my hand. Place it flat on his chest, right over his heart. His skin is warm. His heartbeat is strong and steady beneath my palm. My fingertips brush the pulse point at the base of his throat. It’s beating fast.
Good.
Then I… hop.
Not slide. Not ease down.
Just straight up and onto his lap like this is a very strange trust exercise.
West lets out a startled breath. “Whoa—no. Jane.”
I freeze, fully facing him, knees planted on either side of his thighs.
“That’s not sitting,” he says.
“You said lap.”
“I didn’t mean mount,” he replies. “You’re not saddling a horse.”
“I am not mounting you.”
“You absolutely are.”
I try to fix it, shifting my weight to one side. My knee slides. My balance wobbles. I overcorrect, which somehow makes it worse.
“Okay, now you’re doing too much,” he says.
“I’m adjusting.”
“You’re—”
I move again, attempting to angle myself sideways like he clearly intended, but the movement just turns into an awkward shuffle that has us both rethinking gravity.
“Jane.”
“What?!”
He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s fine. Just—stay where you are.”
“Here?”
“Yes. There.” He pauses, visibly bracing himself. “Do not move.”
So I don’t.
Which is how I end up straddling him anyway.
He looks up at me, unimpressed. Resigned.
“We are never speaking of this part again,” he says.
“Agreed.”
“Good.” He settles back against the couch. “Now. Back to the lesson.”
"Relax," he says.
"I'm relaxed."
"You're a wooden board."
"Wooden boards are very relaxed."
His hands settle on my waist. Carefully. Controlled. Just resting there, thumbs pressing gently into the skin above my hips.
"Rule one," he says. "Stop thinking so loud."
"I'm not—"
"I can hear your internal monologue from here." His thumbs press slightly. "Stop narrating. Start feeling."
I try to breathe normally. Failing spectacularly.
"When you're this close to someone," he continues, voice dropping, "everything you do matters. Where you put your hands. How you breathe. Whether you hold eye contact or look away."
"Where should I—"
"Put your hands on my shoulders."
I obey. His shoulders are solid muscle under my palms, warm through the thin fabric of his shirt.
"Good," he murmurs. "Now lean in. Slowly."
I lean forward an inch.
The space between us shrinks. I can feel his breath. Can see the flecks of lighter blue in his eyes.
"This is where most people fail," he says quietly. "They rush. They get nervous and try to skip ahead. But seduction is about the anticipation. The almost. Make him wait for it."
“That’s step nine of the seventeen I read,” I say. “But it never mentions for how long—”
"Until he breaks, Jane."
His hands tighten on my waist. Just slightly. Just enough that I feel the strength in them, the restraint.
My pulse is hammering. Every nerve ending is firing. This is a lesson. This is professional. This is part of the deal.
But nothing about the way he's looking at me feels professional.
"Jane," he says, and my name sounds different in his voice now. Rougher.
"Yeah?"
"You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"Thinking of escape." His thumb strokes once along my hipbone. "Focus on feeling instead."
So I do.
I let myself notice the way his chest rises and falls. The heat of his hands. The tension in his jaw. The way his gaze keeps dropping to my mouth and dragging back up like it costs him something.
"Better," he murmurs.
“Getting there.” I force myself to keep moving. I trail my fingers up the column of his neck, into the short hair at his nape. It’s soft, surprisingly so.
His eyes flutter shut for a second. His grip on my waist tightens.
I lean in, pressing my body flush against his. Every inch of him is hard muscle against my softer curves. The heat between us is instantaneous, overwhelming.
I brush my lips against the rough stubble along his jawline. “Is this… convincing?” I whisper against his skin.
He shudders. A full-body tremor that vibrates through me. His hands slide down, gripping my hips, pulling me even tighter against him.
“Jane,” he warns, his voice strained.