Chapter 11
11
Jake
Fuck. Me.
Biggest orgasm of my life. In the dark with a woman who’s using me for my come.
A cynical smile twists my lips as I gather my last few functioning brain cells and ease out slowly, then turn and collapse onto the bed with an old man groan.
“Sorry, just need…”
“It’s fine.” She rolls away and scoots up the bed. I picture her getting into some specific conception pose and then imagine laying a hand on her leg, stroking it, picturing how it would feel to stay inside her, go hard again, and start the whole thing all over.
Hell, I could go for hours with this woman, especially with how pent up I’ve been since we decided to try it. Since she agreed to let me breed her.
Jesus, have I developed a fucking use me kink or something?
For Katarina Esteban?
The problem, right now, is that I’m already hoping once won’t be enough and though it’s shitty as hell of me, I hope it takes many, many tries and I hope every one of those takes place on my cock.
“You can, um…go anytime. I mean, sorry, I’m not kicking you out. I’m just…” Her uncomfortable laugh makes me want hug her. “Going to lie here for a bit and…”
“Hope it takes?”
“Yeah.” Another awkward laugh.
“All right.” With a groan of effort, I sit up and roll out of bed, conveniently dressed, except for my shoes. I tuck myself back into my pants and have to try three times before I can get my zipper up. With a hard shake of my head, I feel around with my feet, grab one boot, and then struggle to find the other. “Any chance I could turn the light on? Can’t find my shoes.”
“Oh. Oh, sure. Yeah. Right.”
I edge back against the bed and lean over to the light, flicking it on to the sound of rustling fabric. Once my eyes have finally adjusted to the brightness, I slide my foot into the second boot and bend to tie them both before standing.
I scrub my hands through my hair and turn to see her lying on her back, legs curled against her belly, the white hotel sheet drawn up literally to her neck, as if me seeing some portion of her would ruin this somehow.
For the first time, a wave of something like resentment flows through me, unfounded as hell. Not to mention pointless.
None of this was about me. I’ve got to remember that.
It’s for her. Like a gift.
I swallow hard.
“All right.” I can’t look at her, lying there after letting me fuck her raw, hiding all that glorious woman-scented heat under a hotel sheet. “You need anything?”
“I’m good!” The chipper thing is definitely an act. Pisses me off.
“See you at work.” It takes effort not to drag my feet on my way to the door. I want to stay, goddamn it. I want to wrap myself up in that sheet with her, bathing in the scent of us, and play with her beautiful body.
Better get out of here.
“Yep! See you tomorrow. Bye, Jake.” I’m halfway out the door when she adds a low, “Thank you,” like she’s not sure she should say it or not.
And, honestly, I don’t know either. On the one hand, yeah, it’s a favor. On the other, we both know I asked for it.
I asked for it.
Now, all I can think about is getting more.
Kit
I almost came. Oh my god. I almost came during actual sex, without involving my hands or his or a vibrator or anything.
After the door clicks shut, leaving me in this bed, alone with my knees up and my dress bunched around my waist, that near-orgasm is all I can think about.
I’ve never gotten off from penetrative sex alone. Not once in my life. But today…
Ugh. Why?
Why now? Why this man instead of the man I was married to? Actually, never mind. I’m glad I never came with that asshole.
But…Jake?
I mean, yes. One look at the man and you know there’s not a single unsatisfied woman in his past. He’s probably given more orgasms with that massive thing between his legs than I’ve experienced in my entire lifetime.
I reach down and feel the wetness—his, mine. My fingers slide easily through the sticky mess and glance against my clit, sending pleasure zapping through me.
Without thinking about it, I let myself play, down and up, again, again, then circle my clit with the precision of habit. Oh, wow. Wow. I’m so close.
A few mindless circles and I orgasm, quick and tight. My whole body clenches, my eyes, my toes, my abs. I turn and stuff my face into the pillow, willing the pleasure to last, while already steeling myself against the familiar infusion of guilt.
Tears rush up the back of my throat to crowd my sinuses, burning hot as acid. I manage to hold them back.
Pleasure wasn’t the point of this.
For him it was.
For me, it’s supposed to be… What? Penance? Punishment? A life sentence?
Throwing back the sheet, I roll to standing, walk to the chair where I left my things, and slip on my underwear and leggings. I won’t shower until later. Maybe tomorrow morning.
Already, his come’s sliding out of me and I can’t for the life of me figure out how this makes me feel, aside from blindsided.
Quickly, I finish getting ready—not daring to look in the mirror, given my inner turmoil—and head out. Once on the road, I find myself turning toward the restaurant instead of home.
Avoidance, my therapist would call it. Working my ass off instead of facing the issues at hand. Scrubbing and cleaning until my body’s aching and my brain’s no longer swirling with possibilities I can’t for one second contemplate.
Yeah, well, avoidance it is.
I’ve been there for all of thirty minutes when there’s a knock at the door.
Shit. No. I can’t face anyone right now.
Another knock. Dammit.
I stand from where I’m cleaning out the inside of the bar fridge. Something that feels an awful lot like anticipation runs through my belly when I see him through the glass door. As if it could be anyone else.
Maybe he forgot something here. Maybe that’s it. Or maybe he’s like me and needs work to distract him from what we did in that hotel room.
Yeah, right.
Whatever the case, I unlock the door, avoiding his gaze as he comes inside. It slams closed. We stand here.
“You okay?” His light eyes search my face.
I nod. “Yep. You?”
“Yeah. I thought I’d…” He indicates the kitchen and then stops, arms dropping at his sides. “You think it worked?”
By it he obviously means the pregnancy. I know it’s not meant to be sexy, yet my body seems to think it’s unspeakably hot. Every time we talk about it. Every time he comes close, I’m turned on.
“There’s no way of?—”
“I know that. But I’ve heard people just know sometimes. Like an instinct or something.”
After a second’s consideration, I shake my head. “No. Nothing.”
He nods, shoves his hands in the back pockets of those hip-hugging trousers, and looks over the big dining room. “You’re ovulating, right?”
After a shocked initial reaction, I nod. “Yeah.”
“Let me know when you’re ready to try again,” he says, innocuously enough, though his expression’s pure fire.
I nod.
With that, he opens the door and walks back out into the night. Tattooed perfection in custom-cut clothes.
I don’t allow myself to watch him stalk to his truck or drive out of the lot. It’s a problem, I guess, that I want to. I can imagine his long-legged stride well enough: the solid, wide back, the way his thighs fill out pants that were not conceived to contain so much muscle. He’s all heft, all brawn, and yet, walking back to the bar, I concede that there’s another side to the man. Under the tattoos, the scars, and the hard bulk I’ve now felt the weight of, there’s a person who’s got just as complicated a history as mine. Maybe more.
I stare down at the shiny bar, towel in hand, for half a minute before it occurs to me that we both just insinuated we’ll be doing it again, which is absolutely against the rules. My rules, dammit.
Once, the contract said. One time only . And now…
I pull out my phone to text him that it’s not happening again, but end up opening my fertility tracker app instead and the first thing I see is the ovulation symbol, big and fat and happily smiling at me from the calendar.
Maybe…maybe I can change this one rule, to up my chances of getting pregnant. Just the one.
Instead of the cease and desist message I’d planned on sending, I tap out a quick: Tomorrow, same time and place, hit send, and shove my phone away like it’s dangerous.
Immediately I pull it back out and type: One time only. No more changing the rules. We have a contract.
Sure, he replies. I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or straightforward.
Quickly, I reserve a room, wishing it weren’t quite so expensive, although it’s nothing compared to the cost of IVF.
I select my payment information, hit the Confirm button, and stare down at where it says the reservation’s nonrefundable.
This is a bad idea, isn’t it?
Yeah. It’s a terrible idea. But nonrefundable means there’s no going back now.
I do my best to ignore my excitement.