13. ELLY
13
ELLY
J ack Lansen is an idiot. If he thinks having sex with him is worth more to me than a hundred thousand pounds, he’s going to be sorely disappointed. He’s so arrogant, he probably does think that.
Doesn’t he know what that much money means to me? I wouldn’t have to live paycheck to paycheck anymore, or scrimp every month, struggling to make ends meet. I might even be able to save something, and if I can save then I won’t have to go home and live with my parents and give up my dream of making a living from my music.
This game could change my life, and if Jack Lansen is enough of a fool to offer the chance, then I’m grabbing it with both hands. There is absolutely no way in hell I am going to lose. In fact, I’m determined to win as fast as possible. I’ll be irresistible, but unattainable. That’s my game plan.
Irresistible, but unattainable.
I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, wearing a pale pink camisole and French knickers, and wondering if it’s too much to go down to breakfast in them. They’re cute and sexy without being explicit. I could definitely play them off as my regular underwear (although, of course, they aren’t. They’re for special occasions only).
I shimmy in front of the mirror, fluff my mass of blonde curls, and decide that— fuck it —if Jack Lansen wants to play, then we’re going to play. And I am going to have fun doing it. Excitement fizzes beneath my skin. Even though this whole scenario is stupid, and I will never, ever, admit I engaged in it to Kate, I want to play with Jack . I might even be grateful for this silly game, because it ties me to him, linking us together in a way I couldn’t have achieved otherwise. I’m not just any old housemate; I’m the other half of this game he’s concocted.
We’re playing with fire.
On my way down the stairs, I realise it’s pretty cold. Not cold like Jack hasn’t turned the heating on, but cold like it’s autumn and there’s a chill in the air. My nipples are hardening beneath the silk, and I’m under-dressed and covered in goosebumps.
The gurgle of the coffee machine greets me. Jack’s in there . Annoyingly, my stomach does a little flip. Or three. Flip, flip, flip .
The Commodores, Easy , is playing in the background, so softly that I can only hear it if I really concentrate.
As I hit the bottom step, I take a deep breath, ready to swan around Jack's glamorous designer kitchen in my underwear. I turn the corner and stop short, because he's standing by the oven, wearing only a pair of boxers.
He’s cooking, and the sight of his muscled back, and the shifting hollow between his shoulder blades as he prods at something in a pan, has my breath catching in my throat and my mouth drying.
He must have heard me come in because he glances back at me, does a brief eye-sweep of my attire, and turns back to the food with a quick, “Morning, El.”
Shit . My sexy French undies seem to have had no impact on him, whereas he’s effortlessly exuding sex appeal. He doesn’t even have to try. Maybe he wears his boxers around the kitchen every weekend. And why wouldn’t he? He lives alone, most of the time.
“Eggs?” he says. “There’s fresh coffee.” He jerks his head towards a pot sitting on the island. He takes the pan he’s been prodding off the stove and rests it on the side, then turns fully in my direction. As he does, every word I intend to say disintegrates in my mouth because he is absolutely, spectacularly perfect.
Every muscle is drawn in perfect relief. His pecs are sculpted, and the ridges between his abs are so deep I want to lick them, and the tapering V of muscle that disappears beneath the waistband of his boxers is like a neon arrow pointing at the goods hidden down there.
I can’t handle Jack Lansen without a shirt on. If I keep staring, I’ll start to drool. I don’t know why I thought I could play this game, because if anyone is irresistible right now, it’s Jack.
I’m going to lose.
He must have done this deliberately. He saw my reaction when he took off his shirt on my first night here, so he knows exactly what effect his bare skin has on me. But he’s being so casual. Am I attributing the wrong motive to his near nudity?
“Eggs, El?” Jack repeats, frowning at me.
I gather myself. I’m a performer. I can do this.
Be sexy. Sexy, sexy, sexy.
“Yes, please,” I say, taking a seat at the island, attempting to slide onto the designer stool as gracefully as possible, but my bare thighs stick to the seat. If I make any sudden movements, they’ll squeak against the leather like a fart.
My muscles tense with the strain of staying as still as possible. I can’t have my first move in this game be letting out an enormous skin-on-leather squelch. That’s definitely not going to bring Jack Lansen to his knees.
“You look a bit uncomfy there, El,” Jack says, casting an assessing look over me. “Everything okay?”
I wince as I carefully raise my bare thigh off the leather, praying no noise erupts. Easy does it. “Fine. Yeah. I’m good,” I tell him, as I shift silently into a new position.
That was a close call. Jack, oblivious to my concerns, flashes a cheeky grin as he plates up some eggs and slides them across to me. He pours me a coffee and pushes that across too.
“You do this for all the girls?” I ask.
He chortles as though my question has surprised him. “Yeah. Nothing like morning-after eggs. When I bring someone home, we tend to work up an appetite.”
A flicker of pain slashes through my chest, but I force my smile to hold. “I thought you were supposed to be seducing me, not telling me about all your conquests.”
“You asked. I’m not going to lie to you. I’m not going to deceive you into bed.”
“You’re not playing dirty, you mean?”
Jack laughs heartily, and something deep inside me begins to glow, because the sight of this handsome half-naked man laughing is sexy as sin. Suddenly, it doesn't matter how many other people he's been with because, in this moment, it's just us. “Speaking of playing,” he says, “I wrote this out. For clarity.”
He puts a cheque on the island, made out to me. I pick it up and inspect it. It’s unsigned, but on the back he’s written, ‘ I, Jack Lansen, do solemnly swear to pay Elly Carter One Hundred Thousand Pounds if she can get me to beg for sex .’ His signature is scrawled beneath it.
Despite how amused I am, I fight to keep a straight face and say, “Is it legally binding?”
He reaches over and snatches it back. “I don’t know, but I’ll sign it if you win. Which you won’t.”
So arrogant . I’m about to roll my eyes when a little voice pipes up in my head, saying ‘ rightly so .’
He paces over to the shelves, which are decorated with glassware that looks like a modern art installation, and lifts down a tiny statue of a man. Oh, my God. It's the model of Priapus—the Greek God of fertility—I gave him at his last birthday, complete with an enormous erect cock that's nearly as big as the man it's attached to. It was a stupid joke of a gift, and it's totally out of place in Jack's sleek designer kitchen. I can't believe he kept it. Jack slides the cheque between the statue's cock and his torso, displaying it like some kind of lewd certificate, and balances it back on the shelf before turning back to me.
“You kept him,” I say, nodding at the tiny Priapus statue.
“Of course,” Jack announces, as though he would never have done anything else, and my insides flutter. He comes back towards me and leans against the kitchen worktop opposite. “Eat,” he instructs. “Your food will get cold.”
The eggs do smell good, but really it’s the feel of Jack’s eyes on me and the casual command in his deep voice that has me picking up my cutlery and starting to eat.
He watches me, eyes glimmering with amusement. “Nice underwear by the way. I can see your nipples.”
A shot of heat bursts through me, and my nipples, if possible, harden even more, like they’re trying to poke through the thin silk at him.
“I can see yours too,” I say, determined to give as good as I get, and he hums an amused chuckle.
He puts both hands behind him on the counter, making no effort to hide said nipples. I’m not sure I thought man-nipples were hot until right now, but Jack’s are perfect, sitting there in the middle of his sculpted pecs.
“What are you doing today, then?” he asks.
It takes me a moment to recalibrate to such a mundane topic, but after a second, I’m there. “Same old. Shift at the Marchmont. I have a set tonight.” Maybe he'll ask if he can come. Hope flurries like confetti in my stomach, but after a few long seconds of silence, I know he’s not going to.
Conversation drifts. He tells me about the renovations they’re doing on my old flat, and I tell him about the songs I’m writing.
Just as I’m starting to feel at ease in his company, he rests his forearms on the other side of the island and leans towards me. His blue eyes darken to an even deeper shade, and the weight of his gaze is so intense that I freeze, a forkful of scrambled egg half-way to my mouth. “What?” I ask.
“You look good, El.”
The comment is casual—throwaway, almost—but the tone is jam-packed with suggestion. I take a careful breath as he gives me the sexiest closed-lipped smile I’ve ever seen. The air thickens, locking around my neck, pressing down on my breasts. My lungs shrink to a quarter of their normal size. Why is it so hard to breathe?
Jack’s eyes are still on me when he says, “Are you turned on right now?”
As though his question broke a dam, arousal floods my body. Yes, I’m turned on . My synapses malfunction and all I can manage to say is, “Huh?”
“If I came over there and slid my hand into those tiny little shorts, I’m pretty sure I’d find you wet.” My heart catapults around my chest cavity and heat roars through me. Oh, my God . “Are you wet for me, El? Because I’d really like to feel that.”
My mouth drops open and I’m fairly sure my lungs have teleported to another universe, because I can’t breathe at all.
He observes me for a few seconds before his expression cracks like a mirror and he slaps his hand down on the kitchen island, bending double with laughter. “You should see your face,” he wheezes. “It’s too easy. Too easy…”
Shit . The game. I forgot about the game. “Why, you—” I shoot out of my seat, letting out a rip-roaring leather-skin-fart noise. Oh, dear Lord. The humiliation . My cutlery drops from my hands, clattering against my plate, spattering egg over the surface and onto my camisole. I glare at Jack, but he’s laughing like he’s losing control and this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened.
“This game isn’t supposed to be funny.” My voice is high and squeaky, and I’m not sure if I’m angry or amused or humiliated. Probably all three. “You’re not supposed to be laughing at me. That’s not how you get me into bed.”
His shoulders are shaking. Hell , his whole body is shaking. “I’m not sure I want you in my bed if you’re going to fart like a troll.”
“I did not… I didn’t fart. That wasn’t a fart. I never fart.” Lies . “Ever. Especially not in bed. If I were in bed with you, I definitely wouldn’t fart.”
Jack is choking on his own laughter. “Careful El, you sound like you want me to win,” he says between bursts.
“I don’t… I do not—”
His laughter calms abruptly, and his voice cuts me off. “But you are wet, right?” His eyes are so bright, it’s like there’s a disco happening inside his head. It’s a magnetic look on him, and no matter how annoying he’s being, I find myself captivated by his stupid, handsome face. “Because it’s only a short walk from wet to begging. I’ll win this game in no time.”
Fuck’s sake. He’s infuriating.
I spin to march out of the kitchen, but he calls after me, “You’ll have to up your game if you want to play with the pros, El.”
I can hear him chuckling, all pleased with himself, and I’m not having that. He can’t think it’s that easy to mess with me. I turn back around, fuelled by an impetuous irritation I can’t control. “Oh, yeah?” I say, and, when I’m sure his attention is on me, I yank up one side of my camisole and flash him a boob.
His eyes nearly pop out of his head, heat firing in his gaze, burning away all traces of amusement.
“Jesus,” he curses, his hands tightening on the countertop as my shirt falls back in place.
The air crackles with a new energy, and tension wraps around me, crushing my ribs. Damn . Suddenly, my actions don’t feel like the stroke of genius they did only seconds ago. Even though my breast is well hidden again, everything feels different. My naked nipple has smashed our current reality into pieces and spun us both out into a different, more awkward one.
“You trying to fucking kill me over here?” Jack half-laughs, half-rasps, desperation weaving through his tone.
I feel a flush of success at his reaction, but I don’t want to gloat, and I’m already ashamed at having used such a childish tactic. I school my face into a semblance of dispassion. “No. I’m trying to win.”
His jaw tenses, and I can’t stand here with his heated, ravenous gaze on me any longer. I turn and leave the room, but as I mount the stairs, my heart is beating so fast it could very well explode.
What the hell was I thinking, flashing Jack Lansen my boob?