21. ELLY
21
ELLY
T he memory of everything that happened at the Marchmont Arms this evening is occupying my thoughts like a lump of old meat, foetid and penetrating every inch of space with its stench. On top of that, my inner critic has been beating me up like a twenty-stone man armed with a cat-o’-nine-tails. I’m flayed raw inside. The chants are stuck on repeat. I’m wasting my time, I’ll never make it, I’m no good, I’m a joke, I’ll never get out of the Marchmont, and maybe they won’t even want me there anymore .
A black cloud of doom is swirling around me, smothering all my enthusiasm for life. For music. For the guitar and my songs and performing.
Maybe Jack was right. If I was going to come to anything, it would have happened already. Maybe he only made out that he thought I was any good that night in the flat because he wanted to sleep with me, which is exactly what I’d expect of him. Or at least I would have before I moved in here. Now, I’m not so sure anymore. Maybe he just likes the game. The chase. He wants to win.
An unhealthy rage, directed at Jack, surges through me. Somewhere, buried deep, I’m aware that what happened at the Marchmont tonight wasn’t his fault… that it has nothing to do with him. But as I unlock the door to his great big fancy house, I want to lay all the blame at his feet. His big stupid rich-man feet, in his big stupid rich-man shoes.
The lights are on in the kitchen, which surprises me. I really hope I’m not about to come face to face with Jack. I might bite his balls off, and I wouldn't be fucking sorry about it.
I contemplate tiptoeing up to my room but I haven’t eaten and something smells really, really good… I poke my head into the kitchen, but there’s no sign of him, so I walk in. There is, however, a giant pot on the hob. He’s been cooking. Weird . He hasn’t cooked since I moved in here.
There’s also an open bottle of wine on the island next to an empty glass. Jack must have finished up earlier and left it out. Which is also a bit weird, seeing as he’s such a neat freak. I shrug and help myself to a clean glass and pour myself some. I shouldn’t drink, especially not after last time, because I’m using the booze to numb my pain and that’s a slippery slope, but I don’t care enough to restrain myself.
I sit quietly sipping, letting the alcohol soothe the anger boiling in my blood. The lights go off. My heart leaps. What the hell? A power cut?
It’s only then I notice that there are candles flickering on the table behind me. It’s set for two people.
Crap . Jack must have a date. Just what I fucking need right now… to have to deal with him and one of his women. Something curdles in my stomach at the thought, and I wince. Awful . Maybe the noise of them having sex will keep me up all night.
Now that I come to think of it, I haven’t seen Jack with anyone since I moved in. He hasn’t brought a date back here at all. It was bound to happen eventually, and it would be tonight when I’m feeling super shit about myself. She’s probably gorgeous and sexy and—
Music starts, interrupting my thoughts. It’s low, but loud enough that I know exactly what it is. Barry White. You’re the First, The last, My everything . It’s coming through the inbuilt speaker system in the ceiling. God, that’s cheesy . So Jack.
What a fucking arsehole . A low burn smolders beneath my ribcage, a red hot coal of rage sitting behind the bone, waiting to burst into flame. Jack Lansen has life all sorted. Women falling at his feet, more money than he knows what to do with, a promotion to the Hawkston Board by the age of thirty-five. And he looks insanely good in those suits he wears. And in only his boxers, he's even better.
Ugh . I definitely hate him. One hundred per cent sure.
I knock back a full glass of wine in one go and get to my feet. If Jack’s going to be getting it on with some random woman, I better get out of here quick. Take my misery upstairs to my room. I don’t want to see him right now, not after what happened at the Marchmont.
“Well, hello there.”
Jack’s deep voice sounds from somewhere behind me, and I spin to find him leaning against the door to the utility room, the darting light from the candles making him look almost spectral. For a second, I think he’s entirely naked, but then I realise he’s wearing an apron printed with Michaelangelo’s David. But every visible part of Jack, his feet, his ankles, his calves, his arms, his shoulders, are bare.
Is he naked under there?
He smiles, flashing his great big cheeky grin that would make other women melt. That would normally make me melt, but today, after everything I’ve been through… his smile breaks me, and, staring at him in his stupid apron, Barry White pulsing through the speakers, candlelight flickering over the room, I start to cry.
And I don’t mean my eyes get watery. I mean, a great big sob cracks right through my chest and erupts out my lips like it’s trying to break the sound barrier. Out of fucking nowhere.
Jack’s smile vanishes. “Shit. El. What the… Alexa. Stop.” But Barry White doesn’t stop. It gets louder. “Stop! Alexa!”
Alexa isn’t listening. And I’m crying, grateful that the booming voice of Barry White is concealing the ragged sobs leaking from my body like I’ve been storing them up for this exact moment. I sink back onto the stool, dropping my head into my hands.
The slapping of bare feet on the tiles tells me that Jack is moving around the room, opening cupboards, slamming things around. Finally, the music dies and we’re left in silence.
His footsteps approach. Closer and closer, his proximity compressing the air in my lungs, which does nothing to help my gasping, sobbing breaths. Any moment now, I’ll asphyxiate myself.
I’m a mess. A complete wreck.
“What’s going on?” He’s so close that I can smell him. My body prickles at his nearness, even though I’m mostly absorbed with my own pain. My tears. So much sadness I can’t keep it locked down anymore. “Is it David?”
I peek up at him, and the inches between us are lit only by the glow from the candles, giving the impression we’re alone in a shadowed world. “What?”
He’s staring at me with this tentative little smile on his face, concern flashing in his eyes. He gestures to the apron. “David. Is he too much?” I laugh, a helpless wheezing noise. “I can take him off, but I should warn you, I’m completely bollock naked under here. And David is a lot… less than me.”
He is naked.
More laughter bubbles up—although it could be tears, I don’t really know anymore—and I cover my face with my hands. “Why? Why are you naked?”
Please say it’s not because there’s a woman in the other room.
“Because you said ‘Game on’,” he deadpans, and, even through the tears, my stomach starts doing little flips. He’s naked except for that stupid apron because of me . I wipe the tears from my eyes with my fingertips.
“But now I’m thinking my timing is really fucking bad,” he continues, “because me being naked doesn’t normally reduce women to tears. Well”—he cocks his head like he’s reassessing this claim—“good tears maybe. Tears of ‘that was the best fucking orgasm I’ve ever had in my life’ but not”—he waves a finger at my face, indicating the state of me—“this kind.”
“Sorry,” I sniffle, and Jack grabs a tissue from the front pocket of his apron and hands it to me, and I snort another laugh through my snotty tears. Only Jack Lansen would have tissues in his apron pocket. “Got anything else in there?”
His lips tilt up at the corners, and he fixes those insanely blue eyes on me. My heart thumps, and I really hope he can’t tell that he’s affecting me this way. “You’re deflecting. What’s wrong?”
“Are you really naked behind that apron?”
His eyebrow arches. “I can’t believe you doubt me. Stop avoiding the question.”
I wipe my nose and stuff the tissue in my pocket. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Jack says nothing, crossing his arms over the apron. His bare, incredibly large arms. His biceps bulge. His skin is so tan. And the definition in his forearms is spectacular… I want to stroke them …
“My face is up here, El,” he says.
I close my eyes. “You’re a prick.”
I expect a snappy retort, but none comes, so I open my eyes again. Jack’s staring at my top, right where the tomato hit. “What’s on your shirt?”
I glance down at the stain on my cream shirt and the memories of the Marchmont Arms—the heckling and the tomatoes and Marie yelling and Kate trying her best not to make a big deal of it while she handed me tissues to wipe the mess off my face—invade my mind. This has been a shit night. I burst into tears again.
Before I know what’s happening, Jack’s great big bare arms are surrounding me and my face is smashed against that stupid apron and I’m sobbing so hard I can hardly breathe.
I fist my fingers into the apron. I want to get closer to him so I slide my hands around his back and his skin is bare and warm. I want him to hold me forever so I can cry and cry and never feel sad again.
And then, louder than ever, the memory of his words crashes through my skull. If she were any good, she’d have made something of herself by now. The recollection unleashes a flood of other thoughts, bursting through my psyche so fast I can’t stop them. He thinks I’m shit too. He could have thrown that tomato himself. He’s just as bad as they are.
I shove my palms against the rough fabric of the apron. “Fuck off, Jack. Get off me.” I’m wiping my nose, my eyes, toppling off the stool and gripping the island to stand up straight.
Jack backs off, eyes wide with alarm, hands raised in the air. “What did I do? What happened to you tonight?” The sight of his handsome face contorted with confusion, and the desperation in his eyes, penetrates my fury for just long enough that I give him a partial answer.
“I had a gig.”
Jack’s brows pull low over his eyes, making the blue of his irises darken. “Okay.” He stretches the syllables, as though he’s struggling to make sense of the connection, and might be a little afraid that whatever he says might set me off again. “What happened at this gig?”
A choking stone of sadness blocks my throat. I can’t do it. I’m not good enough. That’s what this gorgeous man believes, and fuck it, if tonight is anything to go by, he’s right, and I hate him for being right.
He said it from the get-go. Nico deserves the best, and you aren’t it.
The words explode from my mouth. “You bastard. You absolute prick.”
Jack flips his palms upward. “What the fuck? What’s happening? What’s going on? I am so fucking confused right now.” His voice is raw, and part of me longs to explain, longs to tell him how I’m feeling, but I’m cresting on a wave of irrational rage and there’s no way of getting back to solid ground. “Everything’s a joke to you, isn’t it? You just want to play your stupid game.” My voice is breaking, even as I wave one hand up and down his body to indicate the ridiculous apron he’s wearing.
His eyes are wild, scanning all over my face like the rapid movement will help him make sense of me. He’s doomed because not even I know what I’m doing.
“I don’t want to play anymore.” The words tear at my throat. “Not with someone like you.”
He stiffens. “What does that mean?”
“You’re an arrogant, judgmental arsehole.”
We glare at one another, neither of us moving. Jack draws breaths in through flared nostrils, and my breathing is all over the place. The tension filling the space between us has sky-rocketed, and the kitchen feels like it could go up in flames at any moment.
“You can be fucking rude, you know that?” he grits out. “I don’t know where this is coming from. How am I supposed to know what’s going on if you won’t tell me?”
“You want to know? Last week, when you barged into my room, you didn’t ask if I want to sing in the Marchmont. You didn’t ask if I was happy there. You never asked what I wanted. You just came to my room and told me what to do. What to want. You never asked.”
His chest rises and falls a few times before he speaks, as though he needs to calm himself. “Tell me then. I’m right here. I’m listening. If you can tell me you’re happy, I’ll never mention it again.”
I’m so obviously not happy that answering his question seems pointless. “Fuck this. Fuck you. If you just want sex, go and find it somewhere else. I’m never going to sleep with you.” I spit the words out with such vehemence that Jack steps away from me, and I’m bracing for him to swear at me or yell and tell me to pack my bags and get the fuck out of his house.
For a few elongated moments, neither of us does anything. Then, to my absolute amazement, Jack unties his apron, unloops it from his neck and chucks it on the floor like the damn thing did something wrong. Like all of his rage is crumpled up into that ball of fabric lying on the tiles.
And then he’s there, entirely naked in the middle of his kitchen, staring at me. I’ve seen him topless plenty of times, but like this, without a scrap to cover him, he’s breathtaking. The lines of his body are illuminated by the light from the two candles still flickering on the table, casting his muscles in high relief. He’s like a model in a photoshoot, where nudity is art. The broad shoulders, the defined pecs, the abs… all of it is perfect. But it’s the muscles tapering down in that perfect V to his groin that draws my attention, and I follow them right to his dick which, although not erect, is big. Really fucking big, even hanging there.
Jack Lansen’s dick.
My heart swings around unanchored in my chest. I can’t breathe. Not one tiny gasp of air. I’ve never seen a body like his in real life. I’m almost dizzy before I manage my next inhalation.
“Why… why… shit . You’re naked. Why?” The voice doesn’t sound like mine. I think my soul has left my body. I can’t believe this is happening.
“Had to make you stop talking somehow. You weren’t making any sense.” His voice is calm, as though we haven’t just been fighting and he hasn’t exposed himself in the kitchen. As though this is an average night, and we’re having a totally normal conversation.
“You’re naked,” I repeat, and my voice is almost a squeak.
“Well observed.”
“Fuck.” The word hisses out between my lips, a sound that settles somewhere between a curse and a sigh, and my jaw hangs loose as awe and anger spiral through me like a tornado. “You can’t get naked and think it’s going to fix everything. You’re not taking this seriously. You’re not taking me seriously.”
He fixes his attention on me, and the energy in the room changes, as though he flicked an invisible switch, turning all the anger in the air sexual. “Believe me, I take you very seriously.”
His voice is low and seductive and it makes heat simmer in my core, but my stomach swirls with anxiety. I’m simultaneously so attracted to him, and so annoyed, and so fucking nervous about the fact he’s naked and where this might go and what it means, that I might throw up.
“Put your clothes on. I just told you I wouldn’t sleep with you.” I’m impressed with how calm I sound, all things considered.
Jack rubs his hand over his jaw. He’s so casual in his nakedness, like he has absolutely no body shame. Like it has never occurred to him that his body might not be universally appealing.
To be fair, he might be right.
“Final answer?” he asks.
I want to tell him yes, but the word stalls on the tip of my tongue. Teetering right on the edge, not daring to take the plunge.
He waits, but when an answer doesn’t come, he dips his head and runs a hand through his hair. “Right, then. Guess I’ll head to bed.”
He starts walking towards me. He’ll have to pass me to get to the door. The tension between us is crushing my chest with each step he takes and my heart is beating like a hummingbird’s wings… so fucking fast.
I can’t stop staring. His body is honed for strength, like an animal. A lion prowling towards me. I want to dig my nails into those muscles, feel how hard they are. His quads are huge…
An intense ball of need swells between my thighs and I cover my eyes with my hands. It’s too much. This man is way too fucking much for me.
He stops right in front of me. I can sense him there. What the hell is he doing?
Warm, heavy hands cup my shoulders. “If I get dressed, will you have dinner with me?” His voice is so soft that if I could, I’d wrap it around me and lie down in it.
What game is he playing now? I shake my head.
“El, look at me. Don’t play coy. I know you’ve seen your share of naked men before.”
I swallow. His hands are so big. So hot . His touch is burning me up. I’m sweating. I pop open one eye. “None who look like you,” I mutter.
A rumble of delighted amusement sounds from deep in Jack’s chest. “I don’t want to fight with you. Have dinner with me.”
I open my other eye, forcing myself to keep my gaze above his jawline. He holds my stare like it’s something precious, his face eager and pleading. “No. I just told you I wouldn’t sleep with you.”
“Dinner, El. Not sex. I’ll put my dick away.”
I huff the tiniest laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“But you like me.”
It’s not a question, and I swallow back the reflexive ‘ yes’ that springs to the space behind my teeth. Regardless, Jack hums as if he heard me speak it and liked the sound.
“I’m going to tell you something,” he whispers. “Just one time. So listen carefully.”
“Okay.” The word is little more than an exhalation. I’m pretty sure I haven’t taken a full breath for minutes now. It’s making me lightheaded.
“I don’t want to play anymore either.” His voice is strangely soothing, and my breathing settles into a more regular rhythm. “Because I like you. I like you a lot. Way more than the game. Way more than wanting to win. I can’t stop thinking about you, and I don’t want to find sex elsewhere. I only want you. So let’s start over. Have dinner with me. Now. Tonight. Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what made you cry.”
I drop my head into my hands again, pressing my fingers into my eye sockets, then drag them down my face and look back up at Jack. “Are you fucking with me? Is this a play? A move?”
“No.” He slides a hand from my shoulder to my neck, grazing the bare skin. His thumb rests on the divot at the base of my throat. My body fizzes, everything going tight and then loosening, over and over, in a pulsing rhythm.
“I don’t believe you. You’re naked. You took the apron off. That’s a move if ever I saw one. You’re still playing the game.”
He chuckles lightly, and the sound dusts my skin like glitter. “Okay, get ready, because I’m about to be really fucking honest.” He takes a breath and it feels like he’s stolen all my oxygen with it. “I’m done playing. No more games. I don’t want you to come in my lap again, El. I want you to come on my dick. Naked. I want to see you fucking bounce on it.”
My loins burst into flame like dry kindling. Wow. Jack Lansen is a dirty-talker, and he wants me . Right now, nothing else in the whole world matters.
“Have sex with me,” he rasps.
“Really?” I whisper, a hint of neediness in my tone as though I’m asking a favourite teacher if their praise is genuine. “Are you begging?”
“I am. I'm begging you. Please.”
Oh, my heart . I've never heard him sound so earnest. If he's begging, then I’ve won the game, but I don’t even care anymore because Jack Lansen is all but on his knees for me, and that’s worth so much more than money.
I want to laugh. I want to dissolve into fits of giggles. I want to scream at the top of my lungs and jump up and down. I don’t know what the fuck I want because my brain has short-circuited, and all the nerve endings in my body are shooting through me like a meteor shower across the night sky.
“I want to come inside you,” he continues. “I want to feel how wet you are for me right now.” My pussy gives a responding throb and I clench my thighs. Very wet . Suddenly, the only thought in my head is that his dirty talk totally turns me on. As though he knows, Jack shifts a little closer and whispers in my ear. “I want to hear you scream my name as I make you come apart.” He pulls away again, and I lean towards him like he’s controlling my movement. He lets out a tiny chuckle, little more than a gust of air, and his breath hits my skin, sending a pleasurable shiver through me. “Fantasising about it with only my right hand for company isn’t going to cut it anymore.”
“You thought about me?”
“Many times. You’re all I’ve thought of for weeks,” he purrs, making more slickness gather between my legs. “Have you…” He pauses, and everything in me tightens. Please don’t ask. “Thought about me?”
His question ignites nuclear fission inside my torso, and an explosive wave of heat assaults me. “Yes,” I breathe.
“Did you touch yourself?”
Oh, fuck. “Maybe.” He raises a brow that demands the truth, and I surrender it. “Yes,” I croak.
“Did you come?” he whispers.
I think I’m going to faint. All I can do is nod and mumble, “Uh-huh.”
“Good.” His smile turns almost wicked. “At least we know we’re on the same page.”
My cheeks must be fire-engine red, whereas Jack looks as handsome and relaxed as ever. Is this conversation affecting him at all? I glance down because I really need to know if he’s hard.
Fuck . His dick is huge and rock solid. Definitely affecting him, then. I can see every vein on his shaft. The flared tip is so swollen it shines. It’s spectacular . The urge to open my mouth and take it down my throat beats through me so hard that I nearly drop to my knees right then and there.
“Hey,” he says, and when I look up, the wicked edge to his smile is gone. “I don’t want to jump the gun though. I’ll get dressed, and we can have dinner. We can start there. Okay? And you can tell me what the hell happened to you tonight.”
How dare he turn me on like this and then pull it all away. “No.”
He quirks his head. “No?”
And then, because I’m done playing too, I reach out and slide my fingers around the hard length of him, gripping his glorious cock at the base, right there in the kitchen.