Chapter Thirteen
Katie
The sun filters in through the gauzy curtains at the ass crack of dawn, waking me from a sleep that could have been anywhere between eight and twelve hours.
Jonesy was true to his word. I feel the weight of it as his arm hangs over my waist, his palm holding my breast like a goddamn stuffed animal.
I close my eyes, deciding it was too much effort to move him, and not because I hadn’t had sex in over a year and this was the closest I’d gotten.
I will myself to sleep for a few more hours at least, but as I shift, I feel his nose burrow into my neck, his legs tucking in as he pulls me even closer against him.
Damn, he’s irritatingly good at this. And he’s right, I had another full night’s sleep with no dreams of masked men chasing me until I’m captured and—
His hips roll into me, the feel of his dick, yet again, growing in the crease of my ass. His hand squeezes my breast, and my nipple tightens as he lightly pinches it between his thumb and forefinger.
“Fuck, princess,” his sleepy voice mumbles out.
Is he having a sex dream about me?
“Look at you,” he hisses, my panties growing damp.
What. The. Hell. Unless he calls anyone else princess, he is definitely having a sex dream about me.
Damn, I miss sex. I miss it so much.
Why am I letting him do this? Why am I enjoying it?
This is Jonesy. Jacob Jones, whom I’ve known since I was eighteen.
Who kissed me at a party and never called me after years of friendship.
Who went away to war to come back with not even an apology for ghosting me.
Jacob Jones, who has been the bane of my existence ever since he got back and knows how to push every single button—
He pinches my nipple harder, and I squirm, a desperate moan escaping my lips.
“Take it, dirty girl.”
My hips answer his demand by pushing back against his hard-on, rolling my ass up his length.
His hand slides down my stomach and grips my hip, his fingers knotting around my lace panties until his hand snaps back, the fabric cutting into my skin before it rips clean off.
I bite my knuckles, holding in a silent scream. I can’t move. I can’t stop him. I know I should. I should wake him and end this. And yet I stay silent as he handles me roughly, gripping my ass punishingly hard, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh between my neck and shoulder.
His rough hands bring me closer to coming than I have in months.
Months. No release. Nothing. And now, the man who has hated me, the man whom I have hated, is bringing me to the brink of coming without even touching between my legs.
This can’t be the answer to my problems. He can’t be the answer.
And yet, he’s got my pussy crying out to be touched like he’s the only man in the world who wouldn’t be too scared to do it how I like.
Rough.
Unrelenting.
Chase me.
Mark me.
Why did it have to be him? I can’t even blame being too tired to think properly, since he’s fixed that as well, the asshole.
I’ve slept through the night precisely three times in the last year, and every night was with him—four times if you count after I had my nightmare in Ohio.
What am I supposed to do with that information?
Have him move in? Ridiculous. One or both of us would be dead within a week.
“Keep your socks on,” he murmurs sleepily. His sleep talk is giving me whiplash. “Don’t want you having cold feet.”
“Cold feet. Right,” I mutter. Like I couldn’t have cold feet.
Telling him about my unhinged new sexual fantasies could have him running for the hills.
He could discredit me as a doctor, as a friend.
What if he told our friends? It would kill me to lose them.
I need them now more than ever. And although I don’t think Jonesy is vindictive like that, I don’t have a great history with men.
My father left when I was four, devastating my mom, who has continued to have a string of boyfriends, usually lasting a few months at a time.
I hated it growing up. At best, they’d ignore me, accepting I was an inconvenient baggage that came part and parcel with dating my mother for a few months, and at worst, they paid a little too much attention when I hit puberty.
“Oh shit,” I hear Jonesy mutter before letting go of my ass.
I roll over to face him, and he has the decency to blush, his lips parting in an awkward stutter.
“I . . . I didn’t mean to do that. Not without your permission. I was sleep walki—touching. Sleep touching.”
“Sleep touching?” I repeat.
“Yeah, sleep touching.” He swallows hard but doesn’t move.
“You owe me a pair of panties.”
“I . . . I what?” he splutters.
I reach down between my legs, handing him the torn scrap of fabric and pushing it into his palm. His fingers clasp around it, including my fingers, and he draws it back, and my knuckles graze against the hard length of him trapped in his boxers.
Holy macaroni. He has a goddamn sea snake of a dick, and it’s pulsing against the back of my hand.
His eyes darken. “I did this to you?”
I swallow suddenly, feeling all too outmatched in this game. I nod, my gaze dropping to his lips before righting them back to his darkened eyes.
“You just slept through me ripping off your panties, princess?”
“I’m a deep sleeper. It’s fine.”
He scoffs, a small tug pulling at his lips as he leans so close that the tip of his nose is almost touching mine.
“We both know that’s a fucking lie, Katie.
So you just admitted that you lay there whilst I ripped these from you?
You. The same girl who hopped over three fences to avoid getting caught by the police when they raided a frat party?
The same girl who throat-punched me when I ate your Musketeers bar that you had left in my dorm room.
The same girl who, when finding out Lottie’s boyfriend had cheated on her, snuck into his dorm room and left a dead fish under his bed, and still felt that wasn’t enough, so accidentally punched him in the balls. ”
“Those things, when put together, make it sound worse than it was.”
“They’re all true. I haven’t embellished a single thing.”
“I still stand by the fact that I was in a deep sleep.” I lift my chin defiantly, but all it does is bring my lips a whisper away from his.
“Yeah?” he smirks.
“Yes.” I waver, not liking the look he has on his face.
He lifts the ruined panties up past his chin, and I attempt to release myself from his other hand gripping my wrist. He holds the lace to his nose, inhaling deeply.
The smirk on his face creeping into a full grin that lets me know that even at this time of the morning, I’ve already lost the first battle of the day.
“Why are your panties soaked, princess?”
“No idea what you’re talking about.” I turn to slip out of the bed, but realize my mistake that I am buck naked from the waist down.
I slide out of the bed ass first, attempting to take the blanket with me, but in a lazy grip, Jonesy ensures the bedspread doesn’t move an inch.
I get a second hand on it. I lean back, tugging the bedding until I’m almost in the most unattractive squat position, and Jonesy lets go.
His smug, victorious face disappears from view as I fall back onto my unfinished floor and stifle the urge to scream at him.
At least my vagina got covered during my fall.
“Oops.” I hear him laugh as his head peeks over the end of the bed, his chiseled, tanned chest exposed. How my unconscious self finds comfort in this dick-for-brains is absolutely beyond me.
I pull myself to my feet and thrust out my hand. “Give me my panties back.”
“Nah.” He inhales again, this time using his free hand to rub himself over his boxers. “Let’s call it payment for my sleep services.”
My pussy throbs as I watch him lazily stroke himself whilst inhaling the scent of my obvious arousal on my panties.
Throbs.
Like it had never seen a man before in its life.
Like its dying wish is to ride that man until I sleep for a week.
I need to get laid.
Immediately.
I’m still staring at his cock.
I’m still staring at his cock.
“Maybe we could come to another arrangement, though? Have you thought about my offer?” His voice is like gravel, his eyes . . . hopeful.
I turn toward the bathroom, and I hear a long sigh and puff of bedding, and I imagine he throws himself onto the bed, still palming his cock as he did.
Would he finish himself whilst I was in the shower?
Would I finish myself? I’d been so close this morning.
So close to reaching the climax I’d been denied for the past year.
I let the water run warm until I step in.
I soap myself up, running my hand over myself.
My breasts are heavy, my pussy still wet from this morning’s man-handling.
I reach between my legs, my finger slipping inside me easily before I pull out and circle my clit.
I lift my leg onto the bench and imagine running from someone on the street outside before they push their way into my home.
I scramble up the stairs, knowing full well I’d be the kind of person in a horror film to run upstairs from an intruder.
But you want to be caught.
It’s why in your dream you always run into the bedroom.
A tinge of disappointment seeps into my chest, and I lose the motivation to take myself further. It’ll only end in disappointment when I can’t finish.
After rinsing out the conditioner, I step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around me tightly, and enter the bedroom.
Jonesy is lying just as I left him, but now his eyes are closed, his hands clasped over his chest with one foot hooked over the other.
The picture of relaxation with no clue that he was so close to giving me the release he’s offering.
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