22. Jax
Jax
Ten minutes later, we’re in his fancy car, driving toward Fifth Avenue. I was shocked when we went down to the parking lot, and he didn’t have a driver ready to pick him up. It appears Mr. Asshole is the only billionaire in New York who drives himself around the city.
As we drive, the silence becomes oppressive, and I jab at the radio, smiling when some techno starts playing. I glance over at him as he grimaces, laughing at his disgusted expression.
“Is this the kind of music you’re into?” he asks.
“Not exclusively. Don’t tell me, you’d prefer the Moonlight Sonata?”
His hands tighten a fraction on the wheel. “What’s wrong with classical music?”
“Nothing. I like all music. I just figured you might be more into that type of thing.”
“That and country,” he says defiantly.
“Oh my god, I love Chris Stapleton!” I say enthusiastically.
There's a pause as he switches lanes, a little crease to his brow. “Me too.”
After about twenty minutes, we park in a deck just off the main street, but once we reach Fifth Avenue, there’s a mass of people swarming around us in an instant.
Jones grabs my hand and pulls me into Saks. I’ve walked past it hundreds of times but never set foot inside.
As we come through the gold doors and into the entrance lobby, he seems to know exactly where he’s going, heading up the escalators to the first floor.
“What the hell are we doing here?” I ask. He hasn’t actually explained what he’s planning, but I have a sinking feeling I know what it is. “You’re not buying me clothes,” I add.
He gives me a weary look. “And how else will you wear what I need you to wear to my mother’s place?” he asks.
“I don’t need you to buy me any of this shit.”
“Then why did you ask for help?”
“I didn’t!” I protest, hating the implication that I can’t deal with this on my own.
Maybe I could have thought outside the box a bit more and asked Pippa for some clothes. She’s classy enough, if you like that kind of thing.
He tugs me off the top of the escalator, and we arrive in a huge open-plan space with clothes racks everywhere, and brand names hanging from the tiles in the ceiling. There are dozens of customers all around us.
I’m used to mostly empty thrift stores, and this is a living nightmare.
“Stop being a child, and go and pick something out,” he says firmly, and I narrow my eyes at him as he walks away.
The nerve of this dick.
We end up in an area that has Ralph Lauren, Burberry, and hundreds of other designers that I’ve never even heard of.
“This isn’t really my style,” I say, pulling out a light pink silk blouse and wrinkling my nose.
“That’s the point,” he replies in the same clipped tone. It’s reminding me of an elementary school teacher, and it’s pissing me off.
“Try this on,” he says, handing me the most disgusting-looking pant suit I’ve ever seen.
“No.”
He turns around, his arm outstretched, eyes burning a hole in my skull.
“Look, you may know what your mother likes,” I say sourly, “but I know what I like, and we’re gonna need to compromise.”
“If I’m paying, you’ll wear what I say.”
An older woman is passing by on the other side of the rack and stares at him like he’s lost his mind.
“Can you believe this guy?” I say to her, and Mr. Asshole blinks, glancing over at the woman as if he only just noticed we were in public. He has the good sense to look apologetic.
He sighs, turning back to me. “Fine. What would you buy?”
I wander around the racks of clothes. They’re all beautiful, and I can see that they’re well-made, but it’s like having eaten McDonald’s all my life and then being taken to The Ritz. I don’t have a fucking clue what to do.
Finally, I find a midnight blue, sheer blouse. It’s a shimmery material, paired with a dark-blue leather jacket with buttery-soft velvet on the lapel.
I’m about to pick it up when an identical set is thrust at me, but this time in beige and pale pink.
I wince at the colors, but when I glance at Jones’s stormy blue gaze, I take them with a sigh.
“Pants or skirt?” he snaps.
“Why are you so pissy today? I didn’t ask you to bring me here,” I bite out.
“I’m not annoyed about that. You just have to have an opinion on everything, don’t you?”
“As a rule, yeah,” I say, and I get an eye roll for my trouble. “Skirt,” I say eventually.
“Thank fuck, at least I can look at your legs if I get bored.”
“Classy.”
“Always.”
He hands me a skirt with a sequin hem that is actually kind of cool. I’d usually never wear anything cream or beige, but I can live with this if I get to wear the leather jacket.
When he hands me some flats, I want to throw them back on the shelf, but I can acknowledge I’m being kind of ungrateful.
I take them, letting them dangle by my side.
As I balance everything in my arms, I almost drop the leather jacket, and clutch at it, just as the label peeks out from behind the hanger.
I suck in a horrified breath.
“What is it now?” he asks, sounding exasperated.
“This is over three thousand dollars,” I say, mortified as I go to put it back on the rack.
My gut clenches that I am even touching it, won’t my fingers ruin the fabric?
I step over to the section where it came from and am about to put it down like it’s a bomb, when a soft hand encircles my wrist, pulling me back.
“I don’t care about the cost,” he says gently.
My head whips around. “How can you not care? That’s three times my monthly rent!”
He doesn’t let go of me, a little frown between his brows as he smooths his thumb over my arm.
“I have the money, Jacqueline. I need you to look like you belong with me, and no woman in the circles I move in would…” he trails off, and I tug my arm free, clutching the clothes to me like a lifeline.
“Look like trash?” I snap.
“I didn’t say that. What I mean is, you don’t wear designer clothes. That’s to your credit, perhaps, but my mother will notice. She notices everything.”
“She sounds awful.”
I stop when I realize how horrible that sounded, and I’m about to blurt out an apology when he actually laughs. It’s the same chocolatey sound as his chuckle, but this time, his whole face lights up with it. My breath catches in my throat.
“That’s not inaccurate,” he concedes. “I’m not trying to insult you. Truly. I just need you to look a certain way. I know what that is, and you don’t.”
I lower the clothes, watching him for a long moment as he remains very still, as if waiting to see if I explode. But I can accept that he’s right. I don’t know what he needs from me; that’s precisely why I asked for his help.
I look down at the jacket. It feels as if it should be made of gold for that money, and it horrifies me that anyone can throw three grand down the drain on a piece of fabric. But it’s not my money.
“You should try them on,” he says, and we move through the racks of clothes toward the dressing room.
Jones picks out a couple of backup outfits along the way that are similar to the one I chose. I expect him to hand them to me, but instead, he carries everything for me as we walk to the back. I notice a couple of women eyeing him and feel a stab of something I don’t want to think about right now.
By the time we reach the fitting rooms, he looks bored. I go inside, flashing a tight smile at the attendant before snapping the curtain shut and trying everything on as quickly as humanly possible.
Clothes tend to look top-heavy on me. They’re either way too tight around the bust, and baggy at the waist, or the sleeves are too short.
But, to my amazement, without me even checking, he’s picked out the right sizes. I take a quick glance at myself in the mirror, barely caring how I look, and then get back into my old clothes and leave the room.
When I emerge, he’s sitting in a chair waiting outside, and looks up from his phone, seemingly surprised.
“Didn’t they fit?” he asks.
“They’re fine,” I say. “Everything fits, just get whatever you’d like me to wear.”
“I thought you’d show me them,” he says, sounding disappointed. I frown at him.
None of the guys I’ve been with have ever brought me shopping before.
Every single one of them would have found the experience deathly dull.
I’ve never been shopping with anyone else, and having someone waiting to see the clothes I try on feels like such an alien concept that I can’t hide my confusion.
“Uh, sorry, Mr. Jones, but I didn’t think you—”
“Would you call me Gray, for fuck’s sake?” he says, genuine anger in his tone.
“What’s my name then?” I demand, and he stands up, buttoning his jacket.
“We’re leaving.”
He grabs the clothes and goes to the register, walking so fast I have to trot to keep up with him. Before I know what’s happening, he’s paid, and we’re heading out of the store.
I glare at the bag in his hand, realizing that he didn’t send anything back.
That means he bought everything I tried on, even though I only needed one outfit.
That infuriates me even more as we head back to the car, Mr. Asshole striding ahead of me and never even looking back to check I’m following him like some kind of lap dog.
When we reach his car, he throws the stuff in the trunk and turns to me, his fists clenched.
“Get in the back.”
“What?” I ask, and his eyes flash fire.
“Get in the back, Jacqueline, I swear to god, or I will put you in there myself.”
He wrenches open the door, and after a moment of hesitation, I climb in. I assume he’s relegated me to the back seat for the journey to the office, but I yelp as he climbs in behind me, shoving me against the seat.
“You are fucking testing my patience,” he says, in a dark, low growl as he slams the door behind him and then grips my hips, yanking me down toward him before he crushes his lips against mine in a molten kiss.
I gasp in shock, his tongue pushing against mine in a long, mind-numbing rhythm that has me melting back into the seat like some kind of damsel in distress. I don’t know what it is about this man that makes me give up all control, but it’s both infuriating and addictive.
“Fuck!” I cry out on a low moan, wrenching my mouth away as his fingers push beneath my skirt and rub over my panties.
“What’s my name?” he says.
I groan as his finger roughly pushes against the fabric, trying to get inside where I really want him to be.
“M—Mr. Jones.”
I groan as he yanks my tights and panties down and pushes his finger inside me in one, perfect, brutal thrust.
“What is my fucking name?”
“Mr. Jones,” I breathe out as my hips punch upward, chasing his finger as he pushes another in beside it, and my hand comes down to grip his wrist. It’s too fast, too hard, and somehow not hard enough.
“You fucker,” I grit out, but he just pulls his fingers free and shoves them in my mouth.
“Get them wet,” he instructs, and I find myself sucking on them. I writhe beneath him, my legs hugging his hips as I feel his hardening cock rubbing against my thighs.
He pulls his fingers free and slides them back inside me, something about the rough usage and the uncompromising gleam in his eye turning me on even more.
“You’re a f—fucking asshole,” I moan as he shoves his fingers harder inside me, pulling them out and thrusting them back in as he bites at my neck.
I’m trembling as he pulls them free, moving down to the floor of the car, tugging me across the seat so the tops of my thighs are on either side of his head.
“What’s my name?” he asks me again, and this time he reaches into his pocket and draws out a wad of cash. He waves it in front of me, smirking as my eyes follow it, and I feel a burst of heat between my legs.
“You’re getting even wetter at the sight of it,” he says, staring down at my entrance as he runs his thumb over my clit. “This is for you if you’re a good girl, and you tell me my fucking name.”
“Mr. Fucking Jones,” I bark out, and then my hands slap down against the leather of the seat as he shoves his head between my thighs and aggressively tongues my clit. It’s so hard and ruthless, I see stars.
He’s thrusting his tongue and his fingers into me in quick succession, his thumb pushing inside me as he crooks it upward, his eyes meeting mine as he pulls back.
He rubs at his cock through his pants, groaning deep as he opens the clip of money and throws it onto my stomach. It should be degrading and demeaning, but instead, I could almost come looking at it.
He smirks as my thighs tremble against him, and then he picks up a hundred-dollar bill, showing it to me before he lowers his hand between my legs and then rubs the paper against my entrance as I push down against his hands.
“Say my name, and I’ll let you come.”
“Ah! Fuck. Fuck you.”
He chuckles again as his tongue dives back into me. I can’t bear it. He’s giving me just enough to keep me on the edge, and it’s the best torture of my life.
He still has the money in his hand, and as I watch, he places it over my stomach, tonguing my clit, our eyes meeting as he groans against my skin.
If I don’t come, I’ll die.
“What’s my name?”
“GRAY!” I scream, collapsing against the seat beneath me as he shoves his fingers back inside, scissoring them and twisting them until I can’t stand it anymore.
I’m screaming for what feels like hours. I come, and he holds me down against the seat, lapping at me, drinking me in.
I’m catching my breath when he rises up, one knee on the seat as he works his dick. I’m barely coherent as I twist around in the seat, my back moving smoothly over the buttery leather until my head is level with his legs.
I take his swollen dick into my mouth, sucking at it and gripping his ass, shoving it right to the back of my throat.
In three seconds, he comes with a low groan as I swallow every drop he gives me. My whole body goes limp, and I lie there staring at the ceiling of the car as we slowly descend from whatever fucked up ecstasy that was.