Chapter 12
First, I took a shower as cold as the fucking Arctic Ocean, to wash off all the alcohol, the sand, and the remnants of sex from my skin. Then I went downstairs to finally eat something greasy and full of carbs – which meant Cordelia’s Tortellini, accompanied by an ice-cold Coca-Cola.
Only after that I managed to grab my laptop to work on my article.
It turned out terrible because I used a transcription program, and after a few hours of interview, all we could hear were Brock’s caveman grunts and shouts every time he poured another drink, Paloma’s giggles, and my questions, all spoken in a completely slurred voice from having drunk way too much and absolutely not being in condition to work.
But I did it anyway, because I’m a slave to capitalism and had no other option.
After I finished the article and sent it to the All-Star Chronicles editor, I remembered I was also a slave to Mila and started thinking about how I was going to assemble all the welcome kits by the end of the day and prepare them for delivery to the correct guests at the correct addresses, with no help other than Jasper.
Who, as you probably already know, is as helpful and efficient as a wall.
Since I was already imagining we’d take way longer than the afternoon and by then everyone would have returned from the tour, I carried the suitcases with materials to the home theater on the second floor, where Andrew, Connor and Tony were sleeping, and began organizing everything assembly-line style around the coffee table and couches.
Because the Carnegies had chartered a flight to Cancún, let’s just say Mila didn’t skimp on anything in the luggage, and now I’m facing rolls and rolls of tulle and lace ribbons, flip-flops in each guest’s exact size, miniature Champagne bottles, customized little sunscreen and lotion bottles with the couple’s initials, and a ton of other things I’m not even sure will fit in the hand-painted beach bags with Mexican landscapes created by one of Mila’s gallery artists.
Only after I finished separating everything that Jasper has the courage to show up and help me with something.
“I organized a guest file according to the hotels they’re staying at, to make delivery easier tomorrow,” he says, leaning against the doorframe, waving an iPad to show me what he’d been doing.
I furrow my brow in confusion, my head twisting as if I hadn’t heard right.
“Sorry, I think I heard wrong. You did what?”
“I’m trying to help, you ungrateful little thing!”
“Did you hit your head, by any chance?” I continued to tease.
My words, of course, were the perfect excuse for him to shrug and respond casually, “That would explain a lot.” And “a lot” obviously meant what happened on the beach, because as I roll my eyes in impatience, Jasper steps forward, finally entering the room, and asks, “How’s the hangover?”
Terrible.
I’ll never drink again.
Did I say terrible?
“Good,” I answer, finishing a bow on a bath product bag as if I don’t care.
“Already wallowing in regret?”
“Nope.”
I grab another bag and start the same process. Jasper takes an even wider step and is now on the rug, just a coffee table away from where I’m sitting: on the floor, my back against the couch, legs stretched under the table.
Of course, it’s a huge resin table, intricately designed with wavy edges simulating the ocean, so at least he’s still far enough away.
“No?” Jasper tilts his head, as if he also didn’t hear right.
“I can’t regret something so insignificant I can barely remember, Jasper.”
“Hm.”
Hm! That’s all! That’s all the bastard says. Just hm, then continues his tortuous path across the rug toward me. To where I am. To my corner of the living room.
“It’s a good thing I can tell you, because I remember everything,” he starts, leaning one arm on the coffee table and the other on the seat.
I take a deep breath, trying to ignore his scent, the heat radiating from his skin, and my goodness, I’ve never been more aware of his presence next to me as I do now.
“Of course you remember, it was the best day of your life,” I mutter, body completely rigid, voice entirely hard.
At least on the outside. On the inside… well, can someone explain why, on the inside, I’m falling apart completely, my stomach twisting as if I’m about to vomit again?
He leans even closer, his low, deep voice, the air brushing my ear, as I hear, “I remember the desperate moans escaping your mouth and the look of pleasure on your face as I kissed you all over.”
I press my lips together, close my eyes, and try to endure this torture silently because it will be worse if I try to say something.
His lips nearly touch my skin, making every hair on my neck stand on end.
“I remember you bouncing up and down on my cock, Julie, like the naughty, perverted maniac I always knew you were.”
I swallow hard.
But it’s only up here. Once again, up here, everything’s dry. Down there… down there, in my panties, everything’s already wet.
I hate myself. Goddamn it, how I hate myself!
“And when you forget what I told you, I can simply tell you again, because I’ll keep remembering,” he continues, words brushing my ear in every possible teasing tone. “Until the last day of my life, I’ll keep remembering what I saw and what we did, in the most sordid details.”
Air escapes my nose, making my entire body shiver. How can I pretend nothing’s happening?
“Can we maybe not do this now?” I ask, my voice firm, but honestly, I’m almost begging.
“Do what?”
“I’m exhausted, hungover and sore…” I stop because he arches his eyebrows immediately, and I know I should have stayed silent, but I really am too tired to care.
“And we still have the miserable task of preparing two hundred welcome kits by the end of the day, so please, could you just sit here and help me? No jokes, no hints, just silence?”
Jasper opens his mouth to protest, but I raise a finger to stop him and complete, “You’ll have all the time in the world to torture me after we finish, I promise!”
Just for that, he gives a satisfied smile and moves to sit next to me.
And, by some miracle, from that moment on, he only speaks to me to ask about which products are in each kit and to have me teach him how to tie the bows correctly.
Jasper is good with words and methodical organization, but absolutely terrible at tying bows.
Strangely, I discovered he has the handwriting of a Romantic poet, so I put him in charge of writing the guest names on the tags for each bag, while I organized them according to the flip-flop sizes.
The room looks like a battlefield, filled with ribbons, bows, and scattered jars everywhere, but gradually, the piles of different products shrink, replaced by the painted and labeled fabric bags, organized alphabetically along the wall.
When Jasper finishes the last signature and hands me the tag so I can tie the last bow on the last bag, I let out a sigh, relieved yet exhausted.
It’s almost evening, and the sun has begun to set, casting a golden glow through the huge glass windows. Jasper also sighs beside me, leaning back, pressing his back against the couch.
And, because he was surprisingly civilized that afternoon, I decide to show him how different things could be in our lives if he were at least a little pleasant sometimes.
“See everything we accomplished just because you decided to be nice to me?”
He lifts his head to look at me.
“What are you talking about? I’m always nice to you.”
I want to laugh.
“You’ve never been nice to me a single day in your life.”
“I was nice at Robbie’s birthday in the Hamptons, when you fell off the boat while singing My Heart Will Go On and trying to do the Titanic pose.”
“No, you weren’t. You just saved me because you were person closest to me, and everyone would think you pushed me if you hadn’t jumped to help.”
“I was really nice to you last night,” he says, with a mischievous smile.
“Argh!” I mutter, rolling my eyes. And then mutter again.
“What? You said I could torture you after we finished the kits.”
Shit. I did say that.
Instinctively, I glance at the expensive watch on his wrist to check the time.
“Right, get it out of your system before everyone gets back from the tour.”
Jasper looks completely exasperated, opens his mouth twice, bites down on his index finger, and lets out a guttural groan, as if on the verge of collapse, unable to decide whether he wants a slow, conscious death or a sudden shot to the head.
“There’s so much, I don’t even know where to start.”
“Tick-tock, Jasper!” I press him.
“When you said you’re sore, you mean…”
“That sand probably got where it shouldn’t have.”
“Or…” he suggests, licking his lips and glancing at his pants.
Which forces me to look too, and damn! Now I’m looking at the bulge in his pants, far more visible because one leg is bent, pulling the fabric tighter in the crotch area.
“It’s not that big,” I say immediately, not letting him manipulate me. “Actually, I’ve handled bigger.”
“It did feel kind of loose in there,” he counters.
My eyes widen, and I can’t hold back a laugh. Incredulous, but still a laugh.
“You’re an fucking moron.”
“And you’re crazy about me anyway.”
This time the laugh turns into a full-on laugh. I throw my head back and, just when he thinks I’ll stop, I start laughing again.
I’m laughing, but Jasper suddenly goes serious. The mischievous smile fades, giving way to a masculine, hard… manly face, not the usual cheeky clown face he has.
Almond-shaped eyes search mine, calm and warm under thick eyebrows.
“What?”
“You have…” Jasper begins softly, slowly reaching toward my face. Good God, what’s happening? “…a piece of ribbon…”
Instead of finishing, he brushes his thumb across my cheek, the tips of his other fingers fitting perfectly along my jawline, and I barely notice when a tiny piece of gold ribbon falls onto my shirt, because suddenly my eyes are locked on his, my lungs fill with air and I apparently forgot to breathe this whole time.
Only when I exhale through my nose, heavily, the bastard grins from ear to ear, eyes squinting, lips stretching wide, and he says, “You’re so crazy about me it’s embarrassing, Julia.”
I slap his hand away, feeling a fire of rage take over my chest. I want to tell him to get fucked, hard, with a huge cock, but I’m so flustered I can only shout, furious, “Shut up!”
But that was a huge mistake. Because now there’s… there’s that sly gleam in his dark eyes, lips pressed, trying to hold back words.
He doesn’t need to. He doesn’t need to say anything. His eyes say it all without effort.
Come shut me up, they say.
Come shut me up, they challenge. And they seem capable of inducing a trance, because I barely notice when I lean toward Jasper, pulling his neck to me and reaching his mouth with mine.
The idiot responds as if he’d been waiting for it all day, one hand in my hair, fingers tangled tightly, the other hand landing on my thigh, my loose beach shorts unable to stop it from moving up my bare skin.
It’s a kiss full of anger and contempt, and I can’t understand what makes it so good and irresistible, because the more I think of stopping, the more my body softens at his touch and my mind drifts, so I don’t even hesitate when Jasper pulls me so close that the only available place is his lap.
I wrap my legs around his, and it doesn’t take long to feel the huge erection pressing into my pelvis. His mouth slides from my chin to my neck in a series of wet and loud kisses.
I exhale forcefully, accompanied by a soft moan and a hip movement that presses harder against him.
Jasper responds, hands climbing my back, pressing my chest to his, and when he kisses me again, it’s at a completely different pace.
Slowly, his tongue brushing mine as if he has all the time in the world.
His large, warm fingers now gentle, fitting at the base of my neck…
And you might think this calms things down, right?
No, not at all. This is much, much worse.
Because when you’re kissing someone wildly, your brain can’t even process the number of movements, moans, and events happening.
This… slowly… this way I can feel everything. Every movement of his tongue against mine, the sound of his heavy yet restrained breathing, every patch of skin in contact with mine. Damn, I can feel every beat of our hearts! And this is absolutely not a calming kiss.
You think a calm kiss is meant to calm you, but it only makes me want to strip completely, right here in the living room, and think of nothing else.
So, you see, I’m not planning to stop. Apparently neither is Jasper Hassmann, because his hands are starting to work at removing my clothes. It’s not me, nor him, who finally stops this madness.
It’s the tour van that just pulled up outside, the roar of the engine mixed with a bunch of excited voices announcing the bride and groom, and also everyone else staying at this house, have just arrived.
I stop the kiss in the middle and lean on the couch to move away without touching him, but Jasper keeps his hands on my back, the fabric of my shirt bunched in his fingers.
“I swear, if anyone finds out, I’ll say you drugged me,” is the first thing I say.
“Even though it was clearly you who attacked me both times?”
“Good luck convincing anyone of that.”
He’s not even fazed by my comment.
“If I can convince a judge that my client didn’t evade taxes and has no secret account in the Bahamas, Julie, I can convince people you’re the deranged one.”
I want to show him who’s really deranged here, but the gate starts opening downstairs, voices grow louder as they cross the garden toward the front door, so I immediately move away, sitting back beside him on the rug, wiping my mouth with one hand and adjusting my shirt with the other.
“You’re disgusting,” I make sure to inform him.
And, because I wasted enough time looking at him, my eyes also land on the firm bulge pushing his pants as if they might rip. I point impatiently, my face twisted in a grimace, “Put that thing away.”
“You were the one rubbing against it,” Jasper justifies, but adjusts himself inside his underwear over the clothes, and just that simple move makes me dizzy again.
Part of me is jealous. Part of me wants to grab exactly where he was touching. Part of me wanted to hold all of that in my hand and indulge in all possibilities.
The other part needs to be stronger and check into a psychiatric ward before it’s too late, because, obviously, I’ve gone crazy.