Chapter 4
FOUR
CHANCE
JANE, JANE, JANE.
I love her name. From the moment she opened the door, I knew it suited her better than Addison.
Funny, but I’ve always thought of “Jane” as a sort of vanilla name.
It sounds boring and plain, just like you’d expect the person who answered to it to be.
I mean, the term Plain Jane has to come from somewhere, right?
Stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason.
But this Jane is the fucking exception to that rule.
And yet, I can’t put my finger on why. It’s not like she’s sexy in the vixen sort of way, with smoky makeup and clothing that fits like a second skin.
She’s kind of a disaster, actually, and a geeky one at that.
But underneath the glasses, messy hair, and stained college hoodie, she exudes a kind of sexual energy that defies the message her outward appearance gives off, and it’s killing me knowing it’s just beneath the surface.
And that’s the very reason I pushed for the dance.
Her mouth—or more accurately, her brain—is saying she doesn’t want me, doesn’t want to explore the heat sparking between us.
But those big brown eyes of hers are saying the exact opposite.
They were glassy and nearly black, and I know that if I stuck my hand down the front of her yoga pants, I’d find her wet and good to go.
Now I have an insatiable need to peel back that layer of inhibition and see what she’s capable of when nothing’s holding her back.
The best shot I have at doing that is dancing for her.
Stripping is an art of seduction, and I’m damn good at it, so I’m going to use that to my advantage.
I find the bathroom easily enough and take in the scene.
She’s tried fixing it herself but obviously had no luck, since the sink is half-full with murky water.
The cabinet doors of the vanity are both open, with a plastic bucket placed beneath the P-trap, and a shiny, new pipe wrench is on the counter.
Her laptop is either off or in sleep mode on the lid of the closed toilet, and I’d bet a month’s income she has a “fixing clogged sinks” page pulled up on a how-to website.
I smile. I like that she’s self-reliant…and that thought has me frowning. Because why the hell should I care if she’s self-reliant or a spoiled princess? I shouldn’t.
I don’t. I’m not interested in her more than how she’ll feel squeezing my dick as I fuck us both into oblivion. She’s no different than any other woman I hook up with.
Satisfied with that little reassurance, I kneel down in front of the vanity.
It comes as no surprise that she hadn’t been successful.
The building is old as hell, and the landlord apparently hasn’t put any money into updating the plumbing.
Instead of the much easier to work with PVC, Jane’s sink still has the original steel pipes.
The slip nuts are likely rusted to the point of nice-fucking-try, and it’ll take a hell of a lot of torque to get them moving.
Something a little thing like Jane wouldn’t have, no matter how valiant her efforts, but hopefully I won’t have that same problem.
Grabbing the wrench, I settle onto the floor and get into a position to throw my weight behind it.
I clamp it on to the pipe and start pushing.
Shit, it’s really on there good. The wrench moves a tiny bit, but it’s not because the nut loosens.
The tool is turning on the nut itself, losing traction, and stripping the outside of it.
I release the pipe and try it from the left side.
Pulling it toward me, I try keeping the balance between torque and finesse so I won’t strip the nut.
Slowly…so slowly…it gives way, loosening a hair more every few seconds. I hold my breath and grit my teeth, and though I’m not a praying kind of guy, I may even toss up a literal Hail Mary in hopes it’ll do some good.
Finally, the nut comes free, and it’s as if the opposing team in a game of tug-of-war counted to three and let go all at once.
I almost land flat on my back but manage to catch myself at the last second.
I must’ve jostled her laptop because I hear it whir to life, and a second later the screen lights up on a webpage titled “Lose the Loser and Fix Your Own Sink: a How-To Guide for the Independent Woman.”
Bull’s-eye. I chuckle and shake my head.
I’d been dead-on, and having it confirmed is an entertaining pat on the back.
One thing that being a stripper has taught me is how to read women.
Put me in a room of two dozen women, and just by watching them for five minutes, I can point out things about each of them that typically only their friends and acquaintances will know—their personalities, their likes and dislikes, and sometimes even their habits.
It’s a talent that’s come in handy more times than I can count.
I grab the top of the laptop to shut it, but the screen switches from helpful guide to a frozen image of a naked man fisting a woman’s hair as he gags her with his cock.
What. The. Fuck.
How the hell did that even happen? At first I think I might’ve clicked an ad that opened up the popular site, Porn Hub, but the only thing I touched was the very top with my thumb—
Oh, no way. Testing my theory that her laptop is the kind with a touchscreen, I poke at the center, and the video comes to life, thankfully with the sound muted.
Holy shit, I was right. Which means I’d accidentally opened up one of the tabs in Jane’s browser.
And that means one very important thing: Jane watches porn.
And not just any kind of porn, I realize as I scroll through her browsing history. She watches the rough-as-fuck, choke-me-with-your-cock, call-me-your-slut kind of porn.
Someone alert the media that Hell has officially frozen over. Because I think I’m in love.