11. Jude
Jude
My gaze follows Roman’s strides across the yard. Something is off about him. I can’t put my finger on it, but I felt it last night. Sex with him was always brutal. Not that I had any complaints. I find it incredibly cathartic to have my brain fucked right out of my skull.
At least, that’s what sex with Roman was like.
Until last night.
It was slow and tender. Almost...passionate, I think.
Unusual. On the other hand, probably the best sex we’ve ever had.
It’s such a pity he’s got that partial celibacy thing going on.
He won’t come knocking on my door anytime soon.
Honestly, I don’t know how he does it. Having sex once every other month or two would drive me up the wall.
At some point, he needs to stop punishing himself.
Roman slides a key into the cabin door and disappears inside. I’m scheduled to repair the lighting fixtures tomorrow, but it seems he wants to tackle it tonight. He is a workaholic, but it’s not like him to take over my duties. I suspect he’s trying to wear himself out.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a joint and a lighter.
The back door opens. Taylor steps out, rubs his bare hands, then beelines toward the huge bonfire.
I stick the joint between my lips, remembering our interaction on the front porch.
I knew something didn’t add up. I now understand why there was no sign of longing when he mentioned his girlfriend.
There’s no way Taylor is straight.
And that changes everything.
Roman exits the cabin and glances over at the bonfire. His movements slow down until he abruptly stops. My thumb freezes on the lighter switch. Why is he staring at Taylor like that?
It’s not the disgruntled look that he usually gives him. Not the kind that makes it clear he’d rather Taylor be anywhere but here. It’s familiar, one that sends a flood of heat to my groin. He gives me that same look each time he takes my clothes off.
Holy shit.
Am I jealous of Roman being attracted to Taylor?
No. I’ve never harbored any hope or illusion that he and I would fall in love.
I’m a warm body that he occasionally uses, and he is the only man I’d ever allow to fuck me.
Preferably because he has a huge dick and knows how to use it.
So yeah, he might be staring at Taylor as if he wants to pound him into the headboard, but it doesn’t bother me.
Roman shakes his head, huffs out a sigh, and moves on. This should be interesting. I know it must be fucking with his head. He has always been a man of principle. An attraction to his stepbrother’s kid contradicts everything he believes.
But the thought of them fucking is making my dick rock-hard.
I flick the lighter, holding the flame to the joint’s tip, taking small, gentle puffs to ignite the burn. I’d fucking pay to see that. However, it’s wishful thinking. Roman would never surrender to that kind of lust.
Not when he has so much to lose.
But I don’t.
Tucking the lighter in my front pocket, I walk over to where Taylor is toasting his hands by the fire.
He spares me a glance, his face turning an extra shade of red.
He hasn’t looked me in the face since this morning, not without blushing.
And now, I’m tempted to find out what else would make him glow like that.
He glances at me again—specifically, at the joint in my hand. “You smoke?” I ask.
A careless shrug. “Occasionally.”
I take a slow drag, the joint glowing a fierce orange before I exhale a thick cloud of smoke into the chilly night air. “I can’t imagine your mother being too thrilled about that.”
“She doesn’t know,” he mutters. I offer the joint to him, and he takes it. For a moment, he stares as if it’s an object he has never seen before. “She doesn’t know a lot of things about me.”
Taylor draws in a calculated sip of smoke, then lets it out through his nose, which makes me suspect that ‘occasionally’ means ‘often’. I wonder what else he’s good at. “Like?” I ask.
A long beat passes. He stares at the fire, a contemplative look on his face, and I almost give up on a response when he says, “Like I’m never going to marry Celeste.”
“Your girlfriend?”
He glances up at me. “She’s not my girlfriend.”
Yeah, no surprises there. I stare at him silently, waiting for him to say more.
“She’s my best friend. My only friend. We’ve agreed to cover each other’s backs until...
” He ponders for a moment, then shrugs. “Actually, I’m not sure when this will end.
We’re going with the flow until things work out. ”
The joint lights up as he takes another draw. “But now Mom has been hinting that CC would make the perfect wife.”
“And you’re not interested in a wife.”
A guarded expression settles on his face.
“You got hard for me, Taylor.” There’s no use mincing words. “Either you have a subconscious attraction to men, or you’re bisexual.”
He stares down at his feet. “I’m not bisexual.”
“I mean, you can deny it, but—“
“A woman has never turned me on.” He glances up, showing me the anguish in his eyes. “And someday, my mother expects me to marry one.”
Something heavy and painful settles in my stomach. “Don’t do it. It would be the worst mistake you’d ever make.”
“Disappointing my mother would be worse,” he mutters.
Oh, but he’s so, so wrong. “Take it from me, Taylor. Don’t hide who you are. It will never turn out well for you.” If I could go back in time, I’d tell my sixteen-year-old self the same thing.
My mother would still be alive.
“I don’t have a choice but to keep hiding,” he replies, a wave of sadness twisting his pretty features. He hands me back the joint. “Mom has been through enough without me screwing up her life.”
A part of me wants to share my story. Maybe it might change his mind. But reliving that memory turns my stomach every time. I’ve only endured the unpleasantness twice: once during the trial and again when Roman ran the background check on me.
Pinching the joint, I put it out. Taylor sighs heavily, his head thrown back, gaze focused on the starry sky. “It might sound weird, but this is the best thing Mom could have done for me,” he mutters.
“What?” I ask.
“Suggesting I come here.” He looks at me, a wry smile on his lips. “I can breathe better now.”
I step closer, enough to catch the scent of his expensive cologne. “I felt the same when I had just arrived.”
“And now?” he asks.
“I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”
He sighs as if trying to unburden something from his chest. I shouldn’t touch him, but I do, just my fingertips brushing a lock of hair from his face. He doesn’t move away. I almost swear he inches closer. Or maybe it’s me.
“You deserve more than three months of freedom.”
And for some reason, I have this sudden urge to give him everything he needs.