The Match Faker

15. Nick

15

NICK

F or the rest of the day, I’m electrified. Jasmine joined me exactly five minutes later at the foot of the stairs, droplets of water still on her shoulders from the shower she must have taken. I’d spent those five minutes going through every Blue Jays loss in recent memory. Nothing kills a boner better than home team heartbreak.

We walked to the pool with a foot of space between us, but the hair on my arms stood on end the entire way. Each strand a lightning rod in the electrical storm that is Jasmine Palmer. At the pool, she kept her beach cover-up on the whole time, sitting on the edge and dangling her feet in the water. In the end, that was probably for the best. There’s no way I would have kept it together if she’d taken it off. Alex and Robert would never let me near their children again.

After swimming, Jasmine volunteered to help Mom and my sisters with some last-minute errands in town. She didn’t say it, but the way she studied me before she left made it clear she wants me to talk to my dad now.

I take my time climbing the stairs to get my business proposal, telling myself the whole way up that it’s so the creaky steps won’t wake any of the babies who are down for their naps. I loiter in my bedroom, tidying up my things so they’re almost as neat as Jasmine’s. I don’t bother with the bathroom, though. I’m convinced it will smell like her, and if it smells like her, I may just lock myself inside until she returns.

Dad is in the living room watching a hockey game with Alex and Charlie when I return downstairs. Alex lies across one side of the L-shaped sectional, a beer on the coffee table in front of him, his eyes closed and jaw slack. Charlie takes up the other side of the L, a bowl of chips balanced on his stomach, also fast asleep.

Dad has his feet up in the recliner, no food, no drink, just a man and his big screen. Eventually he notices me skulking behind them.

“Come have a seat,” he says. Except there’s nowhere to sit, so I perch on the arm of the couch. I have to shove Alex’s feet off of it, but he doesn’t even flinch. We sit in silence through most of the third period, punctuated only by random snorts and snores from my brothers and grunts from Dad when the Leafs make a bad play, which is pretty often.

I don’t know what to do with my hands. Holding the business proposal is making them sweat, but the closest flat surface is the coffee table, and I can’t drop it there without standing and taking a step. That will draw Dad’s attention and then he’ll ask what it is.

Technically, that’s what I want, that’s what I’m here for. But not in front of my brothers, sleeping or otherwise.

Eventually, the game winds downs, we lose, and the feed switches over to a Western Conference game. The sun dips low over the lake. The caterers will be here soon. Jasmine will be back, and we’ll have to get changed. The guests will arrive, and Mom and Dad will be celebrated for their decades of successfully not hating each other. Then, tomorrow, we’ll leave. And all of this, the lying, the pretending, faking some things but not others, will have been for nothing.

I’ll have hurt Jasmine, for nothing.

“Dad,” I say.

He grunts again, gaze locked on the game.

“Can I talk to you?”

He turns slowly in his chair, scowling. Shit. For a moment, I’m sure he’ll say no, but he hits the level on his recliner, lowering his feet. He’s slow to stand, to stretch, and straighten. “I’ve got to clean up the woodshop,” he says.

Confusion and apprehension swirl in my gut. I guess I’m supposed to follow him.

The path to the pool and shop are lined with large pavers, and when Dad installed a hydronic heating system to the circular driveway a few years ago, he extended it to the path as well. Even on the coldest days, we can get from the house to the pool or the shop without having to put boots on or shovel. He’s always retrofitting the house with new technology and features. It’s his way of working with his hands even though he has to wear a suit for work most of the time now. Before he was a midsize office furniture and supply company founder and CEO, he handmade custom wood furniture.

When I was a kid, I used to sit out here while he worked. He had very strict rules for children in the woodshop. I had to sit on the bench off to one side; if my butt left the bench, I got one warning. If it left the bench twice, I was gone. Once he knew I could be trusted not to get underfoot or cut my hand off with a circular saw, I was invited to sweep. I had to sweep for a year before I was allowed to touch any of the wood, but finally I graduated to sanding.

As Dad opens the French doors to the shop, the smell of freshly cut wood—better than freshly cut grass one hundred percent of the time—hits me. Instantly, I’m overwhelmed by a sense of safety and warmth. One that makes me feel like I’m eight years old again. I’ve helped Dad make a lot of cool stuff in here: a stained walnut chair of Scandinavian design, a chest used to store extra blankets and sheets at the foot of my bed, a full-length mirror frame with floral patterns—my first time using a router—and a rocking horse for Tilly that I don’t think she ever actually used.

I sit on my bench as Dad moves about the shop. He checks the tools’ safeties, inspects for hairline cracks in the saws and blades, and ensures every tool is in its place on the pegboards and in the cabinets. He even built his own tool mounts for the wall instead of using wall mounts and French cleats.

“Jasmine is impressive,” he says, frowning into a pair of safety glasses like he’s waiting for them to crack.

“Uhhh. Yeah.” I duck my head and rub at the back of my neck. It’s not that I disagree, it’s just a strange adjective to describe her. The Empire State Building? Impressive. The antlers on a moose? Impressive. An adult woman? There are a million other adjectives I’d use first, but I won’t harp on this no matter how bad I want to. So, I settle for “She’s amazing.”

From there, we fall back into silence. I set the business proposal on my lap and survey the crisp paper and ink-jet printing. “Dad, I—” I say, forcing my head up.

At the same time, he says, “Are you going to?—”

We both snap our mouths shut and stare at one another.

“Sorry,” I say. “You go.”

He shakes his head and lifts a hand. “You first.”

I take a deep breath, muster all the courage I have. “I wanted to show you something.” My butt leaves the bench; I don’t get a warning. That’s a good sign at least. I set the proposal onto the clean worktable and dive into details about Ed and the bar. When he doesn’t make a move to open the bound proposal, I do it for him.

I start with my elevator pitch, set the scene for him in a way I hope he’ll relate to. The bar isn’t for getting drunk—well, it is, but I don’t mention that part—it’s for community. I fill him in on the business, how well it’s doing and how it generates sufficient cash flow year over year. I lay out why I need the loan and how I’d use it, propose a repayment plan that benefits him. I talk about my experience as an HR, operations, marketing, customer relations, and property manager. I even provide business and personal financial statements so he can see that I’m far more responsible than he gives me credit for.

He’s silent throughout, letting me say my piece.

“I know I haven’t always made the choices you would make,” I say. “But I hope I’ve demonstrated how serious I am about this business and that you’ll consider this loan an investment in a future we can both be proud of.”

Forcing my fists to unclench, I drop my shoulders from my ears. Now that I’m not talking, I realize how dry my mouth is, that I’m sweating a little along my brow. Fuck, I hope he sees it for what it is, nerves, rather than a sign that I’m lying or untrustworthy.

“Anyway,” I say to break the silence. “I can give you some time to think about it if you need to.”

Dad makes a face I’ve never seen before. His eyes are bright, and a slow smile tips his lips. Holy shit. Is this what pride looks like? I better get Alex in here to verify it, the kiss-ass.

“Wow,” he says, regarding the business plan, then focusing on me again. “She’s really done a lot of work on you.”

“She being…?”

“Jasmine.” He slaps my shoulder. “This has to be her influence.”

There are moments in every man’s life when he realizes his father is an irredeemable dick. This one is mine. Though I’m sure Jasmine could have contributed and even found ways to make it better, she had nothing to do with my proposal. This was mine, all of it, the business, the presentation, the ambition, but god forbid my father see me as anything other than the family fuckup.

Clenching my fists and my molars, I force a slow breath in through my nose. It takes all the restraint I possess not to lose it on him.

He chuckles, clearly unaware of my turmoil. “When you said you wanted to talk, I thought you were going to tell me that you plan to ask her to marry you.”

“Whoa.” I slap his shoulder the way he slapped mine and resist the urge to squeeze a little too hard. “That’s moving a little fast, don’t you think?”

He shakes his head. “When you know, you know. I knew with your mom.”

Lips pressed together, I nod. Like a fucking automaton.

“I’m just relieved you’re finally settling down,” he says. “It shows real maturity.”

This has to be a dream. I just asked him for a loan so that I could become a business owner, and yet he’s steered the conversation to my girlfriend. A girlfriend who’s not really my girlfriend. A woman who hates my guts. Not that he knows that.

“Well,” I say. Don’t fuck this up. Don’t fuck this up . “Thanks, Dad.” My voice is as wooden as the shit in this shop.

“I’ll tell you what,” he says, flipping through the proposal. “I have to talk to my financial advisor, but we’ll move some funds around and get this loan to you both.”

“To us both?” My voice is so cheerful, I sound fake. “That’s great.”

Really, really great.

It takes me about fifteen minutes to shower, shave, get dressed in the navy-blue suit. I forgo the tie, like last time. Though I’m sure my dad will air grievances about it. By comparison, three and half episodes of a syndicated 90s sitcom play before she comes out of the bathroom.

But I can’t even pretend to be annoyed, because I think this woman is trying to kill me. Death by boner. Her red hair, pulled into a tight bun—shocking—at her nape, shines. Not a single strand is out of place. It’s neat and proper, surely requiring an immeasurable number of bobby pins and hairspray and probably some other hair product I’ve never heard of. Every detail makes me appreciate her more. The care she takes in all she does, even when she does things for someone else, even someone who betrayed her.

Her makeup is sparse except for her lips, which she’s painted with the kind of red that probably comes in a tube labeled Medusa’s Kiss or Bad Blood or Revenge. Her dress is simple and black, with a square neckline that shows off her collarbones, sleeves to the wrists, and a skirt to mid-calf. She wears tiny-heeled black shoes with a strap of little diamantes across the top. She stands in front of where I lounge on the bed, fiddling with her pearl earrings, scowling at me.

“Nick?” she asks, waving her hand in front of my face. “Did you hear me?”

Oh shit. “Yes,” I lie.

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, she turns, then slips her other earring into her ear.

Good god. All the blood rushes south as I take her in from behind. First, the green jumpsuit, then that fucking bathing suit, now this dress. Another low back. I want to get back down on my knees for her and worship the dimples just above her ass, the subtle dip of her spine, her sharp shoulder blades?—

“Are you going to do up the buttons?” She peers over her shoulder, clearly annoyed. Probably because she’s already asked me this more than once. But as I inspect the dress, a line of small buttons wrapped in black fabric marching up one side, corresponding elastic hoops on the other, I breathe an internal sigh of relief and devastation. It’s not actually another low back.

“Sorry. Yes.” I’ve never felt like I have sausage fingers more than I do right now. The pads of my fingers brush her back as I slowly hide the dimples, then her spine, ending right below her shoulder blades.

“Thanks,” she says, stepping away when I’m finished. “Ready?” Though she stands in the doorway of the bathroom, she checks her fit again, adjusting the sleeves, smoothing her hair.

“Yeah.” My mouth is so dry, and my pants are suddenly tight.

“Okay.” She brushes past me, close enough that the smell of her body lotion or her shampoo or whatever fills my nose.

“Wait.” I turn on my socked heels, my shoes still lined up neatly next to all of her unworn ones.

She stands with her back to me, her hand on the doorknob, her shoulders rising and falling, and sighs before she slowly turns back to me.

“Thank you. And I’m s?—”

She shakes her head, lowers her attention to the floor between us. “Don’t apologize to me again.”

That’s fair. Words can only go so far. “I won’t,” I say. “You look lovely.”

Slowly, she forces her gaze back to my face, her expression distrustful. I get it. Why she has trouble believing a single word from me.

“That’s true,” I assure her.

She drops her focus again. “You look lovely, too.”

My heart pangs. I’ve never been called lovely before; it’s kind of…lovely.

“Well,” she says, lips twisting, “you will be once you put your shoes on.”

“That is also true.”

We walk down the stairs to the kitchen together. The second we hit the bottom step, we’re greeted by my mother’s ooohs and aaahs. She’s gone all out for this anniversary party, hiring a photographer to mingle with the guests to catch candids.

All of my niblings are dressed in what can only be described as modern von Trapp core, a combination of Oktoberfest-style suspenders and Navy neckerchiefs. Most of my siblings are already here, drinks in hand. Alex is outside on the deck with Philip, Claire’s husband, huddled under one of the outdoor propane heaters and sharing a cigar. Claire and Robert stand inside watching their kids and glaring at their partners, clearly unimpressed with them. Either for smoking, or for not helping with the kids who all seem to be running wilder than normal because of the general excitement of the evening, or maybe both.

The doorbell rings and Mom makes a high-pitched sound that’s just a few octaves short of only being audible to dogs. Her first guests have arrived.

“You ready for this?” I ask.

Jasmine’s face is pale and her eyes swim with trepidation. She looks like she’d rather drink week-old cab sauv than be here, but when she turns to me, she does her best to smile.

My gut twists at her discomfort. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Fake it.”

Hands clutched in front of her, she sniffs. “I’m not.”

“Jazz, you’re allowed to say you’re overwhelmed.”

“I’m not,” she says, the words more defensive this time. “I am not,” she says again, evening out her tone. “Besides, between the two of us, you’re faker than I am.”

Usually, I’m a pro at masking my reactions, but this jab takes me by surprise.

“Well, that’s kind of hurtful,” I say.

Jasmine falters, her pleased superiority wiped clean, but she gathers herself quickly.

“You’re the one who lied,” she says. Rather than meet my eyes, she focuses on the gathering group of guests congratulating my parents on their anniversary.

“Yeah. And I apologized for that. So many times that you asked me to stop. And let’s not forget that I wouldn’t have been in this position if you hadn’t asked me to lie first.” Now that I’ve gotten going, I might be madder than I thought I was. “So, it’s okay when you do it, but when I do, it’s unforgivable?”

“You pretended to be a completely different person,” she says through clenched teeth.

“I told you I’d take you home. I said I’d tell them the truth,” I hiss back.

In the back of my mind, I know we need to cool it. Fighting with Jasmine in the middle of my parents’ party is not going to endear my request to my father and it will just upset Mom. At this point, she’d probably keep Jasmine and get rid of me. With a long breath in, I lean away from her, unclench my jaw. I slip my hand into my slacks’ pocket. Because nobody who’s got their hands in their pockets is pissed.

“But you’re still here. You’re allowed to be mad, but what you’re not allowed to do, what I won’t allow, is treat me like your verbal punching bag when the person you’re really mad at is yourself.”

Damn, I’m on a roll. But rather than take the bait and snipe back at me, she steps in close and trails her fingers along the button front of my suit jacket, like she read my mind about cooling it.

She whispers, her words like cirrus clouds, almost insubstantial against my throat. “I don’t like you.”

Because I have issues best explored with the guidance of a mental health professional, I get an erection.

With a hand pressed to the small of her back, I lean into her ear and whisper back, “You’ll just have to fake it.”

She scowls.

Her hair remains perfectly set, but I pretend like there’s a loose strand, using it as an excuse to feel the soft curve of her ear. She’s frozen in place, all but her lips, which part in response to the touch.

“Are you worried you won’t be able to?” I ask. “You certainly didn’t fake it this morning.”

She clamps her mouth shut. Her eyes narrow and her nostrils flare. If possible, I think she’d happily wrap her hands around my neck, French tips and all, and squeeze until I turned purple. She’s fuming.

It may be true; she may not like me. She may hate me after this. But she didn’t hate me this morning. Didn’t hate my hands, my mouth, or the words I spoke into her skin.

“You look a little warm.” I rub my thumb along her cheek. It’s pink because of me, not the temperature. “I’ll get us drinks.”

“Feel free to choke on one,” she says cheerily.

I laugh as I walk away.

Between Jasmine and the bar set up at the kitchen island, I’m stopped by two couples, both friends of my parents’ I barely remember, and I’m stopped once more on my way back with two flutes of champagne. They all want to know what I’m up to, then act surprised when I’m still “just a bartender.” They double down on that surprise when I tell them I’m here with Jasmine. I get it, but also, rude.

Miranda and Claire have joined Jasmine by the time I get back to her, and the combination of her first few sips of alcohol and my sisters’ embarrassing stories about me, specifically the crush I had on my first-grade teacher, Ms. Sarah—I still maintain I had an outside chance with her—loosen Jasmine’s smile. Claire leaves to put her baby to bed, but Robert takes her place, with more champagne. Charlie and Rashida join us, both exceptionally drunk. I’m not on the clock, but at this point, it’s hard not to take notice of intoxication levels of the people around me.

Jasmine is incredible at small talk. She asks to hear Charlie and Rashida’s engagement story, coos appropriately over the professional family photos that Robert and Alex have done every quarter, and expertly sidesteps too much detail about “us.”

I’m in the kitchen, collecting waters for the group, when the familiar ting , ting , ting of a butter knife on stemware cuts through the conversations around the place. As my dad clambers up on top of the coffee table, the crowd quiets, and as he delivers his speech, Mom beams up at him from the floor. She isn’t even pissed that he’s standing on the furniture.

“I’m generally known as a man of few words.” He pauses there, waiting for his audience to laugh. “But I want to thank you all for being here to celebrate what I can honestly say will never be enough years with my Mindy.”

Pause for obligatory awwwwws.

The room is full, bright, warm. Alex and Robert stand with their arms around each other, Tilly half-asleep and clinging to Alex, her head on his shoulder like when she was a baby. Charlie hugs Rashida from behind, resting his chin on the top of her head. They’re both glassy-eyed and swaying but at least they’re doing it together.

Dad talks about how he thought Mom was gorgeous the moment he saw her and how she couldn’t remember his name.

Pause for obligatory laugh.

I find Jasmine in the crowd. Her cheeks are flushed but not too much. A small smile pulls at her lips. She toys with the base of her champagne flute, drawing her finger back and forth around it. I’m tempted to go to her, grasp her hand, squeeze her fingers, take her to another room, somewhere private; I know all the best hiding spots in this house. I’ve spent the most time avoiding my dad. She laughs at something my dad says, then she looks at me. Like she could feel my attention like a caress. The remnants of laughter are still on her face.

“And finally, we want to thank all our children and their partners for joining us this weekend. Especially my son Nick and his new partner, Jasmine, who is such a lovely addition to our family.”

More obligatory awwwwws and clandestine snickers from my siblings. My parents beam at me. So do their friends, people I don’t recognize or remember but who knew me when I was Tilly’s age.

Did Jasmine feel sick when we duped her co-workers? Probably not. But nausea builds as person after person turns my way. And as my father lifts his glass to toast, the champagne and finger foods sour in my stomach.

Jasmine is right. I am a faker. I’m fake. Is saving Moonbar worth lying for? Absolutely. But is lying to my family, accepting their pride in something that doesn’t exist, worth it?

I am an asshole.

Around me people toast, clap, and turn their attention back to the party. Holding my breath and snagging a bottle of unopened champagne from the nearest ice bucket, I leave.

The first time Tilly saw the automatic pool cleaner, she cried and refused to get in the water. She called it a creepy crawly. So that’s what we named it. Creepy Crawly chugs along the wall. Dad could have bought a new one by now, one that doesn’t sound like an underwater combustion engine, but he’d rather fix this one over and over again.

The bottle of champagne is tepid in the humidity of the pool room but the lounger I chose is the comfiest one, more like a chaise longue than glorified patio furniture. Between the sudden bursts of laughter and the constant muted thump of bass, with my eyes closed, I can almost convince myself I’m home in the bed above my bar.

When the door opens behind me, I lie very still in case it’s my parents. They’re old so maybe if I don’t move, they won’t see me, like the T. rex.

No dice. Footsteps approach, heels. The newcomer puts a hand on my hip and pushes until I move over.

“What do you want, Jasmine?” I picked up her scent halfway between the door and this chair. Which I’ll never admit. Makes me sound like a serial killer. She just smells so damn good, that rich, spicy-sweet scent.

When she doesn’t answer, I turn onto my side, facing her. The lounger is big enough to fit both of us if we spooned.

“I say again, what do you want, Jasmine?”

“Why are you sulking?” She perches on the back of the chair, back straight, neck long. The glow from the outdoor lights softens the severity her tight bun and the sharp lines of her dress give her.

“I’m getting some air.”

“It’s like forty degrees in here.”

“But there’s air .”

She rolls her eyes.

“What do you want?”

She fidgets, smoothing already smooth fabric and flattening already flattened hair.

“ Jazz .”

She huffs. “Come upstairs with me,” she says, attention averted.

“To do what?”

Another burst of sudden laughter reaches us. She watches me, lips pressed together, until it fades, as if I wouldn’t be able to hear her otherwise. “Come with me and I’ll tell you.”

I huff a breath. Fuck. I am not in the mood for this. “Jasmine, tell me why now or I’ll never leave this lounger.”

“Nick,” she says, stern.

“Tell me or I’ll throw up.”

“You’re acting like a child.”

“Tell me or?—”

She covers my mouth with her hand. “Stop. And don’t lick me, either.”

She’s lucky she’s fast, because I was about to. When she removes her hand, she wipes her palm on my suit jacket hanging off the back of the lounger anyway.

“I’ve been considering what you said earlier and…” She sighs. “You’re right.”

Channeling my best Judd Nelson, I throw my fist into the air. She pulls it back down but rests my hand in her lap and holds tight with both of hers.

“It’s not fair that I get to lie but you don’t, or that I asked you to lie for me but then I’m upset about it. It’s hypocritical.”

She opens my fist, spreads my fingers out on her lap, tracing the outline with her index finger; goose bumps follow.

“I stayed because fairness is important to me. You helped me so it’s fair that I should stay and help you, and honestly, the reason you need me is a lot more noble than the reason I needed you.”

“We don’t need to compare?—”

She shushes me, though one side of her mouth tips up in a hint of a smile. I make a claw with my hand and squeeze her leg right above her knee, making her squeal.

“Anyway,” she says after we catch ourselves staring goofily at each other. “You won’t be my verbal punching bag anymore.” Her voice is soft.

Creepy Crawly still chugs along the pool floor. Large windows line two walls of the room, but with the lights off, it’s secluded, almost secret.

“Wait.” I sit up. “Why did you need me to go back to our room for that?”

She ignores or doesn’t notice my use of “our,” so I ignore it, too.

She huffs again, frustrated.

“Did Grandma and Tilly set up a series of booby traps for you?” I ask. “Do you need me to escort you?”

“No.” Tinkling laughter escapes her. “But I’m sure that could still happen.” The fidgeting starts again. She shifts on the lounger, checks the collar of her dress, pulls at her sleeves.

“Jasmine, I swear to god…”

“I like things to be fair,” she says, her voice echoing. She starts again, quieter. “I don’t like owing anyone.”

I wrack my brain. What could she possibly owe me? “You’re staying. You’re helping me. My hang-ups about lying to my parents aren’t your problem. Trust me. I’m as surprised as you are.”

She closes her eyes. “That’s not what I mean,” she says, her shoulders slumping. With a deep breath in, she zeroes in on me, like she’s preparing herself. “I’d like to give you a hand job.”

Other than the pool cleaner, there’s no sound. Still, I’m not sure I heard her correctly. “Come again?”

“Yes. Exactly,” she says.

“Ha ha,” I say, deadpan. “No. I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“I want,” she says slower. “To give you.” Her expression grows serious, her voice steady. “A hand job.”

I glance around for the bottle of champagne I discarded. Maybe someone spiked it? “A hand job?”

“Yes.”

Even as my blood pulses and my pants get tight, I narrow my eyes. Maybe she’s confused. Maybe I’m confused. “I don’t think that word means what you think it means.”

“Please don’t paraphrase kids movies to me right now.”

“You’re serious.”

“Yes,” she says, slapping her thighs in frustration.

I laugh. Even though it will piss her off, I can’t help it.

“Stop laughing,” she snaps.

I try to. I really do. “What,” I say between gasped breaths. “Were you going.” I wipe at my eyes. “To do?” I have to actively stop myself from keeling over. “Just…” I make a fist with my hand and move it up and down. “Dry?”

She crosses her arms over her chest and despite trying to look offended, the corners of her mouth curl up. “If you didn’t have lube, I figured I could just use spit or something.”

Holy shit. Are we seriously negotiating the terms of my hand job? What the fuck am I doing?

“So just use your spit here.” Now that I’ve wrung all of the humor from this situation, my cock has taken over, anticipating what’s next.

“I can’t do that here,” she squeaks, scanning the room as if we’re surrounded by all the party attendants. “This isn’t a bedding ceremony at the French court.”

“You have to know I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Someone could see.”

My damn heart stutters. Holy shit, she’s considering it. I fall back on the lounger, resting my hands behind my head, looking up at the ceiling, at the reflections from the water moving across the glossy surface. “No one’s even out here.”

“We are,” she says, like duh .

“Trust me, the only person in my family who’d consider coming here for a nighttime swim is me. And I’m already here.” I’m half-hard already from this teasing and arguing. I’m not too proud to accept an IOU handie, and Jasmine wouldn’t offer unless she wanted to.

“I can’t do something like that,” she says, almost to herself.

If I focus hard enough, I can feel where her hip is just inches from mine. “Why not?”

“It’s just not… me .” She looks down at herself, at her perfect clothes, her perfect posture, as if one look at her could explain it all.

“So don’t be you. Don’t be Jasmine, be Yasmin.”

She barks out a laugh, but sobers quickly, her eyes turning serious again. “What…” She bites her lip, a flush crawling up her neck, painting her cheeks. “What would Yasmin do?”

I rough a hand down my face, close my eyes, search for a modicum of composure.

My suit jacket is already off, but I open the first two buttons on my shirt, cross my legs at the ankle. Can she see my heart thundering against my chest or the growing bulge in my pants? I’ve never dictated a sexual encounter before and now that the opportunity has arrived, there are too many options to choose from.

“Yasmin would start slow,” I say. With my eyes closed, it’s easy to imagine, a slow sinuous walk, her expression a mix of desire and contempt. “She’d start over the clothes, firm pressure. She’d like the feel of it. How quickly I get hard for her. It makes her feel good. It makes her wet.”

Jasmine makes a strangled sound. A moment later, her hand lands gently on my thigh, slides up toward my dick.

“She’d rub me through my pants,” I say, no longer smiling. My voice sounds different to my own ears, deeper. “Squeeze me.”

She does. Her hand is hot through my clothes.

“Then what?” she asks, closer now, like she’s hovering over me.

“Gimme a sec.” I want to feel this right, just for a moment. Her slow gentle pressure, the soft whisper of her breathing.

On an inhale, she shudders, and with my eyes closed, I can’t tell whether it’s a good sound or a bad one.

“Hey.” I stop her with my hand, open my eyes, meet her gaze. “You don’t have to do everything I say. You know that, right?”

She nods.

I swallow thickly, blow out a breath. “Cuz I’m probably about to say some things you have no interest in doing.”

She squeezes me beneath my hand. Impatient.

“Like what?” she asks, starting the slow motion on my dick again.

“Like…I stop you before I come.” I release her and unbuckle my belt. Then pop the top button of my slacks.

She doesn’t have to go farther than this, but I’ll gladly continue if it’s okay with her. She looks up, scanning the windows that face the deck.

“We can stop,” I say, sitting up and closing the front of my slacks.

“No.” With a determined set to her jaw, she swings one leg over the chair, straddling me. “Keep going,” she says, her command strangely timid for a woman who’s currently tugging on my pants. She pulls them down to my thighs. My cock is hard, leaking a wet spot into the fabric of my boxer briefs. “What happens if someone catches us?” she whispers, drawing her hands up and down my legs, dragging her nails through the hair above the elastic waistband of my underwear.

“We’ll hear them coming.” I can’t stop watching her hands. “And then, I’ll?—”

She squeezes me, pulling a hiss from me, then pulls my Jockeys down, tucking them behind my balls in one surprisingly fast, shockingly proficient movement. My cock bobs between us, curving slightly to the left, begging for her attention.

She leans over me. “Then?”

“I’ll throw you in the pool— ahhh .”

She spits, and a silvery string drips down my dick. I gasp as she spreads it up and down the shaft, over the head. Almost pass out as she spits again.

“Wh-who are you?” I ask, shock coloring my tone.

“Yasmin.” She grins, winks. “So.” She settles into a slow, steady rhythm. Her fist and spit make wet sounds. If I were on my own, I’d never come at this pace. But with her? That sound? That wink? I could embarrass myself pretty quick.

“You’ll throw me in the pool,” she practically purrs, “and then what?”

“And then, I’ll jump in, too.”

She spits again. “A romantic night swim,” she says. “Keep going. Tell me what happens after you stop me before you come.”

Suddenly, a wave of embarrassment hits me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as vulnerable as I do now, revealing this little moment of fantasy to her, but she’s going out of her comfort zone for me. The least I can do is return the favor.

“I pull down your top.” I move my hips with her, searching for just a little more friction, more pressure.

In response, she squeezes harder.

I close my eyes in relief, lean back on my hands. “I drip massage oil over your chest, cover your nipples, your breasts, until you’re slippery and shining.”

Jasmine moans, the softest sound. Her hips move, a choppy rhythm. Like she wants that, my hands on her tits, covering her in oil until she’s slick. Oh fuck. She’s going to get my come on her dress.

“Then you.” I huff. “Yasmin, let’s me fuck her tits.”

She groans. “Would you come like that?”

“I’d come so hard for you, baby.” I’m going to come so hard for her right now.

She leans closer.

“Careful,” I say. “Your dress.”

Closer still, she ghosts her lips over mine, across my cheek, my chin. “Where would you come?”

Her mouth goes from soft to hard, substituting lips and tongue for teeth. She bites along my throat, my collarbone. Scratches across my thighs with her other hand, my stomach. I wrap my fingers around her throat, loosely. Her hand moves faster. She swallows, the sensation illicit against my palm.

“Here,” I say. “I’d come here.”

Pleasure pools heavy in my back, my balls. A cord pulled tight.

She snatches her hand away. Instead of snapping the cord, she leans away from me, leaving me cold. The pleasure coiled inside me comes loose, unravels.

I gasp. “Fuck.”

Laughter, shouts from the party, drifts over to us and Jasmine tenses. The haze of our little game gone, snapping us both back to reality. Jasmine stands, pulling herself together again like she always does. I can’t stop gasping, can’t stop staring at my dick, hard and leaking.

She studies the mess she made of me, her mouth tipped in a satisfied smile. “Now, we’re even.”