The Match Faker

16. Jasmine

16

JASMINE

“ A re you fucking serious?” He breathes the words across the back of my neck. That, plus the blast of cold air from the open mudroom door, sends goose bumps along my spine. The door slams and I startle, but none of the partygoers notice over the din of celebration.

“Maybe we should mingle.” I’m filled with anxious energy.

“Not a fucking chance.” He holds me by my hips, pressing into my back. He is still hard.

I thought he’d finish himself off back beside the pool, but I can’t deny the thrill that snakes up my spine knowing he didn’t.

“How exactly does orgasm denial make us even?” he asks, his stubble rough against the shell of my ear as he crowds in closer. “You came.” The strain in his voice makes me wish he’d bite me. A thought I’ve never once entertained before. I want to feel the imprint of his teeth on the base of my neck, draw my fingers across the spot later and feel the indentations.

I shrug, feigning indifference. “Consider it a tax.”

It wasn’t until he was laid out beneath me, his lower lip caught between his teeth, the flush in his cheeks visible even in the dark, that I decided to do it.

Or not do it, as it were.

It’s hard to think of it as a punishment for him, more like a reward for me. Because I didn’t want it to end and that’s what letting him come felt like.

An ending.

He squeezes my hips more tightly and guides me toward the back steps.

“Someone has probably noticed we’re gone,” I say, stopping at the foot of the stairs, my hand on the banister, even if staying down here is the last thing I want to do.

“Get upstairs.” His words are clipped, his tone impatient. “Please,” he adds with a harsh breath.

I can’t hide my shudder. Nick makes a satisfied sound that I feel against my back more than hear. Excitement propels my feet forward. That’s what this anxiousness is: excitement, anticipation. Desire.

I glance at him over my shoulder. He’s as disheveled as I feel.

I want to make more of a mess.

In the few moments it takes to reach his bedroom, I am breathless, and not from the stairs.

We slip into his bedroom and before I can say another word, he has the door closed and my back pressed against it.

“Oh.” My hands flutter in the air between us before they land on the shoulders of his Oxford shirt. “You left your suit jacket at the pool,” I whisper.

With a shake of his head, Nick scowls. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was angry. But I’ve learned quickly that there’s not much that makes him well and truly mad and besides, he doesn’t have much reason to be upset right now.

“I want to eat your pussy, Jasmine.”

“Oh.” My heart trips over itself. When I was the fake Jasmine—Yasmin—this was easier. The urge to take the lead, to act out his fantasies and maybe eventually mine, was natural. Imperative. But I’m the real Jasmine again and there are rules, a binder’s worth. “But then we won’t be even.”

Nick drops to his knees and takes one of my ankles in the gentlest hold, asking for me to spread my legs apart. “If you don’t want me to, I won’t,” he says, his breathing harsh. “But I think you do. We can balance the books later.”

“Don’t you want—” I wave a hand at the bed, where sex usually happens.

“Jasmine,” he grits out, his eyes blazing, “I swear to god?—”

“Ugh, fine .” The words escape me with a huff. As if I’m not aching to feel his mouth on me. “Just let me get this off?—”

Nick doesn’t wait; he lifts the thick, structured fabric of my dress and runs his hands up my legs.

My head falls back against the door. “Oh god.”

As he rubs his cheek against the inside of my knee, my inner thigh, the roughness of his stubble sends a zap of electricity up my spine. He pushes my thighs apart, his breath hot through my thin, soaked panties. Suddenly, he bats at the fabric of my dress and pokes his head out. “Just tell me to stop and I will.”

I grab him by the back of his head and push. “ Don’t stop .”

Nick needs no more urging. He sucks at the delicate skin of my inner thigh and runs his hands up the backs of my legs, urging me to spread wider. My kitten heels pinch my toes and I always get a blister from the strap, but I could be floating right now as Nick’s shrouded head presses between my legs and he cups me in his mouth, laving his tongue over my panties.

Holy shit. I’m riding Nick Scott’s face.

Groaning, he slides two fingers into my pussy, meeting no resistance. The noises we make as he pumps his fingers inside my drenched pussy are illicit. He nuzzles into me, pushing my panties to the side and finally his tongue makes contact with my clit.

“Fuck,” I whisper, bearing down on his fingers and mouth.

He grunts a response and I wish we could be louder, messier. Moments ago, I wanted to use his bed, but now, I don’t ever want to be fucked on a bed again. Not when a bathroom mirror, a pool lounger, and a closed bedroom door are this good.

My skin is hot, slick from sweat and desire. He has to be hot under there, between the skirt and my body heat, but like he could feel my mind wandering, he nips at my thigh, bringing me back to this, now, him.

His fingers are an unyielding force, keeping me open. His face holding me up. I grind on him, move over and against him. He encourages it, one palm planted on my ass cheek, gripping me hard enough to leave a handprint.

I gasp. My pleasure pools in between my legs. “I’m close.”

Then he’s gone and the tidal wave of desire ebbs. I whine in frustration and press my fists against the door.

Nick’s face is flushed, his lips shiny and red, his hair wild as he stands. “I’ll take care of you,” he whispers into my neck, his mouth wet against my skin. That’s from me. He loops his arms around me and fiddles with the buttons at the back of the dress.

Turning in his arms to give him better access, I press my cheek against the wood of the door. In my ear, the sounds of a party slowly dying are muffled. At my back, Nick breathes with a deliberate steadiness as he slowly works each delicate button free. His hands are gentle and careful, even though there’s no way he could know that I found this dress in a bin at a garage sale and that over the span of three months I repaired and altered it. But he treats it like he knows as he finally undoes the last button and slides it gently from my shoulders.

I let it fall to the floor. Leaving it puddled like that for a few moments won’t kill it. I turn to him, my hands crossed over my chest, which is silly. He already knows what my pussy tastes like.

“Can I see you?” he asks.

It’s the vulnerability in his words, like he’s worried I’ll say no, that makes me drop my arms. His attention shifts to my breasts, then my tummy, my pussy, my breasts again. He reaches out, glides his fingers between my legs, holds them up for me to see. Absently, he rubs at his cock with the heel of his other hand, the thick bulge at the front of his slacks from when he tucked himself back in. He doesn’t try to hide any of it, unashamed to be indecent and crude, maybe even proud.

“You wanted the bed?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I changed my mind.”

He scans the room. “Here,” he says, tapping the desk.

My breathing stutters. Desk sex? Okay.

When I perch on the edge of the wood he stops me, turns my body, sets my hands on the surface, spreads my legs apart again.

“Do you trust me?” he asks against the top of my spine, making me shiver.

I don’t have the first clue what he wants to do with me. I’ve never let someone have this kind of control. Though that’s likely because my partners have never seemed to want it. They wanted nice girls in nice clothes. They wanted a woman who looked good next to them. My orgasm was a check box on their to-do list of sex. They wanted missionary on the third date, blow jobs on my period. Mitchell wanted anal on his birthday. It hurt a bit, but it had the potential to be better, he just never took it and I had to get myself off in the shower without him.

No one has ever wanted this; looking just to look, bruised knees, the risk of suffocation in the pursuit of my orgasm.

Do I trust him? After what he did, the answer should be no. But I trust that if I laid my head on my hands on this desk and presented myself to him, for his use, nothing would hurt, and I’d still come hard enough to crack my molars. I trust him with my body, if not with my heart.

“Yes,” I whisper.

He cups my ass, squeezes both globes, spreads me apart.

Flushing, I close my eyes. Even though we’re alone, and he can’t see me.

Nick goes to his knees again, his hands trailing down my legs.

My breath catches, and I lift up an inch. “What?—?”

He licks me from clit to perineum. My head hits the desk with a soft thud. He sticks his thumb inside me, thick and hard, a decent substitute for what I really want. I moan, louder than I should, spread my legs wider, push back against him, seeking the pressure of his thumb inside me and his fingers on my clit. He laughs, smiles into the back of my thighs. Then he gives me what I want. Nick plays me again, like a stringed instrument tuned to him. His thumb slipping deeper in my cunt, his fingers rubbing gentle circles around my clit.

I come like that, fully open to him, on display, my toes curling in my kitten heels, clenching my teeth to hold back the scream that threatens to tear through me. My body convulses around him as he draws out my orgasm until I can feel come dripping down my legs, hear the wet sound of it as he fucks me with his hand. My clit pulses, flutters against his constant, steady rhythm. Tears leak from my eyes as I gasp, “Stop. Please, stop.”

He obeys, moving his hands, but he keeps his skin on my skin. I don’t know how much more I can take.

Palms on my back, he smooths them up and down in a gentle caress. “Not much longer,” he says. “I promise.”

I think I said that out loud. “Okay.”

Standing, Nick presses his hips against me, his erection thick and hard between us. “Can I come on your back?” he asks, the question punctuated by the sound of his zipper.

“Oh god, yes.”

“I’m going to touch you again, just a little.” He gives me the warning, but doesn’t move, waiting for my permission.

I nod, panting, chest heaving against the wooden surface beneath me. “Okay.”

His fingers slip inside me again and I gasp, an aftershock of my orgasm like a conditioned response to his touch. He presses a hand on my back, holding me there. The sound of rustling is barely audible over the air sawing in and out of my lungs. The wet skin on wet skin is louder. Lewd and erotic, the rhythmic jingle of his belt buckle. Part of me wants to turn around and watch. Or offer my breasts and neck for him. Part of me wants to get on my knees and take him in my mouth and let him empty himself down the back of my throat so I can know what he tastes like, too.

But when he makes a sound, soft and high, aching, and the first stream of his come hits, warm against my sweat-slick back, my choice is made for me, and I’m exactly where he needs me.

Nick comes in three long spurts across my back, then presses the head of his dick to the top of my ass, leaving a small puddle there.

I am exhausted, my legs shaking, but I can’t move, not when he’s standing behind me, his hand on my hip, his breath warm gusts across my skin.

“Okay,” he says finally. “ Now we’re even.”

I glance at him over my shoulder. “Fair.”

The next morning, it’s as if nothing has changed between us. Except, when he wakes up first, he brings me coffee, black. Except, as we eat breakfast with his family, most of who are hungover, he rests his arm along the back of my chair the whole time.

Mostly, everyone is quiet, minus the kids and Nick’s dad, who laments there’s not enough time for a Scott v. Scott hockey game on the lake.

Nick packs the car, gently placing my brown leather bag in the trunk. After thirty minutes of tearful hugs from Mindy, handshaking back pat hugs from the other men, and squealing hugs from Tilly—especially when he rubs his beard into her neck—he walks me to the car with his hand at the small of my back and opens my door.

I send Jade a text letting her know we’re on our way. Her only response is “Gucci.”

Mindy waves until we can’t see her anymore.

“She loves you,” I say once the Scott cottage-mansion is out of sight.

“She loves you .”

That sentiment causes a strange sense of pride to swell inside me. Until I remember that she won’t love me if she finds out I lied to her.

He passes me his phone. “Want to pick the song?”

I scroll his playlist, hoping to spark the memory of the song he said could be “our” song, because it feels like a test to be given this honor. When I spend more than thirty seconds searching in silence with no luck, I pick a song at random and press play. He smiles at me as I set the phone down.

“I never asked you”—I shift in my seat to face him—“how the talk with your dad went.”

“Yes, you did.” He drives exactly the speed limit as we travel through town. It’s a slow crawl compared to the street racing speeds most Toronto drivers get up to.

“I asked you if your dad gave you the loan. I didn’t ask how it went .” The distinction is important based on their relationship.

“It went fine,” he says in a tone that sounds not at all fine. “He agreed to give me the loan.”

He shrugs. That’s it. Never before has a sign of indifference ended a conversation so definitively. Tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel to the beat of the random song, he hums. The humming turns to singing softly under his breath. I should have made a binder for the drive home. Without the anxiety and anticipation of the ride up, we don’t have anything to say to each other, which is more disappointing than I’d like to admit.

“If I ask you a question,” he says once we’re on the highway, “will you promise to give me an honest answer?”

Straightening, I assess him. “What kind of question is it if you need me to promise to answer honestly?”

He grins. “It’s not sex-related, perv.”

I tip my head against the headrest, close my eyes. “Okay, ask, then I’ll decide.”

“Why’d you stay?” he asks, glancing over with a frown before focusing on the road again. “After you found out. Most people would have left.”

Between the hum of the wheels on the road, the music, which has taken a folkish turn, the sun, bright through the windows, and the strangely quiet roads, we’re in our own little bubble.

My chest constricts as I work through my thoughts to formulate the best response. “Have you heard of the Veronika Gervers Research Fellowship?”

“I’ve heard of the Fellowship of the Ring .”

I shake my head. “Not everything is a joke, Nick,” I say gently.

“I know.” His words are so quiet I have to read them on his lips.

“I’ve always loved fashion. Everyone thought I should become a designer,” I say, moving the conversation along. “But that wasn’t really what I loved about it, and I can’t draw anyway. In fifth grade, my class went to the ROM. I’d been so many times before but this time, as we were walking through the textile collection, a curator was talking about this robe, this really old robe. She wouldn’t even touch it, she wouldn’t take it out from behind the glass, to protect it. She was explaining what material culture says about a period or a society, or what we can glean about gender and race based on…” I pluck at my top, a green and pink crocheted cardigan with short sleeves. “The things we put on our bodies.”

“Hmmmm.”

My heart sinks at the subdued response. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so excited before.”

That makes me warm and sad all at the same time. “I wanted to study that, material culture, specifically fashion and the intersection of clothes-making, sewing, textiles, things that are historically seen as women’s work , and capitalism, consumerism. That was my dream. I was going to be a Veronika Gervers Research Fellow.”

He frowns at the road, then me. “Jade,” he says, like eureka .

I shrug. “Jade.”

“You had to drop out of school, right?”

“Yeah.” Despite the many years between me and that decision, my throat still tightens with tears. “I don’t regret it. Jade is brilliant. She deserves…” I shake my head, searching for the words to describe my little sister. Love isn’t the right word, isn’t enough . “Everything.”

“So do you,” Nick says quietly.

I glance out the passenger window, uncomfortable with the idea, although I’m unsure why. All I know is that I got a few good years with my parents before they totally gave up, whereas Jade was born into that relationship’s sharp decline.

“Is that still your dream?” he asks.

“The Fellowship?”

He nods.

“No. Not really. Not anymore.”

“Why not?” he asks, squinting at the road.

I shrug again. It’s embarrassing to say out loud. It kind of sounds like giving up.

“Can you pass me my sunglasses?” He motions to the glove compartment.

“Sure.” Relieved for the change in topic, I eagerly pull at the latch, but it doesn’t open.

“You’ve gotta hit it,” he says, eyes still on the road while making a pounding motion with the side of his fist.

I do, but it doesn’t help. All it does is hurt. “Ow.” I cradle my fist in my other hand.

He leans over, the scent of his deodorant or shower gel different than usual, though not unpleasant. With a quick bump of his fist against the glove compartment, it opens, and chaos spills out. Papers, manuals, hopefully a registration and insurance info. Cords of phone chargers dangle like vines, empty travel hand sanitizer bottles, one Band-Aid, and a tire gauge.

No sunglasses.

Nick notices the same time I do. “Fuck.”

“Here.” I pull mine out of my bag, wiping down the lenses with the microfiber cloth.

“Thanks,” he says. “How do I look?”

Handsome, of course. The round frames are perfect for his face, though the glasses themselves are a bit small.

“Great,” I say, and he smiles goofily.

I busy myself with putting away the glove compartment wreckage.

“Don’t think I’m letting you off the hook,” he says. “You still haven’t answered the question.”

Instead of answering him, I fight with the glove compartment again, slamming it over and over until it finally closes.

I sigh. “I don’t want to be an academic anymore. Terrible pay, terrible job security, and then there’s the debt.”

I love to think about it; what the work would be like, what my life would be like now. But actually doing the job?

“It’s just not realistic anymore.”

Nick frowns, his brow climbing above the frame of my glasses. “So, now what’s your dream?”

“I…”

My dream? For the last few years, my dream has been Jade’s dream. My goals have been in service to hers.

“Well, I…”

This is embarrassing.

“You don’t have to answer now,” he says quietly, giving me an out that I don’t want to take.

I’m goal oriented, motivated. How can I not have a dream? How can I not know what I want? To some, my dream might look like marriage to a rich man, but that’s not the same as my Veronika Gervers Research Fellowship dream. That’s not a dream just for me.

“Thanks,” I say quietly. Ashamed, embarrassed. “I guess you could say I’m currently between dreams.”

He nods. “That’s allowed.”

“Anyway,” I say with a sigh, “I know what it feels like to lose your chance at your dream. That’s why I stayed.”

The song changes to the one he chose for us. Our song. Nick grips my thigh. There’s the lightest dusting of dark hair across his knuckles. A scar between his thumb and index finger, on the soft fleshy skin there. I trace my finger over it.

“Jasmine,” he says, his voice rougher, quieter. “Thank you.”

I cover his hand with mine and keep it there.

Nick pulls into the parking lot of a small restaurant. The outside is painted black, and the sign on top is painted a striking black and white and reads Baker’s Burgers.

“Hungry?” Before I can respond, he shakes his head. “You know what? I don’t care. You’re getting a burger.” He throws the car into park.

“I told Jade we were coming straight home though.”

He pauses, staring down at his hand on the seat belt buckle. “We’ll get them to go.”

As I climb out of the car, my phone chimes, alerting me to an email notification. Nick is already halfway across the parking lot, but I rummage through my pockets for it. The preview screen reads:

From: Nick Carmichael

Subject: A Second Chance On A First Date

My stomach swoops. Nick Carmichael. Nick. The other Nick. The real Nick.

“Jazz,” this Nick yells, spinning and walking backward toward the restaurant, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans because he’s the kind of Canadian man who insists he doesn’t need a coat despite the temperature being below freezing. “Come on.”

I school my expression, hide the confusion and panic bubbling inside me, but Nick starts back toward the car.

“Can you just order for me?” I hold my hand up to stop him. Somehow, his proximity will make all of this worse, wrong. “I…I don’t want my clothes to smell like cooked meat.”

Nick huffs, but without ridicule, he nods.

“No tomatoes,” I call.

He holds his hand up in acknowledgment, jogging to the door. I don’t open the email until I get back in the car.

Dear Jasmine,

First, my sincerest apologies. For as ludicrous as it must sound to you, I promise it sounds just as ludicrous to me and I lived it. I keep thinking about you sitting at Moonbar waiting for me, believing I stood you up, and I feel sick. If you decide you want nothing to do with me, I understand.

But I hope you’ll give me a second chance. I promise to avoid impacts with all moving vehicles this time.

I was so excited when I first received our match—99.338%! And I’m still excited.

X,

Nick

Rather than charmed or pleased, I feel nauseous. Sick and foolish. Until right now, I had let myself forget. Nick is not my match. This Nick. “Fake” Nick. He isn’t supposed to be mine, and I let myself get distracted by what? Sex, a nice family, that stupid fucking smirk? Nick is complicated, this is nuanced. Yet I like him and the way he makes me laugh and lets me be myself. He almost insists upon it. But I don’t trust myself anymore and part of that is because of him. If I want to take this seriously, maybe I need to give the other Nick, “real” Nick, a chance.

The car door opens, and I jump, my phone flying from my hands and landing with a muted thud on the floor mat in front of me.

“What the fuck, Jasmine?” he asks, laughing as he slides into his seat.

“Sorry.” I pat around for my phone, throw it in my purse. “Thanks.” I take the bags from him. And there are bags. Plural. “How much food did you get?”

“Listen, you have to get the full Baker’s Burgers experience.” Once he gets settled, he opens the bag on his lap. “Fries, onion rings, gravy on the side.” He holds open his hand for the next bag and I pass it over. “Two hot dogs, two cheeseburgers, no tomatoes. Did you know you can get a bucket of burgers from this place?”

I can’t stop the automatic grimace. “That sounds like a cardiac episode.”

“But what a way to go. And then,” he says tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in a drumroll. “Pass me the other bag,” he whispers.

“Shit. Sorry.” This is the heaviest one.

“Ta-da!” He pulls out a tray of drinks, presenting them to me like they’re diamonds. “Milkshakes.”

I raise my hands in mock celebration. “Yay.”

“Whatever. It’s your loss not appreciating good food.”

I can’t help but laugh as he organizes his haul. He somehow forgot napkins but luckily, I have some in my bag. By the time he gets it all organized, we could have just eaten inside. He doesn’t pull out of the parking lot until I take my first bite, insisting he has to see my reaction.

“’S good,” I say, holding my hand up to hide the mouthful of food.

“Right?!”

“Hey, Nick.” I wash down the food with a gulp of strawberry milkshake.

He arches a brow. “If you’re going to chirp my choice of strawberry you can stuff it. I like what I like.”

“Oh no, I like strawberry. I have a question, and I need an honest answer.”

“Okay,” he says, side-eyeing me.

“Would you ever do matchmaking?”

He chews for longer than is probably necessary, examining me as he does. “Why?”

“Just answer.” The car smells like fried food. I’m going to have to crank the manual window soon.

“Honestly, probably not.” He sounds sort of sad about it.

I nod, using my own food as an excuse not to speak.

“But,” he says. “I’m glad you did.”

Nick keeps one hand on the steering wheel as he eats. We don’t even come close to eating all of the food, but he insists the fries make great leftovers. As we approach the city and after I’ve organized the trash and food into separate bags, I send Jade a quick text.

She sends back a message filled with expletives and exclamation marks, which I do not dignify with a response.

“Nick,” I say quietly, head lowered. “Will you take me to Underground Karaoke tonight?”

“It’s not happening tonight,” he says, pulling his milkshake from the cupholder. “And it wouldn’t start for another few hours anyway.”

Face heating, I swallow back my nerves. Nick is, almost assuredly, a sure thing. Even so, it doesn’t make this request any easier. “Will you take me home anyway?”

He glances between me and the road, brows lowered in confusion. “My home?”

I nod and clasp my hands tightly in my lap. “Yes.”

“Yeah,” he says, releasing a deep, almost relieved breath. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Wait down here for like five minutes, okay?” he asks, helping me onto a barstool like I’m a sickly Victorian child.

“Why?” I scan the empty space around us.

He winces. “I can’t remember how I left my apartment, honestly.” He makes a face of mock horror, then he collects our bags leaves out the swinging door labeled Employees Only. Under the one overhead light, Moonbar is a bit bleak. Without the cram of people in front of it, the paint on the stage is noticeably peeling. There are scratch marks on the floor from the tables and chairs, and the high-set windows are covered in a faint fog.

But the photos tucked into the frame of the mirror behind the bar give the place life. Nick and Bernie and a third person who is probably Rocco based on Nick’s description of his friend. The man who owns the bar, Ed, in a faded photo that looks like it’s from the early 80s at the latest. The room smells clean, which is a miracle in itself. Every bar I ever worked in always had the lingering scent of spilled alcohol, vomit, or dirty dishrag—or a combination of all three. I haven’t batted down any fruit flies either.

This place is well-loved and well cared for. Nick is, as well.

“Hey,” he says from the doorway.

I hop off the stool and shuffle closer. When I reach him, he takes my bag out of my hand and sets it gently on the floor. Then he pulls me into his arms. He buries his face in my neck, his embrace gentle but strong. His chest expands against mine.

“You’re right,” he says, finally straightening. “You should always wait in the car when we get food. That way you’ll always smell like you.”

I press my nose to his neck, my mouth to his throat. He swallows against my tongue.

“Don’t worry,” I whisper. “You still smell like you.”

With his hand around mine, he leads me up a steep, narrow staircase. Along the walls are posters advertising shows from years ago. Punk bands and all-girl rock groups who have performed at Moonbar. Nineties hip-hop, reggae, country musicians, and house DJs; a few names I recognize, though most I don’t. Nick wasn’t lying about the community here. At this point, I think he could apply for heritage designation for this building and get it easily.

There’s a single door at the top of the stairs that must lead to Nick’s apartment. The landing is just big enough to house a place for boots and a few hooks for coats. Above his door is a sign, one that likely used to sit above the front door of the bar. It reads MOONBAR with images of the moon in all its phases, and below: ALWAYS FULL .

I set my boots beside his on the rubber mat. He takes my jacket and hangs it on an open hook. The door sticks, then groans as he pushes it open. The space is small but bright in comparison to the darkness of the bar beneath. Several skylights across the room, above his bed, filter in soft, natural light. Unlike the deeply stained wood downstairs, his open-plan apartment is awash in birch accents. To the right, tucked into the corner, is his kitchen with a fridge that looks like it could survive a nuclear blast. A pine-scented candle burns on top of a small kitchen table with four retro chairs set up between the kitchen and the bed on the far wall.

He leans against the counter, watching me. His attention feels like too much, causing instinct to take over and urge me to hide.

“Do you have a bathroom?” I ask.

Pressing the heels of his hands against the countertop, he chuckles. “Uh. Yeah.” He looks around the space. “Since like, the eighteen hundreds, I think.”

Though I should be annoyed, I can’t help but smile. “I meant, can I use it? And maybe could I have a shower?”

With a kiss to my temple, he guides me to the room on the left. The bathroom is surprisingly large and has been renovated.

He starts the shower for me. “The water needs a lot of time to consider heating up,” he explains as he shuffles over to the washing machine. He gives me a quick rundown on how to use it if I want, then shows me where the towels are. They’re plush and soft and I’m so thankful he’s not one of those bachelors with only one always damp, thin as a tissue towel that I kiss him.

Once the water is hot and I’ve stripped down, I stand in the stream for several minutes, letting my muscles relax. I let my hair out of the bun and wash it twice, then scrub every inch of my body and shave despite having done it two days ago. I take my time drying my hair with a towel, finger combing it, doing my skincare routine, and moisturizing my whole body. Without dressing, I tuck my jewelry away into my toiletries bag, except for my pearl earrings, which I put back on.

I stand in front of the mirror, examining my reflection, my skin still pink from the shower and the heat, my nipples pointed and pert. I draw my hand across my chest, around one of my areola, between my breasts, over my stomach. Legs spread, I part my lips with two fingers. Despite the warmth in this room, the air feels cold against the delicate skin there. I brush my finger once across my clit and shudder.

“Jazz?” Nick knocks on the door.

My heart lurches, and I yank my hand away on instinct. “I’ll be right out.”

Nick lied, yes, but he also agreed to help a woman, a random stranger, when she asked for it. I’ve never thanked him for that.

Nick is on the bed when I open the door, one hand behind his head, the other tucked under the waistband of his boxers. His jeans are open, and his T-shirt is pulled up, revealing a patch of pink skin and dark hair. His eyes travel the length of my body, twice, as I stalk toward him, plant one knee on the bed, then the other, and straddle his legs.

“What do you want?” I ask. My heart pounds and blood whooshes in my ears.

His irises are black holes, void of all color.

“You,” he says simply, reaching out.

I grip his wrist and push him back down. “No. What do you want ? I’ll give you anything.”

He drags his hand down his mouth. Shakes his head. “Jasmine.” But he says it like he might be a little disappointed. “Go over there.” He pats the pillow next to him. “Lean back. Spread your legs.”

My eyes flutter closed, and I flush. It’s embarrassing how turned on I am by such simple words, how the rasp of his voice combined with the casual command make me wet. I settle myself against the pillow

Without a word, he frowns and gives his head a shake. He pulls me upright and shoves two more pillows behind me, until I can sit comfortably reclined with my knees bent, legs apart. He hops off the mattress, tugging his shirt over his head as he goes, then shucks his jeans. From a drawer in a cabinet next to the bed, he pulls out a condom and lube.

“I don’t think you’re going to need that,” I say with a nod to the bottle of clear liquid. He must be able to see my arousal painting my pussy, my lips plump and shining.

He shrugs. “Can never be too prepared.”

Oh god, even that is hot to me.

Finally, he settles on his knees at the end of the bed. His erection strains against the material of his underwear. He doesn’t bother hiding that or the way he can’t take his eyes off me.

“Touch yourself?”

Though I’d usually be mortified to do this in front of a man, Nick wrung any shame out of me last night. I follow the same path I found in the bathroom, my breasts, my nipples, my stomach. I circle my hole, my clit, paint my lips with my wetness. When I plunge my finger into my pussy, a flame ignites in my core and my toes curl.

Nick does nothing. He doesn’t touch himself or me. He watches, his eyes huge, his face flushed, wearing an expression of sheer wonder.

It takes no time at all for my orgasm to gather inside me, an invisible string that I pull tighter and tighter. “Can I come?” I ask, the words choppy.

He touches me for the first time, a gentle hand on my knee, pushing it open after I let it fall too far closed for his liking. “Of course you can, baby.”

He takes his cock out, squeezing the head, hard and shining, leaking pre-come across the bedspread. He holds himself as he watches me make myself come, my middle finger moving over my slick clit.

“You come so pretty,” he says softly as my fist clenches and my back arches. “God, look at you.” He’s vocal where I am quiet, biting my lip, only allowing the softest moans and quietest whines to escape. “I can’t wait to fill you up.”

The image of that, his cock inside me, what it will feel like, the relief of it, sends me into another orgasm, or maybe it prolongs the one I’m already having. I can’t tell.

“You like that?” he asks, his voice closer now.

I open my eyes. I don’t know when I closed them. He kneels between my legs, the condom in his hand.

“Yes.” My voice is high-pitched and needy. “Please.”

“I’ll give it to you, then,” he says simply before opening the package with his teeth, rolling the rubber down his length.

“I have an IUD,” I say. “Just as back up.”

He nods, attention locked on my face. “Will you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“When I’m fucking you,” he says, almost sparking a third orgasm. “Will you be rough with me?”

My chest tightens, a frisson of unease working its way through me. “You want me to…hit you? Or something?” I try to school my features into neutral acceptance. I’ll do whatever he needs and I’m not here to kink shame, but I’ve never hit a partner before.

He shakes his head, caresses my chin, the pad of his thumb rough, the sensation sending sparks down my spine. “Not if you don’t want to. But I meant that you can scratch, bite, pull my hair. If it feels good, I want you to leave the marks on my skin that prove it.”

He crawls up my body, kisses me, his lips moving slowly over mine, his tongue a warm, soft brush inside my mouth. I draw my hand up his back, into his hair and grip a handful. “Like this?” I ask, tugging his head back.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice suddenly deeper.

“I love the way you kiss me.” I kiss him back. “Will you kiss me one more time?” I push his head closer, gentle.

He grins. “You’re so greedy. I love it,” he adds quickly, clearly sensing that I might interpret that as a bad thing. “Keep your hand there.” He drops onto his stomach, pushes my legs up, as far apart as I can go. He kisses into my cunt, his tongue and lips touching everything.

Exactly what I wanted.

I pull his hair, gently at first, harder when he grunts in response, when his hips start to move against the bed. I move his mouth where I want it and he grips my thighs tight, pinning me down. I’m the one on my back, but I’m still riding his face as I come, pushing, pumping my hips into his mouth. I’m still coming when he crawls up my body, his face wet, nose a little smushed, and slides into me without any resistance. We make sounds into each other’s mouths. Grunts, moans, whines. I grab him, at his hips, his ass, scratch up and down his back as he thrusts into me. I bite his collarbone, shoulder, scratch and claw at his chest hair. We’re a tangle of limbs, half on our sides, at an angle that doesn’t allow him to get too deep yet still makes me feel so full.

“Can you come again?” He pants.

“No.” I shake my head, tossing it back. “No.”

“Do you want to try?” He slips his hand between us.

I push him onto his back, follow him over, hover over his cock. “Yeah.”

He arches up into me, sits up, leaning on one hand, wrapping his other arm around me. He holds me close as he pumps into me, and I grind against him. He licks my nipples, sucks the skin between my breasts. He doesn’t slow, even as his arms tremble. He’s close. Nick grabs my ass, his hand spanning one cheek, his fingers edging into my dark cleft, pushing my hips back and forth, grinding me against him so that when my orgasm comes, it’s a surprise. The sharp, short burst all my body is capable of now. Then he’s coming, his cock pulsing, filling the condom, his body shuddering against mine.

For a long moment, we stay like this, heaving breaths, holding each other tight. He has to untangle my fingers from his hair when, eventually, he slides from inside me and rolls us to our sides. We kiss, touch, make sounds but no words. At one point, he gets up and wobbles to the bathroom. He comes back a little while later, the marks on his body apparent, his eyes wide and smile silly, blissed out. He holds a warm, wet cloth between my legs. I hiss at soreness I didn’t know I had. He kisses me, my mouth, my shoulder, my back, my ass, and I try to stay awake for when he comes back to the bed, but I fall asleep before he slides in behind me.