Chapter 13 #2
Jane wanted Scarlett to watch Blake choose Natalie. Instead, we showed her Blake doesn't respect anyone. Not Natalie. Not Scarlett. Not these women. They're all just different categories of the same inventory.
And I have proof.
The crude commentary escalates. Blake's getting rougher, more explicit, and the woman's smile is starting to strain at the edges. The other groomsmen are following his lead, encouraged by his behavior.
I've wanted to punch Blake since he grabbed Jane on the beach. I've been holding back. Playing nice. Because Jane needed this mission to work.
But watching him tonight—the way he talks about Natalie, the way he treats these women—it's taking everything I have not to drag him outside.
I have what Jane needs. Video. Audio. Blake in his own words, proving he's exactly the monster we knew he was.
Scarlett saw it. She's broken. But we don't need her confrontation anymore.
We have Blake damning himself.
I stop the recording and stand up.
"Where you going, West?" Blake slurs, barely looking up from the woman in his lap.
"Getting some air."
"Don't be such a—"
But I'm already walking out. Behind me, the degradation continues, but I've seen enough. Recorded enough.
The mission's complete.
Me: Got it. All of it. On video.
Jane: Everything?
Me: Blake praising Natalie as business merger. "Virgin bride to teach who's boss." Women being disposable. Stripper depravity. His own words damn him.
Jane: Scarlett?
Me: Witnessed pretty much everything but we don't need her as proof anymore.
Jane: So, we actually did it? You did it?
Me: We did it. Meet me in the lobby?
Jane: On my way.
I lean against the lobby column, trying to scrub Blake’s voice from my head.
Jane’s plan was brilliant—make Blake’s devotion to Natalie loud, trigger Scarlett’s jealousy.
And Blake ran himself straight onto the blade with his own words.
We did exactly what we came here to do.
I just didn’t expect it to feel like this.
It should feel like a win.
The problem is, it just feels finished.
And I don’t want it to be.
I hear doors bursting open upstairs, releasing the rowdy chorus of "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" and click-clacking of heels before Jane appears at the top of the stairs.
I watch her bouncing down, looking slightly shell-shocked and sporting what appears to be singles tucked into various parts of her outfit. I don’t want to know why.
Her dark eyes find mine across the lobby, and the relief that crosses her face is almost enough to make me forget everything else.
Almost.
"You okay?" she asks when she reaches me, slightly breathless.
I pull out my phone. "Not really. But Blake’s in here. Two hours of him drunk and ugly. We have more than enough damning proof."
Jane grabs my arm, her grip tight. "West—you did it!"
I pull her close, needing the contact after the toxic wasteland of The King's Room. "We did it."
There's a long pause where we just hold each other.
"Thirty-six hours," she says quietly as if she’s sensing what my body is fighting.
"Yeah."
"The deal ends."
"I know."
She forces brightness into her voice. "But we won."
"We won." The words taste hollow.
Neither of us moves. Neither wants to let go.
"Let's get out of here," I say finally.
The drive back to the casita is quiet. Jane looks like she's been through a glitter hurricane, and I probably smell like cigar smoke and moral compromise.
When we get out of the rental car, Jane skips around and links her arm through mine. I smile down at her beaming face, totally unprepared for her next words.
“So—Chippendales.”
I glance at her, jaw tightening slightly. "Yeah?"
"You were right! There was a lot of... body oil. And gyrating. And very choreographed thrusting."
My voice comes out carefully neutral. "Uh-huh."
"One guy did a backflip. Off a chair. While taking off his pants."
I stop walking, turn to face her. "Did you—"
"Did I what?"
"Enjoy it?"
Jane's fighting a smile. "West. His name was Thunder. He wore a bow tie. JUST a bow tie. For like, twenty minutes. I was… beyond delighted!"
I tighten my arm against hers, possessive edge creeping into my voice despite everything. "Jane—"
"I'm just saying, you don't have any choreographed routines. No backflips. No bow ties. Kind of disappointing, really—"
I cut her off by kissing her, backing her toward the casita door. She's teasing me about a stripper named Thunder while I'm trying to scrub the memory of Blake's toxicity off my skin.
It shouldn't work. It shouldn't make me feel better.
But it does. Because Jane can make me laugh even when I want to punch something. Even when I've spent the last two hours watching my childhood friend prove he's a depraved monster.
Even when I'm trying not to think about the fact that we have thirty-six hours left.
"I'm kidding—" she says breathlessly, laughing against my lips.
"I know." I open the door, pull her inside.
"And Blake's bachelor's party?"
My jaw tightens. "Was worse than Thunder. In every possible way."
Her expression softens. "Come here."
Then she's the one who takes charge, pulling me toward the bedroom with purpose. "I need you."
"Jane—"
"Now. Please."
She reaches down and slips out of her black lace panties, and the noise in my head finally cuts out.
"Condom," I manage, reaching for the nightstand drawer. "You know, we're halfway through this Costco box of condoms, right?"
She grins, wicked. "Kirkland Signature quality. Built to last."
"Like us?" The words slip out before I can stop them. Unplanned. Raw.
Her grin softens into something more vulnerable. The question hangs between us—half joke, half hope, wholly terrifying.
"Yeah," she says quietly. "Like us."
Her dress hits the floor. My underwear and shirt follow—buttons scattering.
I sit on the edge of the bed, pull her into my lap so she's straddling me. The position's familiar—we've been here before, that first night when everything was still pretend and we were just practicing.
"Remember this position?" she asks, hands on my shoulders.
"This time there's no clothes in the way."
"And no choreography required."
I grip her hips tighter. "I can improvise."
Her breath catches as we connect, as she sinks down onto me slowly. "Oh—"
"Mine," I say, the word torn from somewhere deep.
Her hands fist in my hair, tugging just shy of painful. "You're mine too."
I hold her gaze—so close I can feel her breath shift when I move. She doesn’t look away. Neither of us does. There’s nowhere to hide in this position.
The claiming goes both ways. Equal. Mutual.
"Yeah. I am."
She leans forward until we're chest to chest, foreheads touching, her hair falling around us like a curtain, trapping the world outside. "Yours."
This started as humor. Jane pulling me out of my head. Making Blake's voice fade—women are replaceable, interchangeable, inventory.
But now? Now it's something else. Urgent. Grounding. A refusal to let this feel hollow.
My hands settle at her hips, thumbs digging in—not guiding yet. Just anchoring. Feeling the weight of her. The heat. The way she adjusts when she finds that angle that makes her mouth part.
"Mine." I need her to hear it. My hands slide up her thighs the need —thumbs pressing into soft flesh—then higher, up her back, feeling her shift as she moves. "Stay."
She answers by moving—slow, deliberate, taking me deeper—using my shoulders to steady herself as she settles closer and closer. Her palms flatten against my chest, fingers curling into skin.
"You've got me," she murmurs, breath warm against my mouth, hips rolling in a slow grind.
Her words aren't loud. They don't need to be. Her body is already saying it—knees tightening around my hips, hands braced, pulling herself up to meet me.
That’s when it hits me. Not the sex. Not the want. The trust.
I swallow. My grip firms at her waist, guiding the rhythm when hers stutters. "Right here," I say. "With me."
She nods, breath breaking, pressing her forehead to mine as she moves, finding that place where everything lines up and holds. Her thighs tremble where they bracket mine.
The rhythm builds—becomes faster, more urgent.
I can't get close enough. She's in my lap, wrapped around me, taking me as deep as physically possible, and it's still not enough.
Her nails dig into my shoulders for leverage and I shift my hips up to meet her, giving her something solid to push against.
I need to mark her. Brand her. Make sure she remembers this—remembers me—when she's back in Boston and I'm... I'm still not sure where I'll be.
I've wanted her since day two—possessive and consuming in a way I told myself was just physical. The touch I'd been missing for three years. The chemistry. The attraction.
But it's day six now, and I can't dismiss it anymore.
I think I love her.
My hands still on her hips. She feels the shift, eyes opening to find mine.
"West?"
I can't say it. Not yet. Not when I don't know what comes next.
So instead, I show her.
I pull her down into a kiss—slower this time, deeper, like I'm trying to memorize the taste of her. My hands slide up her back, feeling every curve, every shift of muscle as she moves.
One hand cradling her head, the other splays across her lower back, holding her against me.
"Yes—" Her head falls back and I chase it, lips dragging along her throat, her pulse hammering against my mouth. I can feel her heart racing in time with mine.
"You feel that?" I murmur against her skin, but the words mean something different now.
That's us. That's me loving you even though I can't say it.
Her fingers curl tighter into my shoulders. "I'm not going anywhere."
That hits harder than any claim. I pull her closer—one hand fisted in her hair, the other arm wrapped completely around her waist—impossibly closer, like proximity alone could make this last. Like I could keep her if I just hold on tight enough.
"Mine," I rasp, but it sounds different. Less possession, more plea.
And when she gasps "Yours" back—when she claims me right back—I believe it.
Even though I know the clock's ticking. Even though I know we have less than two days.
My hands map her body—ribs, spine, hips, breasts—like I'm trying to memorize her in Braille. She shivers under my touch. Her thighs tighten around me, her nails drag down my shoulders, and I shift my hips up to meet her, giving her everything I have.
"Look at me, Jane," I say as I cup her face. My thumb traces her cheekbone, her jaw.
And when she does, I can see it in her eyes—something that mirrors what I'm feeling. And that makes my chest ache.
"I'm here," she whispers, and her voice breaks on the words.
I want to tell her. The words are right there, pressing against my throat. I love you.
But I can't. Not yet. Not when I can't offer her more than right now. That would be selfish of me.
So, I kiss her again, pouring everything I can't say into the connection between us. My hand slides from her face to the back of her neck, holding her to me.
Then I shift—gripping her hips, changing the angle as I thrust up into her.
She gasps, and I do it again, harder this time, finding a rhythm that makes her shake.
My hands guide her hips down to meet each thrust, slower at first, deliberate, making sure she feels every inch.
Then faster as the desperation takes over.
"West—" Her nails rake down my chest.
I pull her closer, one hand sliding between us to find her clit. She jerks at the contact, and I circle it with my thumb, keeping the pressure steady as I drive up into her. Watching her beautiful, expressive face.
Her legs start trembling. I don't let up—thumb working her clit, hips thrusting, controlling the pace, the depth, giving her everything.
"I've got you," I murmur against her temple, and I mean it in every possible way. "Let go. I've got you."
Her rhythm stutters, balance wavering—a tell I feel before she says anything.
So I thrust harder, faster, deeper, and she comes with my name breaking from her lips. I feel her thighs shaking violently against mine as she clenches tight around me, so tight I can barely move, much less breathe.
The rush of her wet heat soaking between us. Her gasps against my neck trying to catch her breath. Her nails dig into my shoulders, holding on, responding to the love I’m giving her.
Then she leans in and settles fully on my pulsing cock for a single suspended heartbeat. For that brief second, I feel the full weight of her—warm, real, pressed against me—and it steals the air from my lungs.
Then she moves again, and I follow.
Slow, deliberate rolls of her hips. I match her pace, thrusting up into her, meeting her rhythm instead of chasing it.
She’s milking every last sensation from both of us—dragging it out, keeping me right there.
I try to hold the line and stay in this with her but she tightens around me again, slow and intentional, and my control snaps.
I’m gone.
Everything in me locks up as I finish inside her, and it's not just physical. It's her. It's loving her. It's this intimacy I've never felt with anyone else—this connection that splits me open from the inside.
I groan her name into her skin like it's the only word I know, holding her so tight I might bruise her, feeling the slick warmth spread between us, our bodies stuck together everywhere we touch.
I can't breathe. Can't think. Can only feel her—around me, against me, in my arms—and know that this is what it means to love someone.
She doesn't move off me. I don't let her. We just sit there—her in my lap, my arms around her, both catching our breath. Neither of us ready to let go. I can feel her heartbeat against my chest.
I look down at Jane, her eyes closed, her breathing evening out.
Right now, in this moment, she's mine.
And I'm hers.
And I love her.
Even if I can't say it yet.
For now, that has to be enough.