Chapter 5
Tippi
“Ihave a question about your brother,” I say to Sadie the next morning.
She’s on the sofa, twins attached, one at each boob, trying to sip a smoothie through a long straw like some kind of exhausted fertility goddess. “Tim?”
“No, Jacob.”
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since our date. Even a train ride to London to visit The Vagina Museum on Poyser Street didn’t scrub the image of that tall drink of water who spilled too fast.
“Jacob?” Sadie barks out a laugh as I drop into the armchair opposite. “Wouldn’t have thought he was your cup of tea.”
“Why not? He’s incredibly handsome.”
“Ew.” She pulls a face, re-latching Toren. “That’s my brother you’re talking about.”
“Gee, I can’t imagine how that feels,” I say dryly.
We lock eyes and then both crack up.
“Touché.” She tilts her head. “What d’you wanna know?”
I should probably just rip the Band-Aid off. “I went out with him Thursday night.” Her mouth falls open, so I lean forward and nudge her chin shut with my fingertip. “And… he seemed… more nervous than most.”
“Yeah, that tracks.” Her sigh is heavy with something like regret.
“We weren’t close growing up. He was the golden boy, I was the black sheep.
Then Mum jettisoned our arsehole father, and suddenly we’re on the same team.
” She gives me a look. “Jacob was Dad’s favorite.
I didn’t get it at the time, but I think that came with…
burdens, and expectations. And a fuckton of pressure. ”
“So your pops made him uptight?” I say. Useful data point.
“To an extent. But… confidentially?” I nod. “I’ve often wondered if he’s on the spectrum.”
Relief loosens something in my chest. “I’m glad you said that, ’cos I was wondering the same. I take it he’s never been assessed?”
Sadie lets out a bitter little laugh. “In the Stewart household? Not a chance. That would be ‘admitting weakness’. As if there’s anything weak about being neurodivergent in a world built for neurotypicals.”
“Preach.” As someone with ADHD, I know all about being a square peg in a world made up of round holes. I manage because it was caught early and accommodated. Jacob didn’t get that luxury.
I replay him in my mind: the rigid posture, the way eye contact sometimes seemed like a second language with which he is barely conversational, the subtle breathing exercises I recognized from my own meltdowns, and how small talk clearly drained him.
I’d bet good money he prepared questions before our date.
Even his premature orgasm fits things I’ve read about autistic men: sensory overwhelm, nerves, trouble voicing what they need.
Square peg energy, a different shape to mine, but from the same toolbox.
Sadie studies me, cautious. “Are you sure you want to… go there with Jacob? There’s nothing casual about him. He’s not a hit-it-and-quit-it guy. He doesn’t do casual about anything.” It’s both warning and plea.
Guilt twinges as I think of Thursday night. Maybe I did push him too hard. Maybe he isn’t a good candidate for what I’m offering, which is very much short term fun, not forever.
But then I remember the way he asked me to leave when he’d hit his limit. Clear, polite, firm. He can advocate for himself. He’s not a drowning kitten; he’s a fully functional adult who built himself a damn good life while masking like a pro.
Maybe the grown-up thing is to talk to him. Do him the respectful courtesy of asking him what he wants, not decide for him.
And honestly? I want to see him again. It’s not just the height and the silky dark hair and that carved-from-marble jaw. Or the deep, soft voice that makes my toes curl in my boots. Or the really, really nice cock. Long, thick, veiny, and gorgeous in that frantic moment of release.
It’s the way he holds himself together like he’s always half-braced. The banked fires. The quiet mind ticking under the silence. The restraint that makes every tiny crack in it feel like a hard won jackpot.
God, restraints. There’s a fun thought.
“I’ll talk to him,” I tell Sadie, and myself. “I’ll swing by later and see if he wants to discuss next steps. If he’s interested.”
If he’s not, then easy come, easy go. No pun intended. But God, I hope he is. That fifteen seconds or so of him inside me? Potential. Serious potential.
“That’s probably a good idea.” Sadie shrugs gently so she doesn’t dislodge either twin.
“He’s genuinely a very nice man. I spent so long assuming he was Team Dad, that it took me too long to see that.
But he…” She sighs. “No offence, darling, but you’d eat him for breakfast and he wouldn’t know what hit him. ”
“Who are you eating for breakfast?” a small voice asks.
Rhiannon wanders in, all jungle-print dungarees and black T-shirt. I French-braided her hair this morning and she’s absolutely rocking it.
“Your Uncle Jacob,” I say, hauling her onto my lap and kissing her soft little cheek. “I’m gonna whisk him up with flour and sugar until he’s your Uncle Cake-ob.”
Her peals of giddy laughter never get old. “You can’t do that!” she squeals. “He makes the best lemon and sugar pancakes ever. They’re better than Mummy’s or Daddy’s.”
“Ouch, Princess,” Leo says as he appears, grabbing his wallet and keys.
“I can’t help it if it’s true.” She shrugs reasonably, then brightens. “Can we make pancakes now?”
“You’ve had your breakfast,” Sadie reminds her.
“And you wanted to come with Daddy to the parlor, remember?” Leo leans down to kiss his wife far too thoroughly for a family room, then kisses both sons’ foreheads. He lifts Rhiannon onto his shoulders, holding on to her shins. “Now, Sugarpop, steer me. Grab my ears.”
She does, tugging the one closest to the door. “Hey, yo, don’t rip my ear off,” he groans, grinning, and fist bumps me on the way out.
“You not going to Wishbone today?” I ask Sadie once they’re gone.
“God, no.” She looks tired but happy. “I have milk pumping to do and I would kill for a nap.” She bats her lashes at me. “Any chance you could watch them for a couple of hours? Pretty please?”
“You don’t even have to ask.” I have zero interest in motherhood for myself, but my Fun Aunt Era? Thriving.
I wait until after Rhi’s bedtime to slip out. I only get a handful of bedtime story nights a year; no one outranks those. So it’s around eight PM when I drive over to Jacob’s and knock.
Good thing his door doesn’t have a peephole, because the stunned and mildly horrified look on his face when he opens it suggests he never would’ve answered if he’d known it was me.
I remember that references to shared family is a good opening salvo with him. “Our niece says you make the best lemon and sugar pancakes she’s ever had,” I say. “I’m starving. Thought I’d see if I could get in on that.”
I look him over. Jacob’s version of casual apparently still involves heavy cotton trousers and a shirt, but the sleeves are rolled up his forearms in a way that should be illegal.
There’s a light dusting of hair there, and at his throat where one button is undone.
He’s so stupidly handsome it’s almost offensive.
I did not get nearly enough time pulling on that almost-black hair.
“Pancakes?” he repeats, suspicious. His gaze skitters around my face, avoiding my eyes.
“Hey, it’s a reason.” I shrug. “Best I could come up with on the drive.” I give him the same slow smile that made him stare at my mouth at the café. It works again; his eyes flick down, then back up. “Can I come in?”
“That’s what you said last time,” he mutters, stepping aside.
“Well, it worked then, so I thought I’d try it again.” I step into the hall, taking in more of his space this time now that my pussy isn’t screaming for attention.
Well. Not as loudly, anyway.
His house is so… him. Neat. Minimal. Monochrome.
Grey walls, black sofa, white TV unit, gray rug, black mug on a gray coaster.
Splashes of color come from the movie poster and a few photos on the mantelpiece.
It should feel cold, but the tiny personal touches keep it from tipping into sixties sitcom.
“Black and white and gray are easy,” he says quietly from behind me, clearly aware I’m cataloging. “They always work. Paradoxically, there’s no gray area in gray areas.”
I laugh. “That’s funny.”
His eyes flash to mine, startled but pleased, before he escapes to the kitchen. I follow, leaning on the doorway as he dries plates with a white towel like they’ve personally offended him.
“Please explain why you’re here,” he says, very politely, very tightly.
I give him a moment, then a softer look. He is mortified about our sofa situation; I can feel it like I’m breathing in smoke. And he really doesn’t need to be.
I spot the logo on a mug he’s drying. “Arcus Security. That where you work?”
“Yes.” He sets the mug down carefully. “Why are you here?” he asks again, more insistent this time, looking in my general direction.
“Because I like you,” I say simply.
He frowns, shaking his head like I’ve told him two plus two equals seventeen.
“Why wouldn’t I?” I go on. “Just because you’re quiet doesn’t mean you’re not interesting. Or worth knowing. Or worth listening to while I’m in the same timezone as you.”
“Tippi…” Jacob’s sigh is heavy. He still can’t quite look at me. “I don’t want p-pity,” he says, voice fraying. “Or to be a project. You’re… you’re unbelievably lovely, and I couldn’t be more sorry about… th-the other night. But please don’t…”
“Jacob,” I say calmly, cutting across his distress so I can stop it dead.
He clamps his lips together and waits.
“I’m here because I want to be,” I tell him. “That’s it. That’s the whole story.”
“But it can’t be,” he says, agitated. “After the other night -”
“Forget the other night,” I cut in.
“But you can’t possibly -”