CHAPTER THIRTEEN #2
Jake coasts his bottom lip whisper-soft along mine, but when I try to deepen the kiss, he leans away and makes a tiny tsk sound with his tongue. The vibrator switches off.
“You monster,” I breathe, grinding down on his leg to maintain the pressure.
The fingers of his free hand dig in where my thigh meets my hip, keeping me locked down against his lap so I can’t move.
His grip is coarse, rough, opposite the tender restraint he’s showing with the rest of his body.
He might even leave a bruise. I want him to leave a bruise so I can see it on my body tomorrow and have proof that this really happened.
Otherwise, I fear I might not believe it.
Jake’s expression is infuriatingly placid when he clicks the vibrator back on. This time, he indulges me with a higher setting. But every time I begin to move, he turns it off.
“What are you doing?” I whisper. I’ve got a white-knuckle grip on restraint, but it’s bucking like a thoroughbred to rip loose.
“I’m going to edge you until you cry, darling.”
He keeps me right at the top without letting me fall. “Please, Jake.” My lips are pinned between my teeth. I’m panting through my nose like an animal, pinning the vibrator between my clit and the muscle of his thigh for extra friction. Tension and pressure are twin flames racing up a dynamite fuse.
“Jake …” My legs begin to shudder, my ass clenches. Goosebumps erupt across my breasts, my back, my thighs. Tears squeeze free from the corners of my eyes. “I’m … mmmf—”
With his free hand, Jake reaches up to clutch his long fingers around my jaw, twisting my head sideways to cover my mouth with his. My insides turn molten and impossibly heavy the moment he finally lets me have what I need.
“I’m going to—”
“I know,” he murmurs against my lips. Then he revs the vibe to the highest setting.
I come so hard, my vision goes black around the edges, and I have to squeeze every muscle in my core to keep the orgasm from whipping me backward. Jake tightens his arm around me and keeps his mouth locked to mine to swallow my sobbing moan.
I slump into him when he turns the vibe off. His pulse jerks visibly in his neck. He looks like he’s the one who just came.
Later, as we approach the end of the ride, Jake helps me into my coat. There’s a wet spot on his leg where I was sitting, so he folds his own coat over his forearm to let it hang. I’m sure I have a matching spot on the back of my dress. Wear a long coat. No jeans. Expect to get wet.
When we leave the pod, a few of the attendants congratulate us. I glance at Jake and say, playfully, “You told them you were going to propose, didn’t you?”
He gives me a sheepish smile.
Laughing, I catch a glimpse of myself in a reflection as we leave the boarding area. I hope nobody remembers what I looked like when I arrived. Now, my hair is wild, my cheeks are flushed, my lips swollen and rubbed red. I look a mess.
I look like I just had an orgasm four hundred feet in the air over London.
* * *
We walk along the Southbank of the Thames to get back to Covent Garden.
It’s busy, but more intimate and cozy than Borough.
There are stalls nestled inside their own wooden Alpine-style chalets draped in bulbs.
The fairy lights have a fuzzy halo around them, softened by the cinnamon-spiced mist in the night air.
The scentscape of London has been one of my favorite things about the city, and the Southbank is no exception.
It’s clove and citrus and buttery vanilla from a creperie.
Herbs and garlic and the hot, salty fat of sausages and smashburgers.
It’s the brackish water and cold mud of the Thames, the fleeting perfumes of passersby, the smoke and spice of a woodfire.
God, I love it here.
I buy beeswax candles and marmalade, and a few hand-knitted scarves.
Despite not having a Christmas tree of my own back home, I buy a gorgeous enamel and bronze ornament of the London Eye.
I have no idea how I’m going to fit everything in my luggage, but for tonight, I want to pretend I’m a local, and I’m taking these things back to my cozy Covent Garden flat.
We pass Burgess Selby and one of his tour groups. One of the people in the back dumps their mulled wine onto the pavement. Another fiddles with the bulb on their plastic candle as it winks on and off.
“This is my turf, Ainsworth,” Selby shouts to a group approaching from the opposite direction. We never heard a scrap of this sort of enthusiasm during our tour.
“Jog on, you fuckin’ melt,” yells another older fellow—Ainsworth, apparently—wearing a Santa hat and carrying what looks like a wizard’s staff. “You can’t claim The Queen’s Walk.”
Jake and I glance at each other, wide-eyed. The corners of his mouth dip down in a playful, puckish frown.
“Did you warn them you can’t get through a tour without stopping for the bog?”
“At least I’m not a pavement pisser, Ainsworth.”
Jake and I share another look. “Maddie may have booked you onto the wrong tour.”
We laugh, and I tuck my arm through his as we walk.
Trailing behind Selby’s group, I catch a glimpse of a young woman in a Supreme hoodie and a pair of baggy jeans.
She looks at me and makes a heart shape with her hands, and winks.
It’s the tarot girl, minus her mystical vintage get-up.
Jake was right when he said he’d seen her skulking about during our tour. I shake my head and smile back.
I’m probably being too sentimental, but there’s something grounding about seeing people I recognize. And obviously, she recognized me too.
We linger, listening to carolers sing a haunting rendition of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.
” Jake buys some small presents for his nephews, along with a few baubles for his sisters.
I pick up two enamel pins—an espresso bean with kissy lips and a rainbow mohawk for Quinn, and a floral mug with “Pour Kindness” in script for Cherry.
Jake buys me a tiny silver black-cab charm on a silver chain.
As he hooks the clasp at the back of my neck, he says, “So you never forget the time I was right.”
I turn to face him. His arms settle around my waist. “Would black cabs be the first historical reference in the Evie-Jake lexicon?” I say.
“I believe they might be.”
As we head back to Covent Garden over the bridge, I start to giggle.
“What’s funny?” Jake asks.
“Oh, Jake.” I press my lips between my teeth and look at him apologetically. “I thought the London Eye was going to be boring tonight. Ferris wheel, but make it a slow thirty-minute ride? Come on.”
“Are you saying you found it more, ah, stimulating than you’d originally assumed?”
I laugh. “What do you think?”
We walk the rest of the way with our hands threaded together, gloves off so we can feel the warmth of each other’s skin.
* * *
We stumble off the elevator into his flat, shedding shoes and scarves and coats. We’re down to our underwear, backing towards the bed, when I mutter against his mouth, “Wait. My coat … over there. Inside pocket.”
Jake gives me a curious look, but he obliges. He crouches, sits back on his heels, and reaches into the pocket of my coat. He pulls out the three-pack of condoms I’ve brought, holding it in front of him like he’s not sure what to make of it. Slowly, he stands, looking confused. “Oh.”
I wrap my arms around my middle, suddenly chilled. What is happening right now?
He strides past me, over to one of the bedside tables. He still has his back to me when he says, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding, Evie.”
If the earth cracked open under my feet to swallow me whole, I’d eagerly grab a shovel to help it take me.
Jake turns, and he’s got something in his hand. It’s an entire box of condoms.
He gives it a playful shake, but the look in his eyes is pure, dark determination.
“We’ll be needing more than three.”