This time, I do sigh.
“My mother was already sick when she got pregnant with Jenna. She wouldn’t even consider terminating the pregnancy to save her own life. She knew the risks, but she valued Jenna’s life more than her own.” I swallow hard. It’s never easy to think about all this shit, much less talk about it. Which is why I don’t.
Ever.
“Jake, I’m so sor—”
I hold up my hand to cut her off. I can see her sincerity in the big, glistening pools of her eyes. But she wanted it. Now she’s gonna get it. At least part of it. There’s still a part I’ll never share with another living soul.
Ever.
“So when Jenna was born, Dad was busy taking care of her and Mom just kept getting sicker. There was a point where there was nothing else the doctors or medicine could do for her. Other than to just let nature take its course.”
“How old were you when she . . .”
“Eight. I was eight years old when my mother died.”
I lean my head back against the cool ceramic of the tub, closing my eyes against that time in my life. I feel Laney’s lips, light as twin feathers, brush first my mouth then my cheek, my jaw then my chin, before she settles down on top of me. She rests her head on my chest and her right hand over my heart.
I can feel the sympathy and the regret rolling off her in nearly tangible waves. But I don’t want her sympathy. I don’t want anybody’s sympathy. I just want the past to be left alone. It’s already brought me enough pain in life without having to dig it all up again.
My tiny smile is bitter when I think to myself that Laney probably won’t be asking any more questions any time soon.
SEVENTEEN: Laney
I can’t help but smile as I smear cream cheese on a bagel half for Jake. It’s such a domestic thing to do—fix breakfast for the man with whom I share a house and a bed—that it makes me feel happy all the way to the bone. I could see this being my life for a long, long time.
Over the last four weeks, I’ve been bungee jumping with Jake, white water rafting with Jake, cliff diving with Jake, done all sorts of things I never thought I’d ever do, and as much fun as it’s been, some part of me still craves this—a home and a family. Mundane activities like making breakfast for the people I love.
As always when I think about my feelings for Jake, I feel the frown pucker my brow. I know he cares about me, and I care about him. Do I love him? I don’t know. Whatever it is I feel for him, it’s fierce. And passionate. And deep. It’s different than the way I felt about Shane. A lot different. The thing is, I don’t want to be in love with Jake. He’s made it perfectly clear that he’s not in it for love. He just wants to have some fun.
And we do. We have a lot of fun.
He loves my body. I know that for sure. We have some of the most amazing sex I’ve ever had. Better than anything I even thought could be experienced. So there’s that. But it’s not enough.
Sometimes, when I catch him staring at me or when I fall asleep on his chest while watching television on the couch and I wake to find him watching me or rubbing my cheek, I’ll think to myself that he must love me. But I’m not crazy enough to believe that actually means it’s so.
But do I want it to be?
Yes, I think I do. Despite it all—the unsavory reputation, the bad-boy ways, the thrill-seeking streak, the aversion to relationships—I still want him to be all mine.
But I don’t know if a guy like Jake will ever be all anybody’s.
And time is running out for me to try to win him over. I’ve already put in for two extensions with work. Another couple of weeks are all I’ll be able to get before I have to turn in my reports and leave the account with my boss.
The back door bangs and I jump, startled. I turn to see Jake walk into the kitchen, sweat beading on his forehead and a satisfied smile on his face. “Mmm, are you what’s for breakfast? Because I’m starved.” He bypasses the fridge and heads straight for me. He takes the bagel and the knife and sets them aside and then threads his fingers into my hair and kisses me long and deep, enough to set my skin on fire. When he lifts his head, I’m breathless and wanting something much more . . . personal than breakfast.
“I think I could probably arrange something.”
“No arranging necessary,” he says, his fingers already at the zipper of my shorts. “I have everything I need right here.”
The instant I realize he’s serious, heat floods my core. I run my hands over the slick skin of his chest and then down around his waist, tugging at the elastic of his shorts. He pushes at mine until they pass my hips then he sets to work on my panties as I pull his shorts down enough to free his long, strong length.
Chills spread down my back when I wind my fingers around it, the tips barely meeting around his thick base. It never ceases to amaze me that something so large will fit inside me. Yet I’m not at all surprised that it brings me so much pleasure. Jake knows his way around my body like he’s been loving it for years.
With a growl, he grabs my hips and turns me toward the cabinet. He reaches around and slides his palm down my stomach to the fire that’s raging between my legs. I spread my thighs for him, stepping out of the tangle of my shorts and panties as I do.
When he thrusts a finger inside me, my knees get weak and I take hold of the counter for support. Jake pushes me forward until I’m bent at the waist. With his thumb grazing my clitoris and his fingers thrusting into me, I’m quickly approaching the edge.
I pant breathlessly as he brings his other hand between my legs from behind. His fingers are making circles and diving in and out of me, all at the same time. He leans over me to lick and then bite my shoulder. “Is this enough or do you want more?”
I’m breathless and my head is swimming. “More,” I breathe. “I want more.”
“Tell me. Tell me what you want.”
I feel his hardness pressing against my hip. “I want you. Inside me.”
“Tell me you want my cock. Tell me you want to come all over my cock,” he snarls as his fingers move over me, winding me up like a pocket watch. His words are like gasoline poured on an already raging fire. My muscles clench as the tension in my body reaches fever pitch.
“I want your cock. I want to come all over your cock. Please, Jake. Please.”
I’m so close, but I want him inside me. And he knows it. He’s holding back just long enough . . .
And then he’s sliding wetly into me from behind. One deep, sharp thrust. I cry out, unable to hold it in one second longer. His fingers bite into my hips as he pumps into me.