Revealed to Him

by Jen Frederick

  “Me too.”

  “Can I ask why me?”

  I imagine that he shrugs, a lazy roll of his shoulders up and back, because he doesn’t seem to be overly perturbed about anything. “You laugh. You listen. Perfect people are boring, Natalie. You know what you’re getting with a perfect person every day, and you have to be perfect too. I know you think it’s strange that I want to spend time with you. It’s true that I don’t spend a lot of time just talking. That’s never been my style. But you’re different and I’d rather spend time with you, even separated by this glass door, than prowling a club. What about you? Should I feel insecure that you’re only talking to me because I’m the first male other than Oliver who will spend time with you?”

  The last part is said in a teasing tone, because the last thing that Jake Tanner feels is insecure. I know it in my bones. His steps are confident; his actions decisive. His behavior is that of a man who not only knows what he wants, but gets it.

  That he wants me is the only incredible variable in this whole scenario, but he deserves an honest and sincere answer even if he wasn’t looking for one.

  “No. I’d want to spend time with you, no matter what. Because to you, people really are the sum of their parts. Plus, I like the sound of your voice and the way you make decisions. There’s no wavering with you. I like that. If I’d met you before, I’d have followed you home and I would’ve sat outside your apartment until you came and talked to me. Then I would’ve stalked you repeatedly until you had no choice but to let me into your life.”

  He smothers a laugh. “Good thing, then, things didn’t play out that way or I’d be applying for conjugal visits.”

  My breath catches. I want him inside, next to me. No, I want him inside me. I want to know what it feels like to have his hand on my skin. I want to feel his lips trace a path along my neck. I want to watch in breathless anticipation as he lifts my shirt and uncovers my breasts. I want his mouth on my nipples, between my legs. I want to trace his body with my hands and with my mouth. I want him to take me and I want to take him a thousand times until we’re sweaty and weary and too weak to even lift our heads off the ruined bed. “I want to open the door,” I whisper shakily.

  His swift intake of breath at my husky words causes me a corresponding tightening of my core.

  “Why?” he demands.

  “You know why.”

  “I want to hear you say it.” His tone strains with his effort at control.

  I press my lips together. It’s one thing to joke about phone sex. It’s one thing to write a sex scene. It’s an entirely other thing to say it out loud.

  “What would you do if you opened the door? Would you want me to touch you? Or would you want to initiate it? Tell me,” he says with fierce insistence.

  The desire we have for each other is a palpable thing. I can feel it pulsing in the air, making it harder to breathe, heating the room with its very presence.

  “I’d want you to touch me and undress me.” Remembering our conversation the other day, I look down at my off-the-shoulder knit blouse and tight black leggings. “I’m wearing a thin sweater. It’s light blue with a black trim around the neckline. The black sets off my skin, makes it look paler, and the blue makes my eyes look more green than brown.” I pause and take a sip of water. Outside I hear nothing but his heavy breaths, currently the hottest sound in the universe. The bundle of nerves between my legs are aching and on fire. I slip my hand inside my pants to ease the pain as I continue. “I have black leggings on and my toenails are painted blue to match my sweater.”

  “What color is your bra? Your panties?” he asks.

  “I have no bra on.”

  He hisses in response. “How hard are your nipples? Reach up and cup your breasts. Describe them for me.” Each word punctuates the silence around us.

  I do as he commands, slipping my hand out of my underwear so each hand cups a sensitive breast. “It feels like they weigh more. And they’re hot. It’s so hot in here.”

  “Take off your sweater. Bare your breasts.”

  I whip off the offensive cloth and toss it to the side. Taking my breasts in each hand, I squeeze them. The rough touch eases the ache momentarily, but it roars back in a hurry. I pinch my nipples and rub my legs together.

  “Oh, sweetheart, what are you doing to yourself? The sounds you’re making, fuck—” He breaks off.

  I didn’t even realize I was moaning but I am. I’m moaning and whimpering. “It’s not enough, Jake.”

  “Do you have a vibrator?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go get it,” he orders.

  I rise on shaky legs and stumble to the bedroom. The batteries still haven’t arrived, or they might have and they’re down in the mailbox. In my preoccupation today, I forgot to check with Jason, the day doorman. Shit. Back in the living room, I slide down onto the big floor cushion in front of the French doors. Before Jake came, I drew the curtains closed as he’d instructed. Now, though, it seems too private, almost claustrophobic, but my window balcony faces the street and I’m not prepared to open the curtains so people can see in while Jake and I share this intimate moment.

  “Do you have it?” he asks.

  “Yes, but it’s not working. I don’t have any batteries,” I vent in frustration. Earlier today when I used it, the relief it brought was only transient and not as powerful as the need it left behind. I don’t want to be half satisfied again.

  “Shhh,” he soothes. I hear him shift outside. He’s closer now. Before he was on the chair and now I nearly feel him, only a few feet away. If the doors were open, we could touch.

  I roll to my knees and reach toward the door, but just as I place my hand on the doorknob, he speaks. “I’m going to make it all feel better.”

  And I’m curious. Can he, just through talking, make me come? I don’t believe it’s possible, but then if you’d told me a week ago I’d be having dinner with a man like I did tonight, that wouldn’t have been believable either. I ease back onto my cushion.

  “Are you still wearing your leggings, sweetheart?” he asks.

  “Yes.” And just like that, the tension is curling inside me. “Do you want me to take them off?”

  “Place the vibrator on your right and then peel down your leggings, slowly. No rush.” His instructions are explicit and detailed, and I wonder what he did in the army. It must have involved telling people what to do. He’s very good at it—a natural leader. I heed his commands nearly without question. It’s nice not to think about things, not to have to worry about my next move.

  I can place myself entirely in his capable hands. I wouldn’t feel this comfortable with someone else—or with anyone else.

  “They’re off.” I kick the leggings to the side and await his next order.

  “Lie on your back right along the door. Take your left hand and touch your panties. How wet are they?”

  I gasp when I touch my panties.

  “Dammit, how wet?” His voice is tight, hot.

  “W-wet,” I stammer, unused to this dialogue. I lick my lips and try to give it back to him—to give him what he wants. “I’m very wet—I want to take them off. Can I, Jake?”

  He’s so close I can hear his heavy, labored breaths and the way he tries to grapple for his own control. I wonder if he has himself in hand. What would he taste like on my tongue? As these thoughts run through my head, I rub myself through the already moist cotton.

  “Yes, take them off.” The words have a slight shake to them, which fits my state of mind exactly.

  I’m unraveling like a ball of yarn tossed across the floor. Excitement runs through me as if he’s poured liquid aphrodisiac through my central nervous system and it’s chasing down my veins, lighting up every neuroreceptor in my entire body.

  “They’re off, Jake. I don’t have anything on.”

  He takes a breath and then another. “Pick up the vibrator and rub it on your clit. Just tip on tip.”

  I do as he says. As I rub, my toes cur
l into the floor and I draw my knees up to give me better leverage, although not for the vibrator and not for my fingers. I’m readying myself. My knees fall open and I know this will turn him on and drive him crazy so I describe it, in explicit filthy detail. “I’m rubbing myself with the vibrator and my other hand is squeezing my breast, my right one. My nipple is hard. The vibe is getting slippery. My knees are wide open. I look—” I struggle for the right word.

  “—Beautiful.” The compliment is bit out like a curse. “Fucking beautiful. I want to be the one touching your skin. I want my fingers to be slippery from your juice. I can see the light under the curtains. There’s shadows there, hinting at what you’re doing, and it’s driving me crazy, sweetheart. My cock is like stone right now. I swear to fucking God, I could drill a hole in your balcony with the goddamn thing.”

  He’s losing control, which affects me like gasoline on a fire. I’m enflamed.

  “Jake,” I pant, “I need . . . I need . . .” God, what do I need? More than I have here at my disposal. I need him. I want his big body pressing mine into the floor. My stomach tightens and my legs grow taut at the idea of his rough body moving in long, slow motions over mine.

  “I’ve got you. Take the vibrator all slick with your juice and ease it inside you. Do it slow. You like your clit licked, sweetheart? When you close your eyes, what do you think about?” He doesn’t give me time to answer but floods me with more sensory images. “Am I standing or kneeling between your legs? When I’m licking you, are you squirming or can you hold yourself down?”

  “All of it,” I cry. “All of it.”

  I work myself faster, thrusting the vibe repeatedly until the tight mass inside me explodes and my hand cups the vibe as if by holding it in I can draw out the pleasure. I can’t hold it in, crying out, something like “Jake, my God, Jake.”

  When I come down off that high, I’m aching. It’s too much and not enough and it’s everything and nothing. Because I’m alone.

  He’s just outside the door.

  If I make one act of courage, I could have him and this emptiness will be gone.

  “Jake,” I whisper.

  “Yes, baby?”

  “Will you come inside?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  JAKE

  Her words are hardly more than a whisper, but as powerful as if she’d shouted them from the balcony.

  Open the door. Open the door. Open the door is the mantra that runs through my mind. But I told her I wouldn’t ask. I told her we would wait. After hearing her, after listening to her sweet orgasm fill the night air, after feeling the gasp of frustration, I’m driven with the need to burst inside.

  I lean my forehead against the cool glass and massage my aching erection. It was hard to stay in control when her sultry voice described her clothes, her lack of underwear, and how slick and wet she was. While I want nothing more than to open the door, pick her up, and cover her with my body before the door closes behind me, I pause to think. Is this too fast? Am I asking too much? I can provide distraction all night, but at some point, she’s going to come out of her sexual haze and realize that there’s a near stranger in her apartment. I’d rather wait—No, you fucking don’t want to wait, my dick screams at me—because it might mean a greater reward later.

  Risk versus reward.

  I have always been a risk taker.

  The sound of the lock being disengaged pierces the night like a rifle shot. I stand and turn the knob slowly, giving her every opportunity to draw back. But it opens easily and I fill the doorframe, a big hulking shape against the dark night.

  I take a step over the threshold but freeze when she gasps and covers her mouth in what looks like horror. Not since my early days have I felt this prickling of discomfort at my physical appearance. I straighten, ready to march out without another word, when she knocks me off center again.

  “You don’t look anything like Seth Rogen.”

  “I—I have no response to that.” I come all the way in, reach around to grab my duffel and then lock the door. Turning around, I face her, and this time I don’t see horror but hungry delight. Her eyes rove over me, not stopping at my left hand but taking me all in.

  “Holy crap, you’re beautiful.” There’s a bit of dismay in her voice, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep me from smiling. “I had prepared myself mentally for someone else. You look more like—I don’t know—Mr. January from an NYFD calendar.”

  I grin at her obvious agitation. “What station? I’m curious to see what my doppelganger looks like.”

  She presses both hands against her reddening cheeks. She’s gorgeous. I much prefer looking at her when she’s upright and conscious. Her honeyed hair spills in loose curls around her oval face. Her delicate, unmarked skin is framed by the sofa throw she’s draped around herself. My body tightens at the knowledge that under that blanket there is nothing but acres of her precious skin. So this is it. I can feel my bachelorhood folding its tent and packing itself away, because one night won’t be enough with her.

  “I wasn’t prepared for you,” she repeats in some frustration. “Tell me your flaws.”

  “Apparently I don’t describe myself well. I told you how tall I was.”

  “I don’t know what that means. I thought you were tall, but had a nice soft pooch in the middle.”

  Deliberately I raise my shirt. I know I look good there. It’s why I eat chicken and broccoli. Her swift intake of breath at the sight of my ridged abdomen and defined obliques that form a V. “You can throw me some pillows and we can pretend, if that’s important to you.”

  She sighs and slumps on the sofa. “You’re out of my league. I can’t have sex with you now. I know your type. You date the type of women Oliver dates.”

  “I’d think that was an insult, but I know you love your cousin, so, thank you?” I drop the duffel bag and join her on the sofa. I gather her soft body in my arms and tuck her head into my neck so she can’t see my grin.

  “I need you to go away and come back less perfect,” she mumbles against my skin.

  I shouldn’t be surprised at how that almost innocent contact burns in the best possible way.

  “You do remember my hand and leg, right?” I tap her with said hand.

  “Are you bragging about your superhuman abilities right now? Because it’s not the time,” she says in an indignant huff.

  I choke on my laughter. “I’m not the bionic man yet, but I bet I can make you feel better.”

  “You know, as Mr. January, you have to have options, right?”

  I can’t hold back any longer and I shake with laughter. Literally throw back my head and howl. Finally, I say, “Not as many as Mr. December. He has the whole year to collect numbers.”

  She grumbles but doesn’t move away. She burrows into my embrace and wraps her arms around my waist. With a finger under her chin, I tip her face up. I want to kiss her, but more than that, I want to see her. Her hazel eyes, a golden brown, sparkle at me in rueful amusement, and behind that is banked heat ready to be stoked.

  “You’re not broken. Adversity has bent you, but you aren’t broken. You left your apartment and went to the subway station. In another couple of months, you would have gotten on the train. You’re going to do that again.”

  She sighs and I feel her slight body push against mine.

  “Jake, I think I need you to be my therapist.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s unethical to sleep with your patients.”

  I’m done with talking. Swooping down, I take her mouth in mine. She is surprised, and then her lips fall open and she’s kissing me back, just as hard and just as hungry. She moans and the vibration echoes between my ears and thunders down my spinal cord. Her tongue isn’t tentative nor is her tight grip in my hair. She tastes me with the fervor and passion of a woman who hasn’t been kissed in more than three years. Maybe she’s never been kissed this well. Maybe she’s never b
een wanted this badly.

  I hold her jaw between the fingers of my good hand and leave my left one at my side. But she surprises me, as she always has, and releases her death grip on my head. Her hand drops down and runs lightly over my left arm until she clutches the wrist. Not once does she lift her lips from mine. Not once does her fervor let up. Not even when she lifts my wrist to place my hand around her breast.

  I don’t take time to examine the unfamiliar feeling in my chest. I pack it away and focus on the sensations I understand, like the ache in my cock and the desire to get inside her. I break away from her luscious mouth to run my lips along her chin and down the column of her neck. She tips her head up and to the side to give me better access.

  “Oh, Jake.” Her hands move to my shoulders as I travel lower, tugging the blanket down with my teeth until her nipples are exposed. I bend my head and bite.

  She nearly comes off the sofa. Her hips thrust upward, seeking relief. I rip the blanket aside to expose her pale body flushed with arousal.

  “Perfect. You’re perfect.”

  Her legs fall open in clear invitation and I don’t hesitate to thrust one finger inside her. I’m clutched tight and hot. My eyes roll into the back of my head at the pleasure of it.

  “More,” she pants. Her nails dig into my shoulders, punctuating her demands.

  In answer, I thrust another finger inside her. “Is this enough or do you want more?”

  “More.”

  Her back arches and her hips rise to meet my hand. Her tongue runs along the cords of my neck. It’s my turn to gasp and writhe. Christ, I want inside her body, but I’m determined to make her come first. I want to feel what it’s like as her body shudders its release.

  The bright lights expose her every vein and highlight every curve. Her porcelain skin looks too delicate to be exposed to the sun or rain. The glow off the tops of her breasts beckons my mouth, and I tongue each hard peak as she grinds against me. I press the hard base of my hand against her pelvis.

  “Shit, you’re tight,” I say before taking another rigid nipple into my mouth for a hard suck. I’m not gentle with her because she doesn’t want that. She’s used to her own soft hand, her own gentle touch, and now she wants a man’s hand, with a man’s calluses, and a man’s firm pressure. I touch places inside her she can’t reach, curling my fingers and dragging them along the front wall of her cunt.