Every Time He Leaves (The Raeven Sisters Book 1)

by Karington, Anna

  Chapter Six

  I wake, expecting to see Jarek lying beside me, but he's gone.

  Of course he is. And though I should have expected as much, it evokes the same feelings I had back then. This is what it's like to be abandoned over and over and over again. I rise from the bed and throw on my robe.

  What felt like such an incredible, beautiful experience last night has left me feeling guilty, ashamed. I know better, and still I can't resist. What happened is my own fault, and I must accept that. I head to the guest bedroom to check on Janet, but when I sneak a glance inside, it's empty. All alone...again.

  I hear stirring in the kitchen. She must be making herself some breakfast. As I make my way out of the hallway, I see a shirtless Jarek standing before the stove. He holds the handle of a frying pan on the burner in one hand and a spatula in the other. He shakes the pan, and as he flips its contents in the air, I realize what he's making. “Omelet?” I ask.

  It lands in the pan, and he shifts his gaze to me. His eyes light up and he smiles. “Of course.”

  When we were younger, he made me cheese, ham, and jalapeño omelets. After church, Daddy took us to IHOP, where I'd order an omelet for breakfast. On weekends, sometimes Jarek would recreate the omelet. He wasn't good at it, but I appreciated his efforts and always expressed my gratitude for the attempt. Here he is again, years later, bringing back that same memory. But what's the point?

  I approach the kitchen island and sit in a stool. “Coffee?” he asks.

  “Yes, please.” I study the wound on his head. It doesn't look as bad as it appeared last night. Just a few scratches. He must have removed the Band-Aid I placed there after we fucked.

  He pours a collection of cheese and jalapeños onto the egg and pulls a mug from the cabinet. He's clearly made himself at home, as indicated by his familiarity with my kitchenware. He heads to the coffee machine and presses a button, releasing the coffee into the mug.

  “Someone was on top of this morning,” I say, impressed with everything already being made. And I'm glad. Considering last night, I'm really not in the mood to get ready for the day.

  “Sugar or cream?” he asks.

  “Black.” He eyes me curiously. “Can't afford the calories,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “You're ridiculous.” He hands me the mug and walks back to the pan, his ass shifting in his jeans, stirring a similar sensation in my lady parts as the night before. Yummy.

  I feel like I should do something to put a stop to this moment, like there's something wrong with him being here like this, but I'm too tired to do anything but let him get on with what he's doing. He removes the omelet from the pan with the spatula, sets it on a plate, retrieves a fork from the silverware drawer, and sets the plate down before me. “Enjoy,” he says. He turns off the stove and heads to the dishwasher, where he washes the dishes he used to create breakfast for me.

  “Aren't you going to eat?” I ask.

  “Did while you were sleeping.”

  I cut the omelet with my fork and have a bite. The cheese and jalapeño goodness explodes in my mouth. “Oh my God,” I say, my mouth full of the incredible concoction. I chew and swallow. “This is really good!”

  As I finish the omelet, he’s still doing dishes. I notice he's also done the ones I've neglected for the past few days, and I'm embarrassed. “You didn't have to do all of them,” I say as I pass him and scrape what remains of the food residue into the garbage disposal.

  “It wasn't an issue,” he says.

  I set the plate and fork in the dishwasher. “Well, thank you.” I start to head back to my chair to enjoy my coffee when he steps around me and presses his lips against my cheek. I permit myself this moment because I'm still trapped in the ecstasy of the night before and knowing he's still here. I roll my head back as he kisses down my neck. He unties my robe and pulls it open. He fondles up and down my sides, massaging his fingers against my hips.

  He pulls the robe off and drops it so that it pools at my feet. I spin around, feeling vulnerable, exposed, but excited all at once. He kneels slightly, cups his hands under my butt, lifts me in the air, and spins me around. As he sets me on the island, I now realize it's the perfect height. Glad I didn't get the bar height island.

  He retrieves a condom and the bottle of lube, which he must have lifted from my room. He has a wicked smirk on his face, as if he's so pleased with his forethought. He sets them beside me on the island. He kneels slightly so his torso touches mine, the metal button of his jeans rubbing against my clitoris.

  I gaze into his eyes, those loving eyes I remember feeling so safe with, and I feel safe with them now, even though I shouldn't—even though I should know better.

  He thrusts his pelvis against mine. I want him in me—need him in me so badly. If he knew how much I craved him...if he felt for me a fraction of what I feel for him, how could he ever walk away from something so powerful, something so life-giving?

  He kisses between my breasts. Each soft peck evokes a powerful sensation, making the spots he pays attention to radiate energy, life. Swirling sensations collide in my head, relieving what feels like years of ignored tension. As his lips near my nipple, I feel eager anticipation for his expert touch. The touch of his lips softens and the subtle sensation he leaves stirs a deep hunger within me. Why is he still wearing those jeans? Those damn jeans that look so good on him.

  And I can't bear it. I lean up and push him off me. He looks bewildered as I undo the button of his jeans and force them to his knees. As he realizes what I'm doing, he smiles. But I'm so busy ripping the condom from the wrapper to pay much attention to him. I hurriedly roll it on and massage a wad of lube over it. All I can think about—all that consumes me is how much I need him inside me, how much I need him to invade my body again, to touch all those nerves that right now are begging for satisfaction, not just by anything, but by his erotic touch.

  As I lean back, waiting for him to enter, he gazes at me, still smirking, as if he's so proud of himself for filling me with this unbearable desire. I want to just scream, "Get in me!" But I hold back, trusting he'll satisfy me, as he always has. He wraps his hand around my neck and clings tightly as he uses his other to guide himself into me, slowly, so that I can feel the pressure, the soothing of those pining nerves. I toss my head back and he forces himself fully in, evoking a moan.

  He grunts as he pushes in and pulls slightly out before returning to his work, his efforts at arousing himself sending sensations rushing across my body. He pushes me back so that I lie across the island. I hear him groan as he forces himself deeper within me. I groan from the sheer ecstasy of it all.

  He speeds his thrusts and wraps his arm around my leg to keep me from sliding, as he did to keep me from sliding on the bed the night before. Admittedly, the kitchen island isn't the most comfortable place in the world, but that sensation of discomfort is far surpassed by the pleasurable emotions that jet through me in waves.

  If only there was a way I could have him all over me, every part of him touching every nerve across my body. If only I could have his lips tending to every bit of flesh—then I could be happy forever. He captures my other leg in his arm and uses the leverage to push even farther into me. He stops.

  Why did he stop? It's not enough. I need so much more.

  I gaze at him. Here I am, lying before him, desperate, needful. He releases one of my thighs and rubs his hand against my belly, scanning my body.

  I don't know that I would normally like this kind of scrutiny, but the look in his eyes assures me he's only appreciating everything he beholds, so I don't interrupt. “You're so beautiful, Lana," he whispers as he teases my body with subtle movements. I turn to avoid his gaze, and he grabs my chin and turns my face so I'm forced to look at him. He appears as if he's about to say something else. I wonder what, but instead, he forces himself in me again. I'm relieved, because I don't know if I could handle any words from him in this moment. They would slay me.

  He pushes in even deeper an
d I scream out, but not from pain. The feelings are just so sharp, so intoxicating, and coming so fast I can't help it. Jarek's expression is rife with concern, but I reach my arm around and grip his ass, tugging to let him know that he has to keep going. I need this. It feels like I need it more than I've ever needed anything. I find myself moving my hips instinctively, like my body is desperately trying to put an end to the agonizing emptiness within me.

  I want to see that look in his eyes, as I saw the night before, that look of arousal, of satisfaction, of eagerness, of excitement. I want to see his release. I look for it, searching for him to be close, because I know I am, and I don't know that I can keep from climaxing soon.

  He leans back farther. What is he doing?

  He feels his way to my clitoris, which he massages with his thumb once again.

  No. This is too much. Way too much, and as he provides me another push and massages me in just the right way, I throw my head back. My face contorts and twists in what I imagine is the most unpleasant of expressions as I'm lost in an abyss of vacillating emotions.

  My thoughts dwell on the sensations so that I can't even focus on my surroundings until I see Jarek cringing as his pelvis jerks powerfully against me. He groans through ground teeth, his expression like one I imagine he'd make amidst a heated argument. Then he collapses on top of me, his warm chest against mine. It feels as if he's caught me from the fall I experience as I rapidly descend from my miraculous high.

  He lies against me and we breathe together, intensely, allowing ourselves to recover from the cardio workout. He's still inside me as he places his arms on either side of me and props himself up.

  He gazes into my eyes. I'm tearing up, a product of the sheer pleasure I experienced. I hope he doesn't interpret it as anything else. Although I can't be sure it's not from a part of me that deeply wishes I could have had this every day from those early years to now. How many women have been lucky enough to experience this pleasure with Jarek? How many have been equally disappointed when he's moved on without them? At the very least, I have the satisfaction of knowing it was good enough for him to return once more.

  He smiles cockily, as if he's proud of what he's done to me. And he should be. “I don't want to leave,” he says.

  I eye him curiously. The statement evokes my memories about that morning, making the crash from the erotic high even more depressing. In a moment, I went from feeling so aroused and lifted to feeling ashamed and embarrassed. I'm totally vulnerable beneath him. “You can stay for a while.”

  His smile broadens. A wicked glint sparkles in his eyes. “I don't think we're talking about the same thing.” As I catch his true meaning, I can't help but laugh, relieved of all that accumulated guilt. He seems so happy, as if we're more than a hookup. However, I imagine that's the way he always is with girls. He must convince all his tricks they're more than just a night, that they're his future girlfriends. We've all been duped by his charm, charisma, and erotic power. Vulnerable and exposed as I feel beneath him, dwelling on how I'm nothing but a toy to him, one he can so easily dispose of, I can't help but feel I would rather be his toy than nothing at all.

  He rises and pulls out of me, leaving my body to chill in the cool sting of the air. I want to throw myself at the floor and toss my robe back on. I at least want to conceal my breasts, but I don't want to seem insecure. I want to appear in control.

  He turns, opens the pantry cabinet, and disposes of the condom in the trash can inside. I get a good view of his beautiful ass. He kneels down farther, grabs his jeans at his ankles, and pulls them up, covering some of my favorite parts. He turns back to me, his expression more serious than before.

  “What's wrong?” I ask.

  “I have a virtual meeting I need to take care of in about an hour.”

  This was it? This was all we had? “On a Saturday?” I ask.

  “The life of a billionaire,” he says in an adorably self-indulgent way.

  “I should punch you in the face for that. Some of us have to work our asses off just to get by.”

  “Whatever makes your ass look that good is a positive in my book.”

  “Oh, really? You like my ass?” I ask. He nods.

  “Then watch it walk away from your conceited self.” I hop up from the island, scoop my robe off the floor, and head to the bedroom.

  I hear him laugh behind me and I'm pretty proud of myself for my quip. “We should do lunch,” he says. I feel it would be best for me to deny him. I could say I have plans. I could make up some extraordinary story about how busy I am so I don't have time for him, but I can't help myself. I head towards the hallway and turn back to him. He's ogling me, and I can tell by the gleam in his eyes that he likes what he sees.

  “That sounds good to me,” I reply.

  “I hope this is all right,” I say as we sit in a booth in the local pizzeria I suggested for our lunch date. “Sorry if it's not as fancy as you’re accustomed to.” I'm teasing, but he must know some part of me is concerned he's judging my tastes.

  “Will this meet your caloric needs for the day?” he asks. Touché.

  I chuckle. “Today can be my bad day.”

  “From what I've seen so far, it is,” he quips. As I laugh, his expression turns serious. “Do you really think I've changed that much?” he asks, as if he's hurt by my constant reminders that he's so different. “You know it's still me. Bumbling, ridiculous me.”

  “What part of you was ever bumbling or ridiculous?” I reflect on him standing before his truck, black oil soiling his shirt, which glistened in the afternoon light—beaming nearly as much as the twinkle in his eye as he gazed at me beside him. I acted out the day I had with my friends, as I usually did when I got home from school. He swooped down and grabbed a wrench from his toolbox. As he stood back up, he hit his head against the hood. I laughed so hard, I practically shrieked. He blushed, and as he turned to me, he wiped his hand across his forehead, adding a black smear to his already dirtied face. Even then, looking filthy as ever, he was adorable. Bumbling as he may have been, it was hard to appear that way when he was so attractive and charming.

  “Whatever,” he says. I detect a hint of false modesty.

  When the waitress arrives, we order and then he asks, “So what has Lana been up to all these years?”

  “I've told you everything that's important.”

  “No, you haven't. You've told me just enough so that you thought I'd stop asking questions.”

  “You haven't exactly been eager to tell me what you've been up to. Are there bodies lining the West Coast that I need to alert the authorities about?”

  “You'd alert authorities? Oh, I thought you were someone I'd be able to call. No, but seriously. Where do I even start?”

  “Any part where you explain how you became a billionaire will be intriguing, I promise.”

  “That old story,” he says, throwing it away as if it’s nothing, though I can tell by the look in his eye he knows it's far from nothing. “I started taking classes at a community college in Glendale, where I met a friend of one of my professors who taught at USC. He asked me to help him with an engineering project and encouraged me to apply for a scholarship to MIT. When I finished up with school, I went to work with a company in Seattle that sells a few packaging components to various companies. I came up with the idea to design machines that we could sell to these companies that did the same thing, which would save these companies tons of money. Big corps like cheaper, so I found I had a lot of interest early on. Started my own business with money I got some of my peers to invest. It's really not all that glamorous, but it happened to take off. I got a bunch of heavyweight clients very early on through some great connections that I was fortunate enough to have.”

  “I imagine you earned those connections,” I say, because I'm sure his personality has led to him making a lot of friends along the way. “But why start your own company?” I ask. “When did you become so entrepreneurial?” This wasn't the Jarek I knew. He wasn't entrepren
eurial, and that wasn't a fault. He just didn't have extravagant dreams. He was simple, and as Mom noted, he would have been perfectly happy being a mechanic for the rest of his life. I remember his dreams of a double wide trailer and a few cats. Hardly glamorous, yet it was the only dream I needed him to have.

  “I wanted to be successful. If your father taught me anything, it was about being a businessman.”

  “Good on you,” I say, trying to brush off the subject of my father. “So what about the women? There must be a lot of girls out west who you've been in relationships with.”

  “There have been girls, but no one serious. Not really.”

  “No girlfriends? No fiancées? Really? I remember you in college, and you didn't really avoid girlfriends.”

  “I don't know if you could call them girlfriends.” I blush like I would have back when he first began talking to me about girls he was interested in—girls at the time I assumed he was having sex with. Being older and wiser, I'm certain he was having sex with them.

  “What makes you think I've gotten engaged?” he asks. “Have you gotten engaged a bunch since I've been gone?” His gaze suggests he really wants to know the answer.

  “Not engaged, but I've had boyfriends. Todd Jedder, Ryan Karson, Jedd Spears.” He appears viscerally uncomfortable by the mention of the names. “Do you know one of them?” I ask.

  “No, no. These were guys you were in serious relationships with?”

  “Todd and I dated for two years. He was probably the most serious.” His face is stern, as if he's angry. I almost think he's jealous, but considering our history and our current situation, I know that can't be true.

  “How serious was that?” he asks. I'm wondering by his look if he really wants me to tell him. I'm not sure if I should say.

  “We talked about getting married. I'd say that's pretty serious.” I notice his fingers pressed against the tabletop. Why is he reacting like this?