That Guy

by Kim Jones

  “Strip for me.”

  I blink.

  “Um. Do what?”

  “Strip for me, Penelope. I want to see you naked.”

  I can do that.

  Surely.

  I take a step back from him and pull my sweater over my head. His eyes stay on mine instead of falling to my black lacy bra—one of those that are cut so low, the tops of my areolas are visible. I look down to see if something is wrong. See if I can find a reason behind him not looking. I find none.

  I shrug it off and hook my thumbs into the waistband of my leggings. Only when they’re to my knees do I realize I forgot to take my boots off. So I attempt to use the toe of one boot on the heel of the other to take it off. When that doesn’t work, I hop around on one foot. Seventeen hours later, I’ve managed to remove the bastards from my feet.

  Then I stand before him.

  Bra.

  Panties.

  Goosebumps…everywhere.

  “You are a fine sight, Miss Hart.” Jake takes a few seconds longer to drink me in, then stands.

  He towers over me.

  I look up at him.

  We’re not touching.

  And the lack of contact makes the promise of what’s to come even more exciting.

  “I don’t want to rush this.” His fingers graze my temple and for a second, I think he’s talking about something else—that maybe he doesn’t want to rush this as in us. Together. This thing, whatever it may be, between us that’s been building since the first time he found me in his apartment. But then he clarifies what he means, and though my body heats at the idea, my heart falls a little.

  “I want to take my time with you tonight. Touch you everywhere. Kiss you where I touch. Make love to you for hours until you can’t think….”

  Can’t walk…

  “…Can’t remember anything but how it feels when I’m inside you.”

  Pretty sure I won’t ever forget if he fucks me for hours….

  He takes a step back so he has a full view of me. “Take your panties off.”

  Oh have mercy he said panties.

  I do as he says. I even manage to do it with grace. May even look sexy.

  His eyes are on my sex. “Is your pussy wet for me, Penelope?”

  “It could be wetter,” I say, hoping he understands that I’m actually suggesting he put his mouth on it.

  He smirks, telling me he gets it. “Now the bra.”

  I frown. “I really, really suck at doing that. It’s super unsexy, too. Like I have to pull it over my head because it hurts my shoulders to—”

  I stop speaking when he reaches behind me and releases the clasp with just a flick of his fingers—his eyes never leaving mine. His fingers not touching my skin.

  Fuck he’s good.

  I roll my shoulders and the material falls away. I’m naked. He’s not. I’m about to tell him so when he says, “Undress me.”

  Undressing Jake Swagger is like unwrapping the Christmas present you’ve waited all year for. One that you’ve already unwrapped and rewrapped so you know what’s inside. But it doesn’t make unwrapping it a second time and playing with it any less exciting.

  Also, like a Christmas present, I take my time at first—removing his shirt slowly. But it doesn’t take me long to grow impatient and soon I’m ripping his clothes off in a rush to get to the parts I can play with.

  Gloriously naked, Jake stands before me. He’s all chiseled perfection and tanned flesh over rock hard muscle. My mouth waters. Fingers explore. Mouth kisses until he groans his impatience, wraps his hands around my waist and pulls me to him.

  Heat.

  Lips.

  Tongue.

  Hands.

  Moans.

  Love.

  My heart feels his touch as much as my body. In the way he caresses. Possesses. Kisses. Worships every bared inch available to him as we stand. And when he can’t reach other parts of me in this position, he lifts me, spins me, lays me down and touches me everywhere else.

  He kisses my toes.

  My knees.

  Hip bones.

  The line of my ribcage that’s exposed every time I pull in a deep, shuddering breath.

  Then he looks at me—dark. Feral. Hungry. In love. Just long enough to tell me, “Come as much as you want,” before spreading my legs and burying his face in my pussy.

  Like I could hold back.

  He does that figure eight move with his tongue until my back arches from the bed as he fucks me with his finger. Then his mouth settles on my come button.

  Yes.

  I said come button.

  Because when he sucks hard and flicks his tongue rapidly across my clit, aka come button, guess what.

  I come.

  He eases the pressure. Slows his pace until I float back from whatever galaxy he just sent me to. When I’m no longer a shivering, moaning mess, he repeats what he just did.

  Figure eight.

  Suck.

  Tongue flick.

  Finger pump.

  And I come.

  After I’ve joined the living, he restarts the process. I’m not sure I can handle it. Not the orgasm, of course. I mean, I’ll take those as long as he wants to give them. I’m talking about the emptiness I feel without him inside me. So I beg.

  “Please, Jake. Fuck me. Fill me. I need to feel you.”

  “And I need to taste you.”

  It’s all he says before he brings me to another orgasm—this one taking a little longer now that my clit is nearly numb.

  Then, finally, I feel him—all of him. Just him. No condom. No barrier. He slides into my wet heat, skin on skin and stretches me until he’s buried deep and all the fires that had died to embers only moments ago ignite into an inferno.

  The things he says as he makes love to me….

  “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”

  “You feel like fucking satin.”

  “Your pussy is perfect.”

  “You, Penelope Hart, are perfect.”

  The way he touches me…

  Thumb brushing my temple.

  Fingers digging into my hips.

  Hips rolling to meet mine.

  Lips kissing my lips.

  My jaw.

  The tip of my nose.

  The way he looks at me…

  Like I’m precious.

  I’m pretty.

  I’m his.

  Like he knows I love him.

  Like he knows that I know he loves me too.

  All these things are what make this moment as terrifying as it is special. Because I’m not sure where we go from here. What we are beyond…this.

  Two people making love in a way two people shouldn’t, unless they’re ready to commit to something greater. But can he commit? Will he? Or will I be forced to give him an ultimatum? To demand that he tell me how he feels so that we can take the next step, or I walk away because I can’t be with him if there’s only this.

  “Stop thinking, Penelope.” Jake’s demand is delivered with a swivel of his hips that has me temporarily forgetting who the fuck I am. When I remember, he pushes my knee toward my head and I let out a low moan. But I’m still thinking. And I’m pretty sure he knows what I’m thinking. And for some reason, I want him to know that I’m not going to just let this go. That we’re going talk about all this shit that’s not being said.

  My eyes flutter open and I meet his hooded gaze that is centered on me. I glance at his parted lips for a second before finding his eyes once again. His look begs me to forget. And I will—for now. But first, I tell him the same words Scarlet said in Gone with the Wind—sure that he won’t get the reference, but will understand the meaning.

  “Tomorrow. I’ll think about that tomorrow. Okay?”

  He smirks. Fucks me harder. And just before the pleasure consumes me and expels me from reality once again, he responds with the Jake Swagger version of Rhett Butler’s infamous one-liner: “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a fuck.”

  Chap
ter Twenty-Six

  The sound I make when Jake pulls out of me is a long, guttural song best described as a whimper-meow-snort-moan-moo-hiss.

  I expect Jake to laugh. Chuckle. Smirk. Moo. Something. Instead he says, “I’ll make it better, baby.”

  He sweeps my hair off my neck, fists it and tugs gently to reposition my head so he has better access to my shoulder. Then he trails kisses over the exposed skin all the way to my ear.

  “Bath or shower?”

  I grunt.

  This time, he does chuckle. “My choice then?”

  Grunt.

  “Bath it is.” He stands and reaches for me, then pulls me from the bed and into his arms. He walks with me wrapped around him like a monkey. I inhale his scent. Soap. Clean. Masculine. Rich. Gah, Penelope. Could you be any more shallow? Probably not. But rich has a smell. And it’s Jake Swagger.

  I open my eyes and the side of his strong neck stares back at me. A single, thick vein pulses beneath his skin. Stubble darkens his flawless flesh. I have the urge to stick my tongue out and lick it. When I do, I find my tongue is too short and I’m too lazy to get closer.

  I have to pee.

  The urge is so sudden and so strong, I clench everything to keep from giving him a golden shower. Jake tightens his hold in response. Which only adds to the pressure on my bladder.

  And if he presses any tighter….

  Oh dear Lord, please don’t let me pee on this man.

  Jake kisses my brow and the tiny hairs on his chin tickle my nose. He’s in a giving mood because he skims his lips over my temple. Those hairs still tickling. Now I want to sneeze.

  And if I sneeze….

  Oh dear Lord, please don’t let me sneeze and pee on this man.

  We’re climbing stairs now. I forgot this suite had a second level. It houses the master suite. And adjoining the master suite is the master bath.

  Which is where he’s taking me.

  Because I stupidly let him choose a bath over a shower.

  And the only bath is upstairs.

  And with every step, my bladder feels like it’s being tossed around like a hacky sack.

  I think he’s doing this shit on purpose.

  And if he doesn’t stop….

  Lord. It’s me again. Please teleport us to the closest toilet so I don’t pee on this man.

  “What are you praying about?”

  Why can’t I do anything right?

  My eyes close and I say nothing.

  There is no damn way it takes this long to get to a damn bathtub.

  Jake slows his stride. “Talk to me, gorgeous.”

  “I’m about to pee all over you if you don’t get me to the bathroom.”

  He stills for just a split second before picking up his pace. “For fuck’s sake, Penelope. You could’ve just told me that instead of praying about it.”

  “Yeah? Well it wasn’t something I wanted to admit.”

  “Well a golden shower is something I don’t want.”

  “Then I suggest you—”

  My words are cut off when he unceremoniously drops me on the toilet. The movement is more than my bladder can handle and I’m peeing the moment my ass cheeks hit the porcelain. When he straightens, I lift my eyes and one of his eyebrows sits halfway up his forehead.

  “What? I told you I had to pee.”

  Hmm…I wonder if that’s why my orgasm was so intense?

  I believe it was Christian Grey who taught us that coming on a full bladder was better than coming on an empty one. Damn if he wasn’t right.

  Thank you, E.L. James. I am forever in your debt.

  I’m still peeing. Jake has left me alone and shut the door behind him. This bathroom, like the one at his apartment, has a toilet that’s separate from the rest of the bathroom. It even has a magazine rack. And an iPad. Which is fucking nuts because people like me might be tempted to steal it. But even with all its amenities, the small space is a little claustrophobic. And I’m curious about what Jake’s doing.

  I stretch my fingers and can just reach the door handle. I pull it open to find him standing with his hands on his hips, naked, looking down at the tub as it fills with water. My eyes zone in on the dark hair that makes a trail down his V.

  I want to lick his abs.

  His cock.

  His fucking kneecaps if that’s what turns him on.

  “You don’t think it’s weird to pee with the door open?” he asks, a smirk on his chiseled, handsome, wonderfully fuckable face.

  “Do you?”

  “No. But women usually do. Then again, you’re pretty unusual.”

  “I am that.”

  “How are you still peeing?”

  I shrug. “Must have an enlarged bladder.”

  He groans. “Don’t say enlarged bladder, Penelope.”

  “It’s the appropriate medical term, Jake.”

  He levels me with a look. Miraculously, I stop peeing.

  “What if I have a kidney stone?” No sooner does the thought cross my mind and I’m pulling the iPad out of the little magazine rack next to the toilet and typing my symptoms into the search engine.

  “You don’t have a kidney stone.”

  “Dr. Google says I have a kidney stone.”

  “Dr. Swagger says you had three glasses of champagne in the car before you took a really big cock that distracted you from everything other than the best orgasm of your life, which left you weak and resulted in the sudden awareness that you had to pee due to…” he snaps then shoots me with his finger guns, “…three glasses of champagne. Not a fucking kidney stone.”

  I just stare. And blink. Once. Twice.

  Yeah. That makes more sense.

  Of course I’m not going to tell him that. Instead, I kick the door shut because I want to read up more on the causes of my diagnosis—bladder hypertrophy. And because peeing is one thing, but a real lady doesn’t wipe in the presence of others.

  When I’m finished and have convinced myself that, despite what Dr. Google says, I’m not experiencing the final stages of renal failure, I move to stand. I end up sitting back down and having to attempt it again, then again, before I’m steady on my feet.

  I’m contemplating whether to put my foot on the toilet to get a better look at the damage to my vagina, then asking Dr. Google what he thinks when the door opens.

  Jake eyes me. Clearly amused. “What are you doing?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what I’m glad I wasn’t doing, considering you just barged in here without knocking.”

  I’m being serious. But he’s fighting a smile. Eventually, he gives in and it spreads across his face. “Come on, pretty girl. Your bath is ready.” He takes my hand and I float behind him. He could be leading me to the edge of a cliff. Off the side of a bridge. Into Hell’s fire and I’m pretty sure I’d willingly go. All because he called me pretty.

  I’m such a sucker.

  And he’s added another “must have” to That Guy’s list.

  The lights are dim. Soft music plays—barely audible over the hum of the Jacuzzi jets. Candles line the edge of the tub. I breathe deep, inhaling the lavender-scented bath oil and a quiet peace settles in my soul.

  There are few times in my life when I’ve had no desire to speak. This is one of them. I want nothing, not even the sound of my voice, not even the sound of his, to threaten the tranquility of this moment.

  But then he speaks.

  I answer.

  And the moment becomes even more perfect.

  “You’re beautiful when you’re happy.”

  “I’m always happy.”

  “You’re always beautiful.”

  I swoon so hard I’m sure the floor would meet my face if Jake’s hands weren’t settled on my hips. Big hands that slide up my sides. Masculine hands splay across my stomach. Greedy hands palm my naked breasts as if not doing so would be a sin.

  Jake places my hand in his and lifts it to his mouth. He kisses the tip of every finger. Burning me with those gray-green-blue
eyes as he leads me to the one spot on the tub that isn’t decorated with candles.

  The water is hot, but not unbearably so. I try to stifle a whimper as I submerge myself into the heavily oiled bath, and find it impossible. My lower lip quivers slightly and I breathe out a half sob/half moan.

  Even with my eyes closed, I’m aware of Jake standing next to me. I want to look, but looking is what got me here in the first place. The last thing I need is for my greedy vagina to override my brain once again.

  Jake’s big body folds around mine. My hands rest on his powerful thighs as he settles behind me and leans me back against him. He dips a sponge into the water then holds it over my breasts and squeezes it—wetting my chest before caressing the skin there.

  After he’s done this several times and I’m borderline comatose, he threads his fingers through my hair and massages my scalp. I breathe through my nose. Inhaling the scent of lavender into my lungs and feeling its soothing effect spread through my body.

  I don’t even realize I’ve drifted off to sleep until I’m startled awake by those fingers that are no longer on my scalp, but instead skimming the tender lips of my pussy.

  “Relax,” he soothes, dragging his nose along my hairline. “I love the way you smell.”

  Did he say love?

  He said love.

  This is the second time.

  I said I’d wait until tomorrow.

  But I can’t help it.

  I have to ask.

  “I’m making you fall in love with me, aren’t I?”

  Jake Swagger doesn’t scare easy. Nor does he stop the pad of his finger from moving up and down my slit. But he is easily amused. The low, deep rumble of laughter against my back proves it. “How sore is your pussy?”

  Really?

  “Talk about ruining a moment…”

  “I didn’t realize we were having a moment. Answer my question.”

  “What question?” I ask only because I like the way my spine tingles when he says, “Pussy.”

  He must know. He does that low laugh again. Then he slides his finger between my lips and pushes the tip inside me. I’m swollen and tender and wet and not just from the water. Lips at my ear, he whispers the question again. “How sore is your pussy, Penelope?”

  I want to say something sexy. Or maybe something that will get me some sweet attention like my whimper-meow-snort-moan-moo-hiss got me this candle lit bath. But that hardening redwood tree at the small of my back dissuades me.