That Guy

by Kim Jones

  “It’s sore.”

  “Hmm.” He hums against my ear. “Deliciously sore?”

  “What? No. There’s no such thing as deliciously sore when you’re referring to a completely destroyed pussy.”

  He groans and rocks his hips against me. “Don’t say pussy, Penelope.”

  “That’s what you said when I called it a vagina.”

  “Well, hearing you say pussy makes me want to lift your pretty little ass on my lap and sink my cock into your sweet, swollen cunt.”

  “My sweet, swollen, destroyed cunt.”

  “For fuck’s sake, woman.”

  “What? All I said was—“

  “Don’t. Stop talking. Just be quiet and be still and I’ll try to make this as painless as possible.”

  He lifts me onto his thighs and I panic a little—grabbing the sides of the tub and trying to pull out of his embrace while mumbling a shaky, “No, Jake. Stop. I can’t.”

  “Easy, baby.” His words are so soft. Laced with a tenderness and a hint of regret. “I’m not trying to fuck you.” He kisses that same path from my shoulder to my neck that he tends to do a lot. And just like every other time, it melts me. “I only want to finish what I started.”

  What the hell does that mean?

  I figure it out when he grabs the sponge and slides it over my sex that is now only partially underwater. And he…

  Wow.

  Yeah.

  Most heroes treat their heroines to a warm towel after sex. Or a T-shirt. Or they leave them sticky so they’ll smell like them. Which is just fucking gross.

  But Jake Swagger?

  He’s an overachiever.

  I got a bath. Candles. Scalp massage. And a friggin’ vaginal cleansing. He’s cleaning me in the most delicious, intimate way. Granted it’s probably more out of guilt for ravaging my pussy rather than the desire to be sweet.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  I sweep my hand around the room then down my body. “This.”

  “Taking care of you?”

  My heart skips and I can’t speak. So I simply nod.

  “I’m doing this,” he mirrors my hand sweep motion, “because I told you I’d take care of you. I’m a big man who’s not gentle during sex. Never have been. I should’ve taken it slow with you. Been easy. Denied you even when you begged. But there’s something about your wicked little body that makes me lose control.”

  He holds the sponge over my sex and squeezes it. The water feels like satin as it cascades over my bare slit and his lips are just as soft when he trails them from my neck to shoulder.

  “I love how you take all of me. How you scream my name when you come. How sweet you taste. I can’t resist you. I always expect you to deny me, but you never do. You let me take what I want. Trust I’ll make it good for you. This is me not breaking that trust.”

  Oh my God that is just…beautiful.

  And of course I have to say something to fuck it up.

  “I forgot to ask, but now that I’m thinking about it, you don’t have any diseases, do you? Because you didn’t wear a condom. And if I start itching in places I shouldn’t itch…well…I mean, that’s going to break my trust.”

  He chuckles. “You really know how to ruin a moment.”

  I spin to face him—sloshing water over the side of the bathtub but too excited to care. “We were having a moment?”

  “Not one I care to remember now that you’ve talked about itching. And to answer your question, no. I don’t have any diseases.” He must think I’m about to say something else stupid because he quickly changes the subject. “How about a toast?”

  He grabs two glasses from beside the bathtub, then hands me one with a wink. “Wine. Because I know how much you love it.”

  I roll my eyes. “You know I hate wine.”

  “Humor me.”

  I sniff it like I know what I’m doing. It smells good, but I wrinkle my nose just to be a jerk. “What are we toasting?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  His eyes twinkle. I want to toast to love. To us. To marriage and kids and growing old together. But that seems a little heavy for this moment. Besides, I promised I’d wait and think about it tomorrow.

  So I smile, lift my glass and toast the next best thing.

  “To staying positive and testing negative.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Aww…how sweet.”

  Jake grunts and I crack one eye open to see Cam sprawled across the foot of our bed smiling at us. I smile back because…well because I’m fucking happy. Like, I didn’t even know happiness until I knew Jake Swagger—who sits up suddenly and looks over me to make sure I’m covered from Cam’s view.

  I warm all over.

  “How the hell did you get in here?” Jake grumbles, falling back on his pillow as he tightens his hold on me.

  “I have my ways.”

  “You mean you charmed the housekeeper into letting you in.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.” Cam tickles my feet and I kick them away from him—planting my heel into Jake’s shin.

  “For fuck’s sake…Cam go away so we can get up.”

  “You mean so Penelope can get up without me seeing her naked.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.” Jake kicks his foot out but before it makes contact with Cam’s crotch, he moves and strides out of the room—whistling some tune like he’s the happiest person in the world.

  He’s not.

  I am.

  I actually feel sorry for everyone who woke up this morning and wasn’t me.

  Seriously. I feel sorry for you.

  “Sorry, baby.” Jake’s lips on my naked shoulder have fireworks exploding in my chest. And groin area. I turn and snuggle into him. He buries his nose in my curls and inhales. “Your hair smells so good.”

  “You should smell my breath.”

  I feel his smile. “So no good morning kiss, I presume.”

  “Not a chance in hell. At least not until I brush my teeth.”

  He pats my ass. “Well go brush your teeth, gorgeous. I’ll have Cam order room service.”

  I ease out of bed and pad to the bathroom. “What’s he doing here anyway?” I call over my shoulder.

  “We have a nine a.m. conference call with an overseas distributor.”

  “Couldn’t he do that from Chicago?”

  “He could. But Cam never does anything the easy way.”

  I pause my brushing when he walks into the bathroom. He strokes his morning wood and winks at me. Then he graces me with a view of his toned ass as he walks to the toilet.

  He’s peeing.

  I’m brushing my teeth.

  It should be weird, right?

  It isn’t.

  “Is he your assistant?”

  Jake snorts. “Ask him.”

  I make a mental note to do that then rinse my mouth. Wash my face. Wrap myself in the hotel’s complimentary bathrobe that I think I’m going to steal.

  When I turn, Jake is there. Framing my face with his hands. Kissing my head. My lips. He pulls away and I’m thankful he didn’t try to stick his tongue down my throat. Because he hasn’t brushed yet. And I have a weak stomach in the morning.

  “Everyone decent?” Cam doesn’t wait for an answer as he pushes his way into the bathroom. He’s not bothered by Jake’s nakedness, but he does look a little disappointed that I’m fully covered.

  “I ordered breakfast. A little bit of everything. Wasn’t sure what you liked.”

  “Thanks. Are you Jake’s assistant?”

  He throws Jake a look that suggests he’d kill him if there weren’t any witnesses. Jake only laughs. Neither answer the question. It’s completely forgotten as Cam announces the time and Jake curses beneath his breath and throws a towel around his waist.

  With a final kiss—this one a little deeper because now Jake is minty fresh—I leave them to their call and go in search of breakfast. I follow the scent of bacon un
til I come to a dining room with a table big enough to seat eight. And every inch of it is covered in food.

  I wonder how it got here so fast. But the thought is fleeting as I uncover steaming plates of pancakes. Bacon. Eggs. French toast. Sausage. Ham. I don’t make it further than that. I don’t bother with a plate either. I just eat straight from the platters.

  As I eat, I plan how I’m going to tell Jake I love him. By the time I’m full, I decide I’m just going to blurt it out and see what happens. In my head, it goes down like this.

  I tell Jake I love him.

  He says it back.

  We kiss.

  He drops to one knee.

  Gives me the ring he bought right after he first met me and knew that he couldn’t live without me.

  We skip a big wedding.

  Drive to the courthouse.

  Get married.

  And become the envy of every human on the planet.

  Perfect, right?

  I’m anxious. And I have a reception to plan. So I make my way back upstairs and pray that the conference call is over.

  Jake’s voice can be heard the moment I reach the second floor landing. The sound of it—deep and rich with an undercurrent of authority—makes my heart pound faster. Steps feel lighter. Breath heavier.

  The call ends just as I make it to the partially closed door. But when Cam says my name, I stop. I eavesdrop, like I know I shouldn’t. But just like anyone in my situation would.

  “And what about Penelope?”

  Through the crack in the door, I see Jake’s shoulders rise and fall with a shrug. “What about her?”

  “You going to take her with you? To Africa?”

  Jake snorts. “Penelope? In Africa? Fuck no. Can you imagine the destruction she could do to a place like that?”

  Um. I could do Africa. I like lions and shit.

  “Have you told her you’re even going?”

  “I mentioned it.”

  True.

  Jake—ever the philanthropist—plans to take his fancy sprinkler system to Africa. Not to sell, but to give so that villages there can more effectively grow crops. He told me this while lying in bed last night. He also said it was something he planned for the future. I assumed months from now—maybe even years. But Cam speaks as if Jake’s leaving a lot sooner than that.

  “So when you mentioned it, did the two of you talk about what would happen when you’re away? Or what will happen when you get back? Are you going to stay in touch?”

  Jake lets out a laugh as he closes the file in his hand and tosses it on the bed next to Cam. “Who are you? My therapist?”

  “I’m your best friend. And I won’t sit back and watch you throw something good away because you’re too fucking stubborn to acknowledge it’s worth.”

  Fucking Cam. I love him.

  “Look, I like Penelope. Hell, I may even care about her. But…”

  There’s this sinking feeling in my gut. This tightening in my chest. My knees are wobbly and my hands sweaty. I swallow the lump in my throat and wait for the rest of what Jake has to say—something that, whatever it is, gives him pause.

  Jake’s phone chimes with an email notification. Cam snatches it from him and holds it out of reach. “But…” he urges, demanding Jake give him an answer.

  “For fuck’s sake, Cam. I live in Chicago. She lives in Nowhere, Mississippi. It is what it is. I mean, we can stay in touch. She can visit whenever she wants. We can have a good time, then go back to our lives. No strings attached.”

  Cam scoffs. “Do you fucking hear yourself? No strings attached? Come the fuck on…”

  “What? I’m not looking for a fairytale, Cam. And to be honest, I’m not so sure Penelope is either. Casual is good for us. Fucking perfect. Think about it. Who wouldn’t want a relationship like that?”

  Um.

  Me.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Remember those five stages of grief my mother goes through when she calls me? Well, I think that shit is hereditary.

  Step 1: Denial.

  Jake never used the word casual. I, obviously, heard him wrong. Because if he thought of us as casual, he wouldn’t have walked downstairs—where I’d escaped to after I heard what I clearly never heard—pinched my chin with his fingers. Lifted my head. Kissed my lips. Then mouthed, beautiful.

  Other than the designer labels, there was nothing beautiful about my outfit—boots, jeans, scarf, awesome-ass long sleeved shirt with thumbholes. Or my messy-bun hair. And while my makeup was on point, I wouldn’t call it beautiful.

  But God I felt beautiful when he grabbed my hand. When he rubbed his thumb over my knuckles as we walked down eighteen flights of stairs. When he kept his hand on my thigh the entire ride to the airport. When he moved it only to hold my hand again as he pulled me from the car.

  Led me to the plane.

  Tucked his phone between his shoulder and cheek.

  Strapped me in.

  Grazed my temple with his finger.

  Casual my ass….

  Step 2: Anger.

  Fuck Jake Swagger. Fuck him for thinking I can’t handle Africa. Fuck him for referring to my hometown as Nowhere, Mississippi. Fuck him and his “no strings attached” comment. Fuck him for assuming I don’t want a fairytale. And fuck him for ever mentioning the word casual.

  Step 3: Bargaining.

  God, please let this man love me. Take me. Marry me. And put his baby in me. Do that, and I promise I’ll donate a bunch of his money to a charity once I gain access to his accounts. That’s if he doesn’t make me sign a prenup. So God, don’t let him make me sign a prenup.

  Step 4: Depression.

  That’s the stage I’m experiencing right now.

  I glance up at Jake who sits like a king in the captain’s chair of his sixty-million-dollar plane. He’s dressed for business in his perfectly tailored dark gray suit. The only wrinkle on his body is the tiny one between his eyes—ever the CEO as he pounds furiously on the keys of his laptop.

  The sight of him does crazy things to me. I feel like animals are doing shit in my belly. Butterflies flutter. Birds flap their wings. Fish swim. It’s bottom lip-biting, grin-hiding good. Until, I remember what he said. Then it feels as if I’ve been stabbed in the heart by one of those big Texas Longhorns.

  I can’t be his Miss Sims. I can’t be his Pretty Woman. I can’t come to Chicago when it’s convenient for him, let him make love to me, fall deeper in love with him, then wake up alone in his big bed with a stack of cash and a note next to me telling me he’ll be in touch.

  I move my eyes away from him and have to blink back tears. I take a couple deep breaths. Nothing helps. This emptiness…

  Fuck.

  I close my eyes against the pain. Will myself to move on to the next stage of grief—acceptance. But how can I accept this when my heart refuses to let go of the greatest love it’s ever known? How can I move forward when the only future I want is sitting right across from me?

  I ask myself these questions over and over as the plane lands. As we settle in the car waiting for us on the tarmac. As we drive through the busy city traffic. As Jake’s hand stays firm in mine through the lobby of his apartment building and up stair after stair.

  “Penelope? Did you hear me?”

  I tilt my head to look up at Jake who has been on the phone since we landed. I’d tuned him out long ago. It was easy considering the thoughts in my head were screaming too loud for me to pay attention to anything else.

  “Huh?”

  “I said I have to go to the office. But I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

  It’s then I realize we’re in his apartment. In the kitchen. I’m holding a glass of wine. And my calves burn like a bitch.

  “Oh. Yeah. Sure. Okay.”

  He frowns. Takes a step toward me. Does that fucking thing with his fingers and my temple. “You okay, baby?”

  I clear my throat and swallow my emotions. “Me? Yeah.” I swat my hand in the air and force a smile. “
I’m fine. Just tired from the flight. And the stairs.”

  His smirk is as cocky as it is relieved. “Think you’ll ever ride in an elevator again?”

  “One day. Maybe.”

  “You know, I could always buy a helicopter. There’s a helipad on the roof.” A look of dread crosses his face. “Even though I hate those fucking things.”

  “Then why would you buy one?”

  He shoots me a look that suggests the answer is obvious. “For you, of course.”

  I melt like butter.

  There goes all my “stages of grief” progress….

  “You’d buy me a helicopter?”

  “To keep from walking up all those stairs? Absolutely. Although, I’d have to find a song like your elevator song to keep me calm so I don’t…what is it you say? Lose my shit?”

  He winks.

  I open my mouth to ask him to marry me.

  His phone rings.

  I hate that motherfucking phone.

  “Yes, Sandra?”

  My eyes narrow and I whisper shout, “Who the fuck is Sandra?”

  “Assistant,” he mouths.

  I thought Cam was his assistant... Or maybe I just assumed that...?

  He tugs my hair until my head falls back then dips to kiss the place where my neck meets my shoulder before he walks away, chatting with this Sandra about important things that require big words that I don’t understand.

  I will him to turn around. To ask me to go with him. To do something other than keep walking toward the door like I’m not even here. Because that sight—the one of him leaving—triggers something inside me. I don’t like the empty feeling growing bigger and bigger as he gets further from me. Or that voice in my head asking if this is what it will always be like.

  Him offering to buy me a helicopter.

  Kissing my neck.

  Making me swoon.

  Then running off to his office.

  Or Africa.

  Expecting me to be here when he gets back.

  Because that’s what happens in a casual relationship.

  But what about me? What about what I want? What about my life? My dreams? My home? I have a life too, you know? I do things. They might not be as important as saving the world with a sprinkler system and shit, but still.