by S. J. Pierce
His hand instantly meets the small of my back. I love it when he touches me there. “Stay,” he pleads.
I look back at him, assessing. No. I couldn’t possibly. But this bed is cradling me in a way that makes me never want to leave.
His lips twitch as I debate. “I know it’s probably just a one-night stand thing,” he cajoles, nailing my hesitation. “But the night isn’t over yet.”
“It is as far as my vagina is concerned.” There’s no way I can take anymore.
His chest bounces with a chuckle. The hand on my back runs up between my shoulder blades and under my hair. The intimate way he touches me, even after he’s already gotten what he wants, even with knowing this is probably the only night he’ll ever have me, makes something clench deep inside. I don’t think too hard about it. “I know you’re tired,” he says. “Sleep here, and we’ll get you home in the morning.”
I hesitate, but the fight in me is gone, so I lay back down beside him and we stare at each other a moment. “I’m only in town a couple days,” I feel the need to say, and I’m not sure if it’s for him or for me. Mostly for him—to make sure he’s not bluffing about understanding my position. And because he said ‘probably’ a one-night stand. This is a one-night stand. “And then I’m gone.”
He shifts to get comfortable and says sleepily, “I was lucky to have you this long.”
12
Dangers of Good Sex
It’s not long before Jaxson is out beside me. Though I want to fall asleep, my mind won’t be still enough to allow me. I also never go to bed without a shower. Especially after sex.
I prop up on my elbows, watch as he peacefully sleeps, his hair splayed around his head in a dark halo. This man trusts me more than I trust anyone…other than my sister. How does he know I’m not planning to rob him and take off?
On shaky, tired legs, I head toward an open doorway that looks like it might lead to a bathroom and halt halfway there to peek back at him. The moonlight dances along the hard planes and curves of his body, his chest lightly rising and falling. A deity of perfection.
Something about him sleeping with my scent all over him is incredibly arousing. My sex clenches sorely at the remembrance of him inside me, of our two-hour marathon, and I turn back for the bathroom to clean off as quietly as possible.
That man deserves his rest.
I chuckle soundlessly as I think back to the bar. How I wondered if his calm, unassuming way and considerate nature would translate to a good lover.
Man, my inkling was dead on.
His master bath is the Holy Grail of bathrooms. White and spotless, of course, and the shower is big enough for four people with at least eight showerheads. It takes me a couple minutes to figure out how to turn the damn thing on, and when I do, I yelp as icy water hits across my bare back. When I scramble to get out of the way, my feet slip against stone tile and I reach out for something to grab onto. I manage to snag a shelf with bottles of washes and soaps, and one tumbles off. It smacks the shower floor with a deafening sound, the echo ping-ponging around the room.
I stand there a moment, soaked and panting and freezing, and the water finally heats.
My cheeks flush.
Surely, he heard it.
When he doesn’t come running in, I relax and get myself together. He screwed me so hard I don’t have control over my own body. And apparently, he screwed himself into a coma.
The dangers of good sex.
I sift through his shower products and manage to find a shampoo and conditioner that don’t smell too manly. Men with hair like his always have decent products.
The second jackpot I’ve hit tonight.
Once I’m sufficiently clean, I dry off with an impossibly soft towel, wrap it around me, and head back into the bedroom to find him still sleeping. I then make my way out to the rest of the house to gather my clothes and pause as I walk by his white t-shirt in the living room. Stare at it a moment.
I can’t see him minding if I wear it.
I let the towel fall. Slip the shirt on. It hangs low enough to cover my ass and lady bits, so I decide to wear it. The fabric is thin and soft and smells of him. I involuntarily bite my lip with a grin. Something about wearing a man’s shirt after sex is the best.
I then wander into the kitchen in search of something to drink. Somehow, I manage to get a glass of ice water with little noise.
The next thing I need to do is text Maddie so she’s not worried when she gets home from work. My purse is where I left it—by the potted plant in the foyer. I fish out my phone and punch out a text:
Staying at the Sex God’s house. Will be back by breakfast.
She doesn’t immediately respond, so she must be doing ICU nurse things.
I sip my water and scan the first floor. Rake a hand through my damp strands that are wetting a ring around the collar of his shirt. My eyes follow the staircase to the upstairs hallway. What does the rest of his house look like?
Something mischievous pings inside.
My bare feet start for the downstairs hallway. I want to explore some of the rooms we didn’t go in on this floor, and then I’ll work my way up to the second. Maybe something inside them will tell me more about this insanely rich and handsome man. It’s one thing to ask personal questions and give him the idea I’m interested in more, and it’s another to snoop and do your own research, whether it’s stalking online or looking around his home he invited me into. Not that it isn’t lost on me how intrusive and rude it is, but still. My curiosity always wins.
As I make it to the closed door past his bedroom, my hand rests on the knob, and I thrill at the idea of what might be on the other side, but at the same time, my chest squeezes. Guys like him are usually too good to be true. He must have something undesirable in a figurative (and possibly literal) closet somewhere. My stomach jumps. What if it’s more than I bargained for? Girls chained up. A room for sacrifices. A Christian Grey red room.
I snort at the last one. Who am I kidding? If I find that, I’ll come back over before I leave town and let him have his way with me in it.
Holding my breath, I twist the knob and swing the door wide.
Riveting.
A linen closet with extra sheets and cleaning supplies.
I shut the door with a soft click. Shake my head. Go for the next one beside the glowing, floor-to-ceiling tropical fish tank serving as a wall for his study. This one’s a little harder to open; I have to nudge it with my shoulder.
The door gives way, and this time, I’m in awe. Paintings fill almost every square inch of the walls. The art chick in me is in heaven.
The furniture is, of course, stark white or slick dark wood.
I shut the door behind me and flick on a light, then stroll around the room, drinking in the artwork. I don’t recognize the names of the artists, but their work is deep and interesting. Some resemble the one above his fireplace: lines and splatters. Others are telling sad stories—a lonely woman on a hill with wilted flowers. A burning city with an angel flying above, his tattered, black wings spread wide. A man in a rocking chair with a shotgun in one hand, a letter in the other.
So, Jackson-with-an-x has some depth to him.
Consider me intrigued. And a little surprised.
I soak everything in again before I flick off the light and head out. The only other rooms on this floor are a bathroom, a gym, and another closet, so I head for a door I think leads to a garage. He didn’t set the alarm before he went to bed, so I hope it won’t set anything off.
When I open the door, nothing chimes, and I’m greeted by a stairwell emptying into darkness. I flick the light on and hesitate, look back in his direction.
Please don’t let me find anything creepy.
I descend the stairs slowly, giving my tired legs a break halfway down, and find the stairwell leads to a hallway that shoots off to a room on the left and right. The one on the left is a theatre with a liquor bar and posters of old black and white movies, the one on the righ
t a wine cellar and cigar room.
He has depth and is cultured.
I can’t reconcile that with the man I met at a small-town bar. Sure, he’s cool and self-assured, though admittedly horrible with pickup lines, but everything I’ve found so far is more suggestive of someone like the Dos Equis guy in the beer commercials, the most interesting man in the world. Where’s Jaxson’s ascot and mustache and brandy glass? His rich, haughty laugh?
I giggle as I think of him acting that way, turn off all the lights, and head upstairs. I wouldn’t have given him a chance in hell.
I’m glad he’s not that guy.
The door next to the basement is what I’m assuming leads to a garage, and it chimes when I open it. I pause to see if Jaxson wakes.
Silence.
I search for lights to flick on. My jaw goes slack as they illuminate what’s underneath—two really expensive-looking cars (a Porsche and some Italian creation), and a muddy Jeep. He likes off-roading on the mountain. There’s an empty space for the car he left behind at the Wolf Inn.
In the far corner is a woodworking station. A shelf beside his table holds an array of handmade bowls and nick nacks, as well as a couple necklaces that look like the one he was wearing before he took it off and let it drop to the floor. He was about to nail me against the wall in the hallway and didn’t want the friction of our bodies to tear it apart.
I blush again, rub my thighs together. Refocus.
A hobby. Woodworking is his hobby. He couldn’t have paid for all of this with bowls and necklaces.
Another thing we have in common: we both like to create. I’m a graphic artist for a t-shirt company, he creates…wooden things.
Ignoring my growing admiration for this cultured, artistic, multi-layered man, I turn for inside.
Time to explore upstairs.
13
The Distance Between Us
Upstairs unnerves me. Every room downstairs was full of interesting and telling things, but up here? There’s…nothing.
Every room, minus one, is starkly empty.
The one that’s not empty only has a small table with an urn. The black and white picture beside it looks at least a hundred years old, the man in his forties, I’m guessing. Too young. He also favors Jaxson…or I guess Jaxson favors him. Minus the shoulder-length hair. A great-great grandfather, maybe?
Why would he have his ashes? And all the way up here where he can’t see them?
I then remember back to his study. He had other black and white photographs of a woman. His great-great grandmother?
Why would he keep them separate?
Baffled and coming down from my curiosity-boosted adrenaline high, my feet start to feel heavy, legs wobblier, and I decide I’ve done enough snooping. I’ve basically pried as much as one can without being a complete twat and going through drawers and computer files.
I do have my limits.
I head back to bed, putting my glass in the sink and collecting my wet towel on the way. I chuck it into his bathroom. As I settle next to him, he tosses to face me, his breathing slow and heavy, his face relaxed with sleep. I soak in his beautiful features a moment before closing my eyes—the way his dark eyebrows are thick and perfectly shaped. The way his Grecian nose, though prominent, is still proportionate to the rest of his face. The way his skin is surprisingly smooth and flawless for a man, minus a half-inch scar across his right temple. “Who are you?” I whisper into the space between us, thinking of all the things I saw tonight, and then chastise myself for caring so much. Toss to face away from him.
It doesn’t matter. When I head home in a couple days, it won’t matter anymore.
* * *
Sleep comes quick and dreamless, and I wake in the early morning hours to an empty bed. My fingers splay across the indention where his body was. It’s cold, which means he’s been up for some time. An early riser.
I toss to lie on my back, and a figure on my side of the bed makes me yelp. It’s someone, something, dressed in black with a veil-looking thing over its face.
I lay still for a moment. Blink. I’m just seeing things.
In a flash, it’s closer. White teeth glow beneath black tulle and I can’t tell if it’s a smile or a snarl.
My heart slams into my breastbone.
Slowly, I push the covers off. Prepare to scramble out of bed and run. I want to ask who it is, what it wants, but I don’t care. Nothing about this feels normal or safe.
My heartbeat pulses behind my ears as I swing my legs behind me and scoot to the opposite edge. A metallic taste coats my tongue, my mouth dry.
I want to scream for Jaxson but refrain. What if it prompts this thing to lunge for me?
Tears sting my eyes, but I know I don’t have time to cry.
I just want out of here.
The air feels thick and heavy, nearly suffocating me as I hesitate. I know as soon as I run, it will follow.
We’re in a standoff, neither of us moving or speaking.
I hold my breath as I count.
One…
I must at least try to get away, but why do I feel it’ll be impossible?
Two…
Something lifts beneath the long veil. A hand. It’s reaching for me. Or is it pointing? What does it want?
Three. I launch off the bed and my feet hit his floor with a smack.
It lunges for me. Plows right into me, knocking me into the dresser with a crack of my ribs.
I release a scream and sit straight up in bed.
Look around, panting.
What happened?
I scan his empty room for the demonic visitor in black.
I’m alone.
My hand clasps at my clammy throat and I lie back down with a thud. Tingles buzz and dance over my skin. My ribs still hurt with the phantom pain of broken bones. Jesus. It was a dream.
It was only a dream.
I swallow hard, my heart still racing. It was the realest dream I’ve ever had. I could have sworn…
I look beside the bed again to make sure and release a shaky sigh. Something about the dream visitor, about how he or she was dressed, needles the back of my mind, and I think back to the bar. The bathroom. That person was all in black too.
Could the two be related?
No. It was a dream because of what I thought I saw at the bar. Nothing more. Nothing more.
Eventually, I gather my wits and manage the courage to venture into his house. His gym and study are empty, so I search the living room and kitchen.
Nothing.
A note is beside a clean coffee mug on the edge of his granite-counter island—one of the places he made me come last night. My cheeks heat in remembrance.
Out for a run. Be back soon.
The coffee should still be warm.
Your clothes are clean and on top of the dryer.
So, he is a morning person. That’s something we don’t have in common.
I grab the cup and hug it to me, then scan around his house that looks different bathed in pale morning light. Did I come across a laundry room during my snooping session? I don’t recall. I must have missed it somehow. So, I find my way to the coffee pot.
His shirt suffices for now.
I grin to myself as I think of him collecting all our clothes this morning, and then taking the time and effort to wash and dry mine. Can’t say that’s ever happened. He really is a different breed, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the hell out of it.
Could I clone him and bring him with me to Oregon? Or at least his dick?
I release a gratified sound at the thought of how he made me feel last night. Having him inside me should be the last thing on my mind today (I’m still far too sore to entertain it), but the thought of never experiencing what happened last night again, the thought of not figuring out how all his puzzle pieces fit together, bruises me somewhere inside.
I try to shove the thought away, to align my thoughts with what’s reasonable—this is only a one-night thing, but it’
s not so easy this morning. Just figures I would meet someone worth getting to know and he lives five hours away. Because of the literal distance between us, all those miles and hours, it’s not fair to entertain the possibility of dating him…or assuming he would want the same thing. Or that he’ll even be single the next time I visit.
The next time I visit.
The thought hits me like a freight train. I’ve never thought that before, about a next visit. There was no next time before my father died. Dark Moon Falls has been dead to me for seven years for several reasons. Even when Carter was born, I Facetimed. She’s brought him out to see me a couple times. We keep up on social media.
I guess I’m open to the idea now, thanks to Jaxson. My sister will be happy.
But I’m conflicted.
There are still too many things here that haunt me.
A chiming across the room makes me jump, and I nearly drop the coffee carafe as I tip it over the mug. Coffee splashes out and dapples granite before the stream makes it into the mug. I sigh and reach for a paper towel.
It’s your phone, dummy.
I’m still far too shaken from my dream.
After cleaning my mess, I find my purse. A text from Maddie awaits on my nearly dead phone:
Let’s do lunch then. ;) No need to rush back. The rule on Nutella still stands.
I kiss the screen before I tuck my phone into my purse and drop it beside the plant. As far as sisters go, I hit the lottery with this one.
14
Morning Swim
The crepe sizzles and bubbles in the stainless pan as I poke it with a spatula. In my other hand is the mug of black coffee I’ve been nursing. The mention of breakfast and lunch made me ravenously hungry, so I helped myself to the contents in his fridge. Who knew how much longer he’d be gone? Besides, making him breakfast, strawberry and cream cheese crepes, to be exact, is a decent way to thank him for the dick he gave me last night.
