Taming Jake Wolfe

by Juliette Jones

  The truth is, I sort of like the room, with its lamps and bookshelves and its comfortable bed.

  And the little green-eyed nymph who insists on occupying the comfortable bed.

  Come all over me.

  Fuck it.

  So I lead the way down the street and a couple blocks over to my friend’s shed, which is located at the back of his property, near the school. He gave me a key so I wheel out my Triumph and grab two helmets. I don’t just hand her the helmet. I put it on her and make sure it’s fastened properly. I’ve decided that if she is coming with me, at least I can make sure she’s safe. I feel, strangely, protective of her.

  It’s an odd feeling.

  Usually I’m worried about my own violent tendencies. Tonight I’m worried about other people’s.

  I swing one leg over the bike and rev it to life. She’s just standing there like she’s not sure what to do. She looks nervous.

  “All right?”

  “I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before.”

  “Well, you’ve been missing out.”

  “Where do I sit?”

  I pat the seat behind me.

  “What do I hold onto?”

  “You’re gonna wrap your arms around me and hold on tight.”

  “What if I fall off?”

  “You won’t fall off if you’re holding on tight.”

  She eyes me, like she’s not sure I’m trustworthy. I’m not trustworthy so her concerns are valid. “You want to change your mind?”

  “No.” She climbs on and I feel her slender arms slide around my waist. Her hands clasp together, just above my belt buckle. Very close, in fact, to the monster hard-on that’s lying just under my belt buckle.

  Damn it.

  “You ready?” I say to her.

  “Yes.”

  So I pull out and cruise slowly at first until she gets used to it. Then I give it a little more speed and I head for a place we might as well stop at and get something to eat before we go to Cole’s party. I park the bike and wait for her to climb off and when she takes her helmet off, her green eyes are bright and her cheeks are flushed. I get the feeling she liked the ride, even though I kept it slow for her.

  We go in and sit in the window booth and order hamburgers. As we’re waiting I take a swig of whiskey out of my flask and offer her one. She smiles and takes it and sips, just barely. Then she sips again.

  Before we can get into any conversation some guy walks up to us. Some geek in his thirties, at least, with glasses and a white button-down shirt. “Zara.”

  She blushes. “Hi, Murph.” She’s clearly embarrassed about something and I feel like standing up and pummelling this guy, for making her feel uneasy. For interrupting us, even though we hadn’t even started talking yet. We would have, and now this douchebag is intruding on all that.

  “Um,” says Zara, “… this is Jake. Jake Wolfe. Jake, Professor Murphy.” She laughs a little. “God, I don’t even know what your first name is, Murph. That seems a little weird, all things considered.”

  “It’s Jeff.”

  There’s an awkward silence and this guy is now seriously starting to rub me the wrong way. He’s just standing there, like he’s waiting for her to say something. It’s irritating as fuck. So I stand up. I’m about six inches taller than he is and I outweigh him by a good thirty pounds. He looks up at me with wide eyes.

  “Nice to meet you and all that, Jeff,” I say. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re about to eat.”

  “Zara,” the guy says, stealing a glance at her. “I, uh, if you’re free next week …” This guy’s got some balls, asking her that. While I’m standing right here. Is she dating him or something? She mentioned nothing to me about a boyfriend.

  “Zara?” I say. “Are you free next week?”

  “I … um. Murph, I told you I’d text you. I’ll text you if I’m free, okay? If I don’t text you, that means I’m not free.”

  I fold my arms. “Got that, Murph? She’ll text you if she’s free.”

  Murph is finally starting to take the fucking hint. “Okay. Okay. Great. See you next week, then, hopefully,” he says to Zara while backing away, his hands sort of up in front of him like he’s expecting me to punch him or something. Which I’m strongly considering. Then he scuttles back to a far table where a few other nerdy professorial-types are sitting.

  I slide back into the booth just as our food is being served. Once the waitress leaves us, I ask her, “Are you dating that guy?”

  “Not really.” She looks a little uncomfortable at the question. Sure, it’s none of my business but I’m not quite ready to let it go.

  “He doesn’t really seem your type.”

  “What do you think my type is, Jake?” she says quietly, clearly agitated by the entire topic. “Someone more like you?” The question is borderline sarcastic.

  “He just seems a little tame for you.”

  She gives me a shy smile. We’re both thinking about her wild side. Her wet, responsive body in the bathroom. Her hot, slippery little pussy all ready for me just after I practically strangled her to death.

  My cock, which hasn’t really deflated lately at all, hardens even further.

  “He …” she murmurs. “He used to give me rides home sometimes when I was in his classes.”

  I get it immediately. I’ve given enough girls rides home to understand exactly what she’s insinuating. So I ask her point blank: “You fucked your professor?”

  She stares at me. Those little flags of pink on her cheeks have darkened a shade. “No. I never … I never slept with him.”

  I act shocked, just to rile her a little more. She’s cute riled. “You gave blowjobs to your professor?”

  “No. I never gave him … a blowjob.”

  “What did you do, then? All those rides and he doesn’t even get a blowjob?”

  “Jake.” The pink against the paleness of her face and the greenness of her eyes makes her look striking, and young. “I just … you know. My family has really high expectations. I did what I needed to do.”

  It’s strange. You look at someone like Zara Ashe and what you see is a girl born with a silver spoon, a big house, all the money in the world, a free ticket to the Ivy League. What you don’t see is those quiet fears. Of not being good enough. Of letting people down and not hitting those goals that are part of your family’s culture. I never thought about it like that before now, but I suddenly see Zara a little differently. Like someone who has challenges and hardships and roadblocks that are nothing like my own. But they’re still there.

  I want more details. I don’t know why I want more details but I do. I want to know exactly what she allowed him. “You let him put his fingers inside you.”

  “Jake. No.”

  “You let him touch you through your panties.”

  She’s going along with it. She wants to be honest with me. We’ve reached a silent agreement: we want a few things out in the open before we get down and dirty.

  It’s going to happen. Probably later tonight. We both know this and there’s a bright little buzz of anticipation between us. I can apologize to Alexander later. But the fact is, Zara is a consenting adult who makes the rules about her own body and if she wants me I’m not going to refuse her again. That decision has nothing to do with Zara’s father, my brother, or anyone aside from her, and me.

  This is new territory for me. I don’t usually talk to them. But, hell, I feel like talking now.

  “A little,” she says.

  “Did it turn you on when he touched you? Did your little white panties get all wet for him?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  Those little white panties, did, however, get all wet for me. Damn, my hard-on is seriously painful, pressing against the length of my zipper, all the way to my belt buckle. I’m hoping I’m not escaping the confines of my jeans and I look down to see that I am and there’s a shiny slick of pre-cum all over the head of my goddamn cock. I
adjust myself as inconspicuously as possible, shoving the bastard back into my jeans.

  Zara’s mouth quirks. “All right?”

  I ignore the question. Of course I’m not all right. “You let him take off your top.”

  “Yes.”

  “And suck on you.”

  She shrugs a little and takes another sip from my flask, which I’ve left on the table. “Mmhm.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. So what. I aced his classes. That was our agreement.”

  “You mean to tell me that fucking Jeff sucked on those sweet little nipples.” I don’t know why, but I feel like fucking stomping over there and killing that asshole, for touching her like that. For bribing her with a goddamn A so he could use her.

  Never mind that I’ve used many women like that. Exactly like that.

  This is different.

  I’m a hypocrite, yes.

  But Zara doesn’t deserve that.

  Maybe none of them did.

  This is the very first time, sitting here, brushing her fingers with my own as I take the flask from her hand, that I care. “You took his cock out of his pants.”

  She’s less shy now. We’re somehow on the same wavelength. “No.”

  “No? Never?”

  “He took it out.”

  “You touched it.”

  “He touched it. He … did things to it … all over … me.”

  Fuck.

  I stand up and I’m looking over at him but he’s laughing at something one of his idiot geek friends is saying. Zara realizes immediately what I might be about to do and grabs my arm. “Jake. Sit down. I mean it.”

  I feel so fucking evil right now.

  And I realize I haven’t even flinched, even though her small hand is on me. On the leather of my jacket. She even weaves her fingers through mine and pulls gently and I let her.

  “Please, Jake. Sit down. I’ll tell you anything you want to know, but you have to sit down. Please.”

  I do it, but I’m still watching him. Fuck, he’s such a goddamn weakling. I could damage him pretty bad with very little effort. He looks like a guy who’s never been in a fight in his life.

  “Jake.”

  I let my gaze return to Zara. I’m getting used to this: her green eyes change color depending on the mood she’s in, or the lighting of the room. Right now they’re what you’d call forest green. Something about the vocabulary takes me back to a crayon box and a childhood memory that’s not a good one. I feel the darkness inside me bloom, like a sickness.

  I try to hang on. To control it. “He sucked on your breasts and jerked off all over you but you kept your panties on.”

  She looks at me and there’s a tiny thread of darkness in her, too, that I can identify with. Just a small one, in the bright lightness that she is, but it’s there. “Yes.”

  We stay like that for a few seconds, just looking into each other’s eyes, trying to read as much as we can, and it’s somehow connective. Comforting, maybe, to us both.

  “Now you know everything,” she says softly.

  “Tell me about your boyfriends. Before him.” I almost sound possessive, which is ridiculous. But the desire to know is strong. Stronger than curiosity. A step beyond it, which might not even have a name. Something between curiosity and obsession.

  “I dated a few guys in high school. Rich guys whose parents were friends of my parents. But they all turned out to be assholes. So I dumped them before things progressed past … well, much of anything.”

  It haven’t even occurred to me, that this might be a possibility. She’s nineteen. “You’re a virgin?”

  “Yes.” It’s the quickest answer she’s given all night. And the way she’s looking at me is communicating volumes. I’ve seen this look before, of course. I know what she wants. But it’s different this time.

  This time I want more than a fuck under the bleachers or a blowjob in the locker room.

  “He’s not the only professor …” she says, almost wary of my reaction.

  Usually, it takes a lot to shock me. But I’m surprised. “You let all your professors jerk off all over you?”

  “Not all of them. There’ve been … four.”

  Four?

  “Go ahead and judge me. And then tell me your story. I’m sure you’ve got a lot to be righteous about.”

  She takes another draw on the whiskey then hands it back to me.

  “I don’t have a goddamn thing to be righteous about.” I take a swig. “I already told you my story.”

  “No, you didn’t. You haven’t told me why you’re an asshole. Or why you have a lot of raunchy, meaningless sex with women you don’t know.” More quietly now. “Or what your nightmares are about. Or why you flinch when I touch you.”

  I blink my eyes and they stay closed a fraction longer than I might have planned. “I’m not even gonna go there,” I say, and it’s true. Those topics are entirely closed. I consciously bury them a little deeper and, after, once the dread fades, I look around.

  We’re young. We’ve got a whiskey buzz and a party to go to. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I say, putting some money on the table.

  “Yeah,” she whispers, and now her eyes are bottle-green, or maybe more like sea glass on a stormy day. “Take me for a ride, Jake Wolfe.”

  I’m glad I told Jake my secret.

  I’d never told anyone before, but it’s pretty obvious Jake’s going to be a steel trap when it comes to secrets: that sucker is never going to be passed along. And I wanted him to know there’s something special about him. That no one has ever affected me quite like this.

  That no one has ever turned me on as much as this.

  Sexuality is underrated, if you ask me. Here I was, indulging other people’s desires while completely ignoring my own. All that time, I thought there was something wrong with me. That I was immune to lust. Turns out, there was something wrong with my choices. All it took was an actual (unbelievably good) orgasm delivered by a sexy, well-hung badboy to transform me from a straight-laced almost-innocent to a horny-as-hell-madwoman who is now on her way to an orgy on the back of aforementioned sexy, well-hung badboy’s motorcycle.

  Sure, I’ve only known Jake Wolfe for … one day. But there’s something about him I already trust. I’m pretty sure there’ll be no better guide to a debauched sex-fest than Jake. I also – oddly – feel protected. He’s not a guy that you look at, at first glance, and think: now there’s a guy that will protect me and keep me safe. But the way he’s acted so far has given me a weird, unshakable faith in him. Like how he made sure I was okay after almost choking me to death, even as he was still waking from the kind of nightmare that seems, from the outside, so horrific you wonder how a person has even survived whatever caused it. He could’ve turned mean, and violent. He could so easily have taken my virginity right then and there. By force, if he chose to. Instead, he asked me if I wanted him to get off me. Deep down, behind those big muscles and tattoos and dark eyes, he’s good. You can’t help but see that if you look carefully.

  And then that run-in with Murph in the restaurant. Jesus. I swear that guy is stalking me. And Jake was so damn hot, holy hell. So freaking manly about the whole thing. Not only that, but he handled it like he respected my wishes, either way. He was staunch and scary and macho but the underlying intention was … nice. And perceptive. He’d been reading my reactions and acting on them.

  I know Jake will do that tonight, too. I can just tell, and it’s comforting and also freeing. I can indulge my wild side and know that he’s got me. It makes me feel close to him. I know he won’t let anything happen to me that I don’t want to happen.

  He’ll watch out for me.

  And he’ll be careful with me.

  As he takes my virginity by thrusting that huge, hard cock deep inside me.

  Riding along on the back of this motorcycle in the dark while holding on tight to Jake is pretty much the best, most liberating feeling I’ve had in my entire sheltered life.


  Tonight is ours.

  Who knows what will happen tomorrow? Or next month. He’ll move into the city to be with his brother and I’ll study my way into hedge fund management and begin amassing my fortune, on my own terms.

  I’ve already decided that I won’t text Murph. I’m hoping I won’t even see Murph or any of the others again. It’s the end of the line as far as over-eager professors go. Something about Jake’s reaction stuck with me. How shocked and pissed off he’d been. Maybe I don’t need to give them orgasms to get A’s. Next time, if necessary, I’ll settle for a B instead of letting some horny middle-aged nerd get his rocks off all over me.

  From now on, I decided, orgasms are sacred. To be given and received because I want to give or receive.

  Like now.

  My hands are clasped tightly around Jake’s waist, just above his belt buckle. He’s gripping his handlebars, of course, and I’m pretty sure he needs both hands to do that. So I take my opportunity, carefully. I don’t want to cause an accident or anything, but what I do want to do is to begin to stake my claim. Tonight, he’s mine.

  I keep my hold by gripping a fistful of his shirt with one hand. With my other hand, I let my fingers rove lower, to his belt buckle.

  Under his belt buckle.

  I’m a little surprised to find the head of his cock right there. Hot and big and wet. Like he’s already starting to come a little.

  God.

  I kind of understand why Jake is surly a lot of the time: he’s perpetually bursting. No wonder he has anger issues. He is always hard.

  One of his hands grabs mine and pulls it away from his cock. But the bike wobbles a little and he lets go of my fingers to steer.

  As he does, I slide my fingers further under his belt, so I can grip his thick cock in my loose fist. I make sure my fingers are careful, and I put effort into delivering the most pleasurable touch possible. I know Jake doesn’t usually allow this kind of thing. I know if we were anywhere else he would take my hands and restrain me. I understand: he doesn’t like to be touched. Whatever his damages are, I’d figured that much out. But I want to make this so good for him that he doesn’t want to refuse. My fingertips feather lightly, swirling the moisture tenderly across the broad crown of his cock. If it gets to be more than he can take, he can still stop me. He can yell or yank my hand away, or pull over.