by R. C. Martin
The last time he took me out, we went for dinner at The Archibald. Apparently, he headed the hotel’s big remodel project two years ago. The manager of the establishment even let us take a tour so that I could see a few of the rooms. The presidential suite, in the penthouse, had been all Judah’s doing. To say that it was breathtaking would be an understatement. I loved it. I loved it even more that he arranged for me to be able to see something that he’s obviously very proud of. After our tour, he took me to the little jazz bar that’s housed underneath the hotel.
It amazes me the places he has introduced me to over the last two weeks. While a couple of our dinner spots have been familiar, at least half of them are new to me, which only goes to show how different we are from one another. My tastes—and my bank account—never allowing me to frequent such places. Up until this evening, he’s been pretty adamant about taking the lead in planning our dates; but when we arranged to spend our Saturday night together, I told him that we didn’t always have to go out, and a night in would suit me just fine. He listened and then invited me over to his place for dinner.
We made a delicious meal—and by we I mean, I shredded the cheese and stirred the sauce. Now, after the hour we spent eating and talking, we’re just about done cleaning up the kitchen. I insisted he let me do the dishes, as I’m better at scrubbing than cooking. Just as I lay the last pot upside down on the tea towel he spread out for me, I feel a pair of strong arms slide around my waist. He pulls my body back against his and I melt into him, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“What should we do now?” he asks, his lips grazing my ear.
“What do you want to do?”
He chuckles, the sound making my knees weak. I have to hold on to him in order to keep my balance. Even after all these weeks, he’s still capable of turning me into a twitter-pated mess.
“I don’t know why you always ask me that, as if you don’t already know the answer,” he murmurs, holding me tighter.
My breath hitches in my throat as my heart rate picks up speed. I definitely walked into that one all on my own. Though, instead of telling him no, I ask, “Have you been doing any reading lately?”
For a moment, I stop breathing. I’m surprised that I had the nerve to say the words; curious to know his answer; and secretly hoping for an excuse to give him permission to touch me.
“Dammit,” he mutters.
All at once I feel relieved, disappointed, and amused. When I giggle, it’s because the man confuses my head and my heart, and I don’t know how else to respond. I turn around in his arms, brazenly running my hands up his chest and around his neck, lifting myself up on my tiptoes as I hold him closer. His eyes roam my face, and for a second, I admire him as he admires me.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” I whisper, the words falling from my mouth without my consent.
“Used to what?” he asks, his voice low and soft.
At first I don’t answer. Then he grazes his nose along mine and lines up our lips, his long even breaths mingling with my short uneven ones before he repeats the question.
“The way you look at me,” I barely manage, my stomach already tingling with the anticipation of his kiss.
“You are exquisite, Theodora.”
My God, this man—he wasn’t made to be resisted. Every inch of him was carefully sewn together by the Creator of the world; the same God who, in love, warns us away from sexual temptation. And yet—
This man…he was not made to be resisted.
He presses his lips against mine firmly, but he doesn’t linger. When he pulls away and gazes down at me, I take it as a sign—my one and only out—a gift granted to my ever weakening ability to tell him no.
“Well,” I say, forcing myself to let him go as I take a step away from him. “Since you’ve yet to read my favorite book, I suppose you’ll have to play with me another way.”
He lifts his eyebrows, and I know his mind has gone to a dirty place. I laugh as I shake my head at him, and then I begin to back my way toward the set of spiral metal stairs across the room.
“Pool, Judah. Let’s play pool.”
She’ll be the death of me.
I am a man deprived.
As I watch her climb the stairs, I imagine bending her over the railing and fucking her from behind. When she reaches the loft and slips out of my sight, I follow after her, adding the stairs to the list of places I intend to ravage her. The list is ever growing. Every room she enters, every surface she touches, I think about how desperate I am to rip off all her clothes and own her right there. I imagine how fantastic she would look splayed across my dining room table, her legs spread wide as she sits on the kitchen island, her ass in the air as she lays chest down on the couch—fucking everywhere—I want her everywhere.
It’s been five weeks since I first laid eyes on her. I knew I wanted her then, and I want her even more now—but it’s been a decade since I’ve waited this long to take a woman to bed. Ten fucking years. I told Teddy that I wasn’t an animal, but after two weeks of long dinners and even longer kisses, I fear she’s turning me into a beast—and I’m starving. My desperation has me ready and willing to settle for her warm body in my bed. If nothing else, she’ll leave behind her mouthwatering scent—at least I’d have that when I’m jacking off in her absence.
Swear to god, I haven’t stroked my dick this much since I was fourteen.
When I reach the loft, Teddy’s back is to me. She’s running her hands along the edge of the pool table, admiring it. Her long, red hair hangs in waves down her back, and my dick twitches at the sight of her little ass in her skin-tight jeans. As I stare, I wonder, why her? I wonder why I promised to keep my dick out of other women when she won’t let me put it inside of her? Then she turns around and smiles at me. Then—I know.
I want her.
I want to see those pretty brown eyes hooded in lust; those sweetheart lips parted as she moans my name; her chest rising and falling as she tries to catch her breath. I want to taste the sweat that will trickle down her neck; want to grip my fingers in her wild, sex mussed hair; want to sink my teeth into her porcelain-like skin. I want her timid touch, her anxious gasps, and her shy smile. I want her lithe, delicate body writhing beneath me before she shatters under the ecstasy of an orgasm she’s too exhausted to beg for.
I don’t want Diana. I don’t want Cierra. I don’t want some nameless broad from the bar. I want the gorgeous creature standing before me right now; and for reasons I cannot quite explain, the thought of any other dick inside of her makes me irrational. So here I am—waiting for her to come to her senses. To chase after another would mean letting Teddy go, and I can’t do that. Not until I have her in every way imaginable.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” she murmurs.
The look on her face makes me weak, and in two long strides, I close the distance between us. I cup my hands around her face, tilting her head back so that I can look into her eyes. “Let’s make a bet.”
“A bet?” she breathes.
“Yeah,” I say with a nod. “If I win, you stay the night with me.”
“Jude…” She starts to shake her head, but I slide a hand into her hair, gripping the back of her head so that she cannot deny be.
“Stay. I’ll even let you in my bed with any two items of clothing you want.”
She frowns at me, a calculating look in her eyes. “Three,” she counters.
I roll my eyes before I offer her a nod of agreement. “Fine. Do we have ourselves a deal?”
“I was going to go to church in the morning.”
“Is that the best excuse you’ve got?” I ask, arching an eyebrow at her.
“It’s not an excuse,” she says with a smile that makes me want to kiss her.
“Church will still be there next week,” I murmur, moving my hand from around her face to the small of her back.
“Are you saying you won’t be?” Her voice is now but a whisper, her eyes sea
rching mine. I pull her against me tighter.
“Just want you in my bed, Teddy. Skip church. Sleep in with me.”
She studies me for a moment before her face breaks out in a sweet grin. “I suck at pool. You’re totally going to beat me. I don’t even have a chance.”
“Teddy—I fully intend on kicking your ass,” I reply, returning her grin with one of my own.
“And what happens if I get lucky and win?”
“You won’t.”
Her mouth drops open as she feigns offense, and I don’t hesitate for a second before I descend for a kiss, grazing my tongue over hers. She hums her surprise before she slides her hands around my sides, all the while kissing me in return. I linger only until my dick decides it doesn’t want to behave, and then I pull away—willing myself to calm down.
“Don’t distract me.” I wink at her and she laughs before I grab us each a pool cue.
I rack the balls and offer her the chance to go first. She agrees, but the advantage is totally lost on her. The cue ball barely grazes the edge of a solid and then it’s my turn. It takes me all of five minutes to claim my victory. When I’ve sunk the eight ball, I look up and find her gaping at me.
“I win.”
She scoffs and shakes her head. “I was hustled!”
“False. I told you I’d kick your ass, and I did. Should I grab you a t-shirt now or later?”
“I want a rematch.”
“Miss Fitzpatrick, we can play as many games as you’d like. We’ve got all night.”
Judah and I play pool for the next couple hours. Or, rather, he indulges me while he plays pool and I pretend like I’m playing. I knew before I came up here that I’d probably make a fool of myself. I also knew, as this seems to be one of the only forms of entertainment that Jude has up here, that chances were pretty high that he was an amazing pool player. I was right. On both counts.
I yawn, and before I can pull my hand from over my mouth, Jude has my pool stick in his grasp. He hangs it with his and then takes my hand. “Looks like someone is ready for bed,” he says with a crooked smile.
“It was one yawn,” I say with a laugh as he leads me down the spiraled steps. “I’m not really tired.”
“Good.”
He doesn’t say another word, and I don’t protest as I follow him around the kitchen and living room, shutting off lights. We descend his second flight of stairs and he checks to make sure the door is locked. Then, just as we pass over the threshold of his bedroom, he turns on his security system. When he pulls me further into the room, taking me straight for his closet, I have to bite my lip in an attempt to hide my grin.
I really do love his closet.
He lets go of my hand only once we’re inside. Just like the first time I wandered in here, my eyes are everywhere. I have to stop myself from reaching out and running my hands along the sleeves of all of his suits. It isn’t until I hear his chuckle that I look over at him and realize that I’m not where I was a minute ago.
“They’re just clothes, Teddy.”
I look from him to his collection of khakis and semi-casual shirts before I shake my head. “It’s the most remarkable closet I’ve ever been in. I bet the President has a closet like this.”
“I’d imagine it’s quite a bit bigger. He has to share with the First Lady.”
“True,” I say, looking back at his khakis. “Do you own any jeans?”
“No.”
My head snaps back in his direction. I know I’ve been in here twice, not to mention I’ve never seen him wear jeans, but I’m still surprised by his answer. “Not a single pair?” He shakes his head, looking at me as if this is a completely normal thing—to not own jeans. “Why?”
“Do you own boxers?” he asks with a nonchalant shrug.
“Well, no,” I reply with a confused frown.
“Why?”
“Because I’m a girl. I don’t wear boxers.”
“Some women own men’s boxers, you know? Your gender doesn’t really qualify as an excuse for why you don’t wear them.”
“I guess,” I say as I make my way back to his side. “But I prefer my cotton shorts.”
“And I prefer khakis and slacks.”
I smile up at him as I murmur, “You’re a very peculiar man, Judah St. Michaels.”
“And you are a very curious woman, Theodora Fitzpatrick.”
I bump my shoulder against his arm and I notice that there’s a folded navy blue t-shirt and a pair of black gym shorts on top of the island of drawers that we’re standing in front of. I watch as he slides his wrist watch over his hand and then opens the top drawer. My eyes grow wide when I catch a glimpse of his impressive collection, and I’m suddenly curious to know what else is hidden in these drawers. Before I can bring myself to ask, he stows away his watches and grabs the t-shirt in one hand and the shorts in the other.
“I’m assuming you’ll want this,” he says, handing me the shirt.
“Yes, thank you,” I reply, taking it from him.
“I’ll be wearing these,” he pauses and lifts an inquisitive eyebrow at me, “unless you plan on taking off more than I’m guessing?”
I laugh, shaking my head as I make my way around him. “Nope.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the bathroom.” I don’t look back as I answer, hurrying to my destination instead. Given that the man doesn’t have any doors in the room that I can hide behind, I’m hoping I can get changed before he comes from out of the closet.
Once I’ve reached his bathroom, I strip down to my bra and panties in no time. For a second, I pause, looking down at myself. I’m in a pair of blue cotton underwear with little white polka dots. While it matches the blue bra I have on, I make a mental note to invest in something sexier. I’d be lying to myself if I thought my future with Jude didn’t include him seeing my underwear more often.
That thought then leads me to pause for an entirely different reason. I think about Justin. I think about how much I cared about him, how much I wanted to give him; I think about how much he took from me, and how much he hurt me. Try as I might, after all this time, a small part of me still hates him. It took me a long time to wrap my head around the fact that he broke me for the simple reason that he himself was broken; but to forgive him completely? I haven’t quite managed that yet.
A lot has changed since that night. I’ve changed. My body has changed. My beliefs have changed. My relationship with God plays a huge part in my ability to remember my self-worth. I know that I am loved deeply by Him, that I am made whole through Him, and that He is always with me. On some of my loneliest nights, those truths kept me from falling into despair.
Now, as I pull Judah’s shirt over my head, I hold onto those truths, hoping that my desire to be with him doesn’t hurt me.
I know I promised myself that I would wait to give myself to anyone. It was a promise I made long before Justin, long before God. My conviction became stronger after things ended with Justin; and all the reassurances I need from a man before I allow him to touch me, I’ve yet to let anyone get that close to even try. Not until now. I’m still not ready with Jude, but I know that I want him. I know I want more of the way he makes me feel. If his kiss is just the tip of the iceberg, I know giving myself to him would feel incredible. But I’m afraid of what happens after.
Will he still want me?
Justin didn’t.
When I look at Judah, when he looks at me, I see a man—a brilliant, successful, handsome man. Sometimes, I still wonder what it is that he sees in me? What, besides my body, makes him want me? I might not ever know. He’s so mysterious. That’s actually one of the things I like about him. But I want to get to know him more. I want the chance to peel back some of his layers—to see what’s underneath his debonair charm—and I want him to want the same with me.
As I make my way out into his bedroom, I feel suddenly shy. The last time we slept together, I was so out of it that I don’t even remember. Now, as I make my way
around the bed, my stomach is knotted with nerves. Jude is sitting on the side edge of the mattress, his feet planted on the floor. When he sees me approach, he sets aside his phone, and I watch as his eyes travel from my feet all the way to my face. He licks his bottom lip as he stretches out his hand. I slip my fingers around his and allow him to pull me into the space between his legs.
His hands drop around the back of my legs, and he curls his fingers around my knees before he slowly grazes his way up my thighs. I’m no longer capable of breathing deeply, my mind too focused on his warm, gentle touch. I gasp when he runs his palms over my backside, and I have to grab hold of his bare shoulders to keep myself upright. I stare into his eyes, the look he’s giving me so intentional and intense it makes my heart race.
“Come ‘ere,” he mutters, his voice so low it rumbles.
Two words. Two words and I’m his. Two words, and I’m straddling his lap as I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders. Two words and I know that I want my body to have this moment. I want my body to feel alive because of his touch. He makes me feel beautiful and desired and worthy. I’ve denied myself for long enough. Or maybe I’ve saved myself for the right time. For this time. For this man. Whatever the case may be, when he slides a hand up my back and curls his fingers around my neck, I don’t fight him. When he pulls me close, I go willingly. And when he presses his mouth against mine, I part my lips and I let him kiss me until they’re swollen, and raw, and I can’t feel them any longer.
I wake with a start, sitting up as I clutch at the shirt clinging to my chest. My sense of panic heightens when I take in my surroundings. Even in the dark, I know that I’m not at home. When I notice the sleeping figure laying next to me, I jump. Then, all at once, it clicks.
