by Tory Jane
He laughs and squeezes me again. “Such confidence in me. I am not the coffee boy. I graduated from the Art Institute last spring and then worked for a design firm in Chicago through the summer and fall.”
“I knew you didn’t buy that suit around here. You looked far too chic.”
“I do still have bow ties, though. I am a Charleston boy, after all.”
“That, I’d like to see. Until I saw you on the street last week, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a suit?”
“Is that true? What about the holidays? Christmas with our families? Surely I wore a suit to midnight mass.”
I look up at him and arch my brow. “Jack, you had one moth-eaten blue blazer and one pair of decent khakis that you pulled out every year.”
He chuckles. “Now I remember the disapproving looks of my mother. Well, this year you’ll see me in a suit. I’ll wow you with my hotness.”
“You’re hot whatever you’re wearing.”
He rewards me with a kiss for that comment and his hand brushes against my breast. His touch sends shock waves through me, and I almost give in to a full-on make-out session. Almost.
I rest my head against his chest again and feel his heart racing. He readjusts himself and spreads his legs further apart.
“So, coffee boy, tell me what you’re doing with your life.”
“I followed my dream, Belle. I’m designing limited edition lines of furniture. Sleek, contemporary, clean lines, but all made from reclaimed and recycled woods, glass, and metal. Today I saw the prototype of a coffee table made from oak and antique bubble glass rescued from an abandoned house downtown.
“Here.” He pulls out his phone and scrolls through his pictures before turning it to face me. He does not give me his phone to hold.
The table is gorgeous. “Oh, I want that. I covet that. It’s striking, Jack.”
He lays his phone on the table, screen side down. Men who do that are always hiding something. I’m sure his phone is on silent, too.
He wraps himself around me again. “Thank you. I’m thrilled with how it turned out. It’s hard designing the pieces and then turning it over to a manufacturer. I miss creating them myself.”
“Yeah, I noticed how smooth and well-manicured your hands are now.”
“Yes, I wear a suit; have smooth hands, and a professional haircut. I am a corporate suit. I promise you, I've kept my heart, soul, and integrity.
“The biggest challenge is finding the materials to build my designs. That’s why each line will be a limited edition.”
“Are you designing houses, too? Or focused only on furniture?”
“I am. It's the same concept. In fact, I contacted Wallace's husband, Ben, to talk about working together to restore houses downtown. He's excited about the prospect. He hates that people are gutting historic buildings. You've seen the bumper stickers? ‘Gut fish. Not houses.’ I love it. People come in, and they leave the exterior and gut the interior to transform it into a cookie-cutter design. They don’t attempt to save the original materials. Why would anyone want drywall over plaster? I guess it is cheaper to replace than to restore. Cheaper labor and materials.
“People love their ‘open concept’ homes. I can see the appeal of it, so we talked about incorporating the historic features with the open concept. Restoring original flooring and plaster walls and moldings then using them in different ways to recycle the original and incorporate it into a modern design.
“I presented a proposal to the firm last week, and they love the idea. I may be new to this, but I swear I'll leave my mark on this city if I can make it past the Board of Architectural Review. I knew it was a tough group, but damn. They maintain the right to approve everything in the historic districts.”
I turn and face him, kneeling, maintaining contact and look at him with wonder. I want to crawl into his lap and soak up his excitement.
“I love your spirit and enthusiasm. You have a sparkle in your eyes. I have no doubt you'll leave your mark, your legacy, your vision. You've always left your mark on everyone you've ever met. You are the real deal. I’m happy for you.
“I’ve always been able to appreciate why you left to pursue your dream. What I struggled with, was why you didn’t share it with me. I was your number one fan. I supported all of your dreams.”
“I regret that. I was afraid. If I admitted it aloud, it would make it real. Then what would I do if I failed? I never wanted to disappoint you. I needed to wait until it became a reality.
“If I allowed myself to bring you with me, I would have held you back. I would have continued to let you prop me up. I know it sounds clichéd, but I needed to feel like a man. A strong, independent man who could return to you as a partner and an equal.”
“And yet, at the time, you blamed me? You told me that I needed to grow up. You underestimated me.”
“Did I? What would you have done if you’d come to Chicago with me? I have no doubt that you would have been there for me, supporting me, encouraging me. But what about you and your dreams?”
“Jack, what about us? What about honesty, communication? Our love for one another? My trust in you? You broke that trust. You made a unilateral decision about our lives and gave me two weeks to adjust.”
“Belle, I never lost faith that we would find our way back to each other. Admittedly, I didn’t foresee all of the obstacles that came between us. My faith was built on the idea that we would maintain contact.”
“How the hell was I supposed to know that? I'm not a fucking mind reader.” I jump up from the sofa, agitated and hurt. “You had a grand vision of our future, and it didn't occur to you to share it with me? You casually announced your plan and then belittled me when I didn’t fall in line and accept it.”
“Hey. I didn’t expect you to be a mind reader. You’ve seen that stack of letters. I never gave up.”
“That stack of letters came after the fact. After you made your plan. We were partners. Five years together and you thought it was acceptable to give your two weeks’ notice and leave? It was disrespectful and hurtful.
“When I didn’t respond to your letters, did it ever occur to you to find out why? Pick up the telephone and call me? Send an e-mail? Ask your parents? My parents? Julia? Wallace? I could have been in an accident or dead for all you knew. There were options, but you didn’t care because it let you off the hook. As long as you wrote your fucking letters, it absolved you of responsibility.
“Our parents made a decision that kept us apart, but you didn’t fight for us. For five fucking years. You didn’t question a thing. You wrote letters. I’m sure they’re beautiful and informative, but I suspect you wrote them like a journal. Were you writing to me? Or writing to document your personal journey?”
He gasps. I watch his face crumple in pain. He turns from me and hides his face in his hands. When he looks up, tears are coursing down his cheeks.
“Oh my God, Annabelle. I hurt you. I never intended to hurt you, but I did. You’re right. I was selfish. I made a unilateral decision and rationalized that it was the right decision for both of us. If you loved me, you would understand. I didn’t think about the impact on you.
“When you didn't respond, I told myself it was because you were angry and didn’t understand my needs. After months of silence, I believed you turned your back on me and moved on. I was hurt and angry. I continued to write, but I stopped questioning why you didn't respond. I wrote because I made a promise, but you're right, the letters weren't to you. They weren't about us. They were all about me. If you were reading them, I wanted you to know that I was a success on my own. I didn’t need your support.”
He picks up his bourbon and drains the glass. He strides to the counter, pours himself another drink, and begins pacing. I sit back down and watch him prowl the room. He speaks quickly as if he must rid himself of the thoughts.
“When I didn’t hear from you, it was easier. I was hurt, but the silence allowed me to be angry. You’re right. It let me off the hook fo
r what I did to you, to us, and it gave me license to move on. I was a self-righteous bastard. I convinced myself that I’d made the right decision. You were in the wrong, not me. I never needed you. You were weak, and you would have held me back.
“When I came back to town, I didn't try to find you. It would have been easy. I wanted to forget you. It wasn't until two weeks ago when our parents admitted what they did, that I appreciated how hurt, and alone I've been. The whole time I was gone, I was desperate for you to find me and see me for the man I was becoming.
“I've always wanted and needed your support. Your approval. You never gave me a reason to believe that you would leave me. I know you. You never would turn your back on me. You always believed in me.”
He kneels on the floor before me. “I fucked up. What I did was disrespectful and hurtful. I did underestimate you. No matter what role you played, you were always the strong one. You kept us together, you made us successful, and you gave me the freedom to follow my dream. And…and I left you.”
I sit there in shock. I don’t believe what I’m seeing and hearing. I should be furious. I should kick his ass out. I knew it. All along, I knew he left me.
Instead, I prove him right. I can’t turn my back on him. Like the dumbass fool in love I’ve always been, I lean over and rest my head on his. “Jack, I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment you twirled me under the stars. We made a vow. ‘Soulmates,’ we said. I don’t know if there is such a thing. A soulmate. I do know that no matter what has happened we found our way back to each other.
“What I need to know, is whether there is an impediment to us being together now?”
He clutches me to him. He is overwrought and mumbling.
“Jack, I don’t understand what you’re saying?”
He stands suddenly, and rushes to the kitchen. He is opening drawers and cabinets. “Where are they? I know they’re here. Ah ha.” He finds the hidden cigarettes and ashtray, and lights up.
“Jack. Answer me.”
I don’t know if I’m angry, hurt, confused or madly in love. I deduce that makes me confused. I join him at the counter, and pour a shot of bourbon. I light up and then take the shot of bourbon whole. He pours me a second. I glare at him, waiting for him to talk, say something.
I gasp. “You don’t love me anymore?”
That catches his attention. He glares back at me. “Do not ever say that to me again. Do not ever doubt that I have always loved you. That I love you still.”
“Why are you yelling at me? What’s wrong with you, dummy? You don’t yell at the woman you love as you’re declaring your love.”
He reaches across the counter for my hand. “Bella, I'm sorry. I'm not angry with you. I'm mad at myself. This was all supposed to be for us. You apologized to me last night and said that you were selfish and childish. Your initial reaction may have been, but you had every reason to be. I handled it all poorly. Five years together and I gave you two weeks’ notice. Damn. Of course, you were hurt and angry.
“Once I was there, I got caught up in the dream. I was happy, loving everything I was doing. Living in a big city, spending hours at the museum, going to the theatre. On the weekends, I walked the city and studied the design and architecture. I loved every minute of it, and I lost the vision of us. I’d always planned to come back here, to come back to you. But you’re right, I did it all without you, without fighting for you.”
“Then why come back? If you were so happy there, why would you come back here?”
“Because I woke up. It wasn’t real without you by my side.”
“Are you going to stay?”
He hesitates, and I turn cold. “Jack. Are you planning to stay?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Yes. I’m planning to stay. I’ve already started making plans. I want more, too, though. All I know is that wherever I am, I want you with me.”
“No. That is not fair. You cannot put this on me. What if I want to stay here? You'll end up resenting me, and I'll worry that I'm holding you back.”
He is thinking. I see the gears grinding. His face lights up and he grins at me. “How do you feel about travel?”
“Travel? That’s your answer. Travel will satisfy you?”
He inches around the corner of the counter, gauging my reaction. “Yeah, travel. With you. You satisfy me.”
I squint at him, suspicious, but let him take me in his arms. He holds me and starts kissing my neck, my shoulders, nibbling on my ear. He whispers, “Have I told you that we’re rich? We can do anything we want.”
He kisses me, and my head is swimming. “Rich? How are we rich? How do I not know about this?”
“You haven’t read the letters. We had property, businesses. I discovered I'm quite good at investing.” He's still kissing me, talking into my mouth. I want to hear what he's saying, but the kisses feel so good. Fuck it. I give in and open my mouth to him, and the slow burn becomes a conflagration.
He sweeps me up and carries me to my tiny Christmas tree, where he lays me down and covers my body with his. He alternates between long, slow sensual kisses and a passion I've never witnessed from him before. He's surfing. Riding the waves. I stop questioning and let him carry me away in his rip current.
He stretches me out and massages my body. These are not light caresses. He reclaims me with his touch, kneading my shoulders, my back. He lifts my hips, grabs my ass, and works his way down to my feet. He lifts my leg up to his shoulder and replaces his hands with his mouth. He licks and bites his way back up until my skirt is around my waist.
Oh, please, Jack. Do it. Do it. I want your mouth. Five years without your mouth. I gasp and thrust my hips toward him. I am not subtle.
He finds the zipper on my skirt and slowly opens it. He slides it off, tossing it aside. He then reaches for my sweater and pulls it over my head and throws it in the direction of the skirt. He is fully dressed, straddling me and I am lying exposed to him in a skimpy bra and panties. I'm panting and gasping his name. He stares as if he's never seen a mostly naked woman before.
He gathers up my hair and spreads it around my face, running his fingers through my waves. He leans back and studies his handiwork.
“My pixie, my mischievous sprite. You are magnificent. You are the definition of beauty.”
He closes his eyes for a moment and then covers me with his body again. I am squirming with hunger. He is kissing me, pouring his desire into me. He gathers up my hair, grabs it, and pulls until my neck arches and he sucks and bites. He moves against me. Finally, I feel him hard and thick notched between my legs and thrusting.
“You want me?” I whisper. “I’m yours. I’ve always been yours.”
He answers with another hard thrust and buries his head in my chest. He discovers my breasts and lavishes me with attention. I'm losing my mind. I try to pull down my strapless bra, and he captures my hands. His other hand cups my breast until it's nearly spilling out of the lacy bra. He squeezes, and my nipple becomes exposed.
He cries out and devours it with his mouth. He pulls down both sides of my bra and alternates between each breast until he lets go of my hands and cups both breasts. I am petite, small chested yet he manages to push my breasts together until I have cleavage and licks the space between them. He bites and sucks my nipples until they are swollen and sensitive.
He moves down to my belly, my hips.
I think his tongue has covered every inch of my body. Well, not every inch. I thrust my hips again. He places his hand on my mound and pushes me down. No question who is in control here. He presses and licks along the edge of my panties, from the top to between my thighs. Between his tongue and teeth and his fingers and palm pressed against me, I thrust once more and come, long and hard.
He stares at me with wonder and then rips my panties off and dives in to lick up my juices. His tongue is working overtime. He is sucking and pushing his tongue inside me, his hand still pressed against my vulva. I can feel another wave coming over me. He senses it too an
d uses his other hand to insert his long, smooth fingers. The wave crashes, and I am thrashing against him. He does not stop. He makes me ride that wave until I am breathless.
Still gasping for air, he covers my mouth with his own and breathes life into me.
I am lifeless. A beached starfish spread out before him. I can’t even manage to be modest. He rolls to his side and runs his fingers over my skin, barely touching me. I can feel him staring at me, taking in my naked body.
“You’re staring at me,” I mumble.
“I’m humbled by your magnificence. How could I forget how responsive you are? Wanna take a bet on how many times I can make you come? Just touching you like this, I can see you swiveling your hips. I know you want more.”
“I haven't forgotten anything. I think your record was eight times in one night. Jack, you've always known. I respond to you. Of course, I want more.”
I roll to my side and face him. “And yet there is a new Jack in town, isn’t there? I like it. Alpha Jack, taking control.”
He looks slightly shocked. “I did take control, didn’t I?” He nips at my bottom lip. “I liked it, too. I swear my goal was just to touch you, feel you, and see you. I think I ripped your panties.”
“You did. You beast.”
“Guess who’s getting new underwear for Christmas?”
That makes me giggle. Didn’t we always receive new socks and underwear for Christmas?
“Hey, how is it that I'm naked and you're fully clothed? Aren't you tempted at all?”
He takes my hand. I feel him, thick, and hard. Jack taught me to appreciate that size matters. Holy shit, the man is blessed. I’ve never seen another man who compares. He is perfection and it has been much too long. I want to rip his pants off.
“How can I not be tempted? There is the sexiest, most beautiful woman lying naked in front of me and I witnessed her have not one, but two orgasms. Do you really think I don’t want to rip my own underwear off and bury myself inside you for a month?”
I groan and stroke him, hard. “Please? Wait. Are you involved with someone, Jack?” I look for something with which to cover myself. I curl into a ball to hide. “Did you just cheat on someone with me? Oh, God.”
