by Swan, T L
Jim . . . being touched by another woman.
Is she dressed while she massages him? Do they talk? Do they laugh like we do?
I need to stop this; it’s so destructive. I want a man who doesn’t even exist.
The driver opens the front door of the building, and I watch in slow motion as Jameson Miles walks out, navy suit, perfect posture, dark hair . . . emanating power.
Everyone stops what they are doing and watches him get into the back of the limo. His driver shuts the door, and it slowly pulls out and disappears down the street.
I stare back at my ham-and-cheese toasted sandwich in front of me, my dinner. Deflation fills me. I just lost my appetite.
It’s three o’clock on Friday, and I stare at the bogus story in front of me. Ha . . . what a joke. I moved all the way to New York to make up fake news for a twat and his twat media company . . . and his twat brothers.
I hit the keys on my computer with force. Twat, twat . . . fucking twat.
So much for my years of university study. My parents must be so proud. When they offered me the chance to do this, I thought it was going to be exciting and a chance to prove my worth. Maybe not?
“Down the end,” I hear someone say. I glance up to see a man with a big brown paper bag.
“Uber Eats for Emily Foster.”
“What?” I look around, embarrassed. “I didn’t order anything.”
He reads the docket. “It says here that . . .” He pauses as he reads and frowns as if confused. “It says here that this Uber Eats delivery is quality controlled and safe for human consumption.”
I stare at him and take the bag from his hands.
He squints as he continues to read the docket. “This doesn’t make sense . . .”
“What doesn’t?”
“Sugar to sweeten you up.”
I open the bag to find a huge passion fruit cheesecake in its entirety, and I look up at the camera and smirk. Is he kidding?
“Who sent this?” I ask.
“It says here, the sender is a Mr. Nice Guy.”
I stare at him deadpan. “Mr. Nice Guy?”
“Yeah, weird, huh?”
“Thank you.” I try my hardest not to smile. I know he’s watching.
Molly and Aaron peer into the bag. “Score,” Aaron screeches. “I’ll get the plates.” He takes off to our staff kitchen.
“Thank God for cheesecake,” Molly sings in excitement.
Okay . . . he’s made the first move. What do I do?
I take out my phone and text him.
Dear Mr. Nice Guy
Thank you.
Although, I should have you know
I’m already sweet enough.
I hit send and wait. A reply bounces back.
I have no doubt. Can I take you out to dinner tonight?
I sit back in my chair, surprised by his request. This is a no-win situation. He wants a fuck buddy to join his harem, and I want him all to myself. I write back.
I think we both said all we needed to on Sunday morning.
God . . . why can’t he just be normal? A reply bounces back.
I have a proposal for you.
I stare at the message but don’t reply. A proposal? What, does he want me to be his new masseuse?
I feel my anger bubble at the mere thought of her. Ten minutes later, another text comes in.
Hear me out, please.
Please. He said please. Ugh, okay. I reply.
Fine.
I wait.
I’ll pick you up at seven.
“Here you go,” Aaron says as he passes me a plate with the biggest slice of cheesecake I’ve ever seen. He passes Molly hers and then takes a seat with his.
“This is fucking delicious,” Molly mumbles with her mouth full.
Aaron moans in appreciation. “Oh my fuck, foodgasm.”
I take a bite as I concentrate hard on not smiling too hard—just in case he’s watching.
Well played, Mr. Miles . . . well played.
Sometimes you just know in your gut that you shouldn’t be doing something. The outcome is already written in the stars, and sometimes you should just be stronger and say no. But what if you can’t?
I can’t physically bring myself not to go tonight. The masochist in me wants to see him. The same masochist wants him to take me and throw me onto his fancy bed and fuck me till I forget my own name. It’s been a long and lonely week. But I have to stay strong tonight. If I cave in now, the last week has been for nothing.
And I still stand by what I said on Sunday. I am too good for him with the way he is at the moment, and I won’t share, and money means nothing to me at all.
He needs to step up or step away.
The security buzzer sounds, and my stomach dances in excitement. “Hello.”
“Uber Eats.” I hear his velvety voice.
I smile broadly. “What have you got for me?”
“Italian sausage.”
“Hmm,” I tease. “Are you going to drug my sausage and take advantage of my body after I fall unconscious?”
“Undoubtedly.”
I smile and push the button to let him up, and then I begin to pace as I wave my arms around in the air.
Play it cool . . . play it cool . . . play it cool.
Knock, knock. I open the door in a rush, and there he stands, gray shirt and black jeans . . . blazing blue eyes. A slow, sexy smile crosses his face. “Hello.”
“Hi,” I whisper as I stare at the beautiful specimen in front of me. I just want to throw myself at him, the pull to him unbearable.
He leans down and kisses my cheek as he walks past me into my apartment.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
“Uh-huh.” I grab my purse and wrap.
His eyes drop down my body in my black dress. “You look lovely.”
“Thanks,” I breathe.
“Let’s go.” He holds his arm out, and I link mine with his.
We take the elevator in awkward silence. He is pensive, and I’m just nervous as all hell.
Playing cool, calm, and collected is terrifying, and I remind myself not to drink too much tonight. We walk out the front of the building, and the limo is parked at the curb.
He opens the door, and I climb in. Memories of the first time I was in this back seat accost me, and the phrase dirty ho rolls around in my head.
I slide in, and he gets in beside me, and then he picks up my hand and takes it in his and rests them on his lap. Okay . . . he’s touchy. What does that mean?
I don’t know what to say or where this sits in my playing-hard-to-get act, but the warmth of his touch is so comforting that I let him. The limo drives through the city, and I stare out the window as a million thoughts run through my head.
Tonight is important; we either have to come to some sort of understanding or cut our losses. We can’t keep fighting over nothing like we do.
The car comes to a stop, and the driver opens the door. I climb out, and Jameson takes my hand and leads me into a fancy restaurant, Lucino’s.
“Booking for Miles,” he says as he holds my hand tightly in his.
“This way, sir.” The waiter smiles as he leads us through the restaurant to a cozy little table in the corner. He pulls out my chair, and I take a seat.
Jameson sits opposite me; the restaurant is dark, with candles flickering on the tables and fairy lights hanging from the ceiling. It’s very romantic.
Don’t get excited. It’s probably just a coincidence.
“Can I get you something to drink?” the waiter asks.
“Yes, we’ll have a bottle of S Salon please.” He closes the menu and hands it over.
I stare at him. Here we go again.
The waiter disappears, and Jameson’s big blue eyes come to mine. He takes my hand over the table again. “Hello.” He smiles softly, as if finally relaxing.
Drop arguing about the drinks. It doesn’t fucking matter who orders the drinks. “Hi.” I smile.
&nb
sp; He dusts his thumb over the back of my knuckles as his eyes search mine. “How are you?”
“Good.”
Oh, his touch makes me weak. I just want to blurt out that I’m lying and that I’ve had a shit week and he’s the king of Twatsville.
We stare at each other across the table. It’s as if both of us don’t want to speak in case we break out into all-out war. “What’s this proposal, Jameson?”
He sits back, seemingly annoyed at my tone.
I grip his hand. “And I’m not giving you attitude. I just want to know what you’re thinking,” I say softly. “Stop being on the defensive with me.”
He relaxes a little, and the waiter returns with the bottle of champagne and opens it. He pours a little into the champagne flute, and Jameson tastes it. “That’s fine.” The waiter then fills our glasses and leaves us alone.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said last weekend.”
“And?”
He sips his drink. “I canceled my massages this week.”
I smirk as my eyes hold his; I stay silent.
“The thing is with me . . .” His voice trails off.
I wait for him to speak, and when he doesn’t, I squeeze his hand in mine for reassurance.
“I’m married to my job, Em.”
I frown.
“When I said I wasn’t looking for a relationship, I didn’t mean . . .” He shrugs as if lost for words.
“You didn’t mean what?”
“I didn’t mean that I don’t want to see you. I meant that I am a workaholic, and I know that very few women can deal with how much I work.”
“Jameson, I don’t care about how hard you work. I just don’t want to be one of many.”
He frowns. “Meaning what?”
“I’m not wired for one-night stands, Jameson. It’s not who I am. But I’m not looking for a deep and meaningful relationship either. You’ve misunderstood me.”
“What do you want, then?”
“I want to have a friendship with a man and know I’m the only person he’s sleeping with.”
He listens.
“And I most definitely don’t want to share you with a fucking masseuse.”
He rolls his eyes.
“And I don’t want you to roll your fucking eyes at me.”
He clenches his jaw, unimpressed. “Watch your tone,” he warns.
“See that?” I say.
“What?”
“This defensive shit. It has to stop between us. We can’t keep fighting over every little thing like we do.”
“You’re just as bad,” he fires back.
“I know, and I’m trying to stop it. Just now I held my tongue because you ordered my drink without asking what I wanted.”
“I’m used to being in control, Emily,” he snaps.
“So am I. That won’t change.”
His eyes search mine, and he rearranges the napkin on his lap as if he’s thinking.
“I’m not asking you to be my boyfriend, Jameson,” I whisper. “That’s not what this is about. We have a great sexual connection, and I want it. I feel like I have to have it . . . but I can’t, not if I know you have it with other women. I need to be the only one.”
“Fine, I won’t sleep with anyone else,” he snaps in exasperation.
“And?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes. “And you can order the fucking drinks.”
Chapter 12
I giggle. “This isn’t about the stupid drinks, Jameson.”
“What is it about, then, for Christ’s sake? Speak English.”
“I want you to drop being defensive with me.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” I whisper as I hold his hand in mine.
“So are you.”
“I know I am, because I feel like you will walk all over me if I’m not.”
His brow furrows. “I would never walk all over you.”
“Not purposely.”
He clenches his jaw, and I know that’s exactly how it is.
“I just want the guy I met on the plane. The one who let himself go.”
His eyes hold mine. “I don’t know how to be that guy all the time, Em. It’s a very small part of my personality.”
“Then just save that small part for me,” I breathe.
A soft smile crosses his face as he watches me, and he sips his drink. “What was so good about that guy on the plane, anyway?”
“He made me laugh.” I smile as I remember. “And he gave me the best sex of my life.”
“Of your entire life?”
“Uh-huh.”
He smiles, pleased with himself.
“So do we have a deal?” I ask.
“Let me get this straight—you want to have friends with benefits but only with each other?”
“Yes.”
“What happens when I’m at work all the time or away and you’re out and . . .” His voice trails off.
“Then I’ll call you and tell you I need you.”
His eyes hold mine.
“And you’ll talk me through it over the phone, or I’ll wait till you come home.”
He rubs his thumbnail over his bottom lip as he listens, as if fascinated.
“I don’t want to have sex with anyone else, Jameson. I’m not that kind of girl. You are the only one-night stand I’ve ever had.”
He squeezes my hand, pleased with that answer.
“I’ve had sex with four people in my whole life, and you’re one of them.”
He leans onto his hand and smiles dreamily at me.
“What?”
“Do you know how often I think about fucking you?”
I giggle, surprised by that statement. “How often?”
“All the time. I’m like a starstruck eighteen-year-old.”
“You wouldn’t know it.”
“Why?”
“You acted like you hated me all week. You can be so cold when you want to be.”
He sits up in his chair and straightens his back. “I don’t like to be challenged for the sake of it, Emily. You fought with me last weekend just to prove a point. It angered me.”
“No. I fought with you last weekend because I wanted to spend the day at my apartment, and you just assumed that your place was better than mine. Your money doesn’t impress me, Jameson. I don’t care for your fancy apartment. Mine is just as good.”
He rolls his eyes. “Are we going to fight now about why we fought?”
I smile. He’s right; this is ridiculous. “No. No more fighting.” I pick up his hand and cup it around my face. “We’re going to have dinner, and then we’re going to go back to your place, and then I’m going to ride your cock . . . just the way you like it,” I whisper.
He inhales sharply as his eyes flicker with excitement. “You fucking turn me on.”
I put my thumb into my mouth and suck it in slow motion, our eyes locked. “As your dedicated fuck bunny, Mr. Miles, I take my job very seriously,” I whisper darkly. “Your wish is my command, sir.”
He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “Now you’re talking.”
Two hours later
Lathered with a sheen of perspiration, I rock forward onto his cock. Jameson is sitting with his back against his headboard. One hand is on my hip, the other cupping my breast.
He’s so big that I can feel every inch of him deep inside my body. He took me hard and fast the first time, me on my knees and him behind me. I watched us in the mirror. Every muscle in his torso contracted as he pumped me, and his dark eyes held mine.
It was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
His hand has a strong grip on my hip bone as he rocks me back and forward with force. Our eyes are locked, and this is one of those moments where neither of us speaks—it’s perfect without words.
He grabs a handful of my hair and drags me down to him; his lips take mine, and we kiss. His tongue is sliding into my mouth at just the right angle.
“Legs up,” he whispers
as he lifts my knees to a squatting position.
My face falters.
“What?”
“Be careful.”
“I won’t hurt you—you know that.” He kisses me again with just the right amount of suction; my body knows who’s in control here. Jameson Miles may have given me control of drink ordering, but it’s glaringly obvious he will never give me control in the bedroom.
Not that I want him to; what he does is sheer perfection.
He begins to lift me, slowly and carefully at first, and we go at a controlled speed. He looks up at me in awe.
“Oh,” I moan. “So . . . good,” I whimper.
His eyes roll back in his head as he lifts me higher and slams me down harder. My hands are on his broad shoulders, and I feel the muscles contract beneath me.
He begins to moan as he slams me onto his body, the look on his face one of sheer ecstasy.
I tip my head back as a freight train of an orgasm comes shuddering deep within me.
“Oh fuck,” he cries out as he holds himself deep inside me. I feel the telling jerk as his body empties itself in mine.
His eyes search mine, and in slow motion, he reaches up and cups my face and brings my lips down to his.
We kiss, and it’s slow, tender, and intimate—nothing like the detached version we talked about.
He’s right here with me. I know he is.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs against my lips as he pulls me close.
I lie down on his chest and smile against his skin as his arms wrap around me. I can feel his heart beating hard against mine, and I feel so safe and cherished.
I know this is supposed to be friends with benefits. But it’s not . . . it’s more.
What kind of more I just don’t know.
I feel a hand on my behind, and it gives me a sturdy pat. “Come on.”
I screw up my face and roll toward him. “What?”
“Up you get.”
“Huh?” I stretch and open my eyes. The drapes are pulled, and sunshine is beaming through the huge windows. I look around, half-asleep. “What time is it?”
“It’s eight. Get up. We’re going for a run around Central Park.”
“Who is?” I frown. He’s in a towel and freshly showered.
“Me and you.”
I scratch my head in confusion. “You had a shower to go for a run?”
“I smelled like sex.” He smirks as he leans down and kisses me on the lips.