Текст книги "Revealed to Him"
Автор книги: Jen Frederick
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
CHAPTER TWENTY
JAKE
When Mike and Rondell, two of my employees who do surveillance work, arrive at three p.m. to start the evening monitoring shift, I give in to the impulse to call Natalie. I’d told myself that if she wanted to see me again, she’d call or text.
That she hadn’t all day suggests that she is really pissed off. Generally, pissed-off women are not appeased over the telephone. But whenever I try to grab a moment for myself, work interrupts. We get a call from a West Coast security firm that we often partner with. One of their celebrity clients had decided to make a surprise trip across the country and needed immediate protection services.
Celebrity clients are my least favorite. They require the most work and generally have unreasonable expectations. Primarily because they want to be seen at all times, only they want to control who can see them and where. Whenever I receive a hassled call from LA, it renews my appreciation for my current circumstances. I prefer to make my living off of dull investigative work rather than fending off the paparazzi.
After I convinced one of my new recruits that celebrity work was the best kind of work available and that the hot young actress he’d be guarding would get him a lot of play with the ladies, I was summoned to an investment bank that believed one of their senior employees was embezzling money. Likely he was snorting it up his nose. There is a not-so-shockingly large number of drug-addicted investment bankers and hedge fund managers who have no problem dipping into client funds to support their habits. None of these guys will ever see a day in prison because their firms don’t want to reveal anything is wrong in the company. Any dirt that gets stirred up behind the scenes needs to be swept away.
There was one particular hedge fund manager who even threatened to sue his employer for defamation if he wasn’t given a good—no, strike that—great recommendation, even after he admitted to losing several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of client funds.
I followed the senior partner around that afternoon to see if I could catch him scoring a hit or doing something that would at least give them grounds for termination, but when I hadn’t come up with anything other than that he had bad taste in booze, I passed him off to Vic and her partner.
I was able to photograph the soon-to-be ex of one of my clients kissing his secretary outside of David Burke’s restaurant on 67th Street. I hope that he enjoyed that kiss, because it was going to cost him about $5 million.
Smart prenuptials have infidelity clauses, and this one gave the wife money for any intimate physical contact including, but not limited to, hand-holding and kissing, as well as emotional infidelity. So naughty texts and pictures were out of the question. She had a good lawyer, but the husband had a lot of money and could afford to be kissing his secretary, I guess.
Sabrina once mentioned she thought that perhaps I have stayed single because I took too many pictures of adulterous couples. That’s not accurate. I just figured these people had chosen wrong. If your home life is stale, seeking to spice it up with a third party would only be a temporary fix. At some point that third party would be just as uninteresting, and you would have to move on again. And at that point, you might as well just be single. Which is why I was single. I hadn’t met a woman I could envision going home to every night.
Except that’s kind of what I want to do right now. Go home to Natalie for a second night. Upstairs is my empty bed and my sister, who is interested in asking me more questions about Natalie or more questions about Kaga. I’m not interested in providing answers on either of those topics.
So it’s either go upstairs and let Natalie’s resentment, if there is any, fester overnight or call her and make my explanations and hope she accepts them.
“Any activity over in Tribeca?” I ask. If she had a problem, that will give me a legitimate excuse to go over there tonight.
“Nothing,” Rondell answers. “It’s been quiet all around.”
Mike knocks his fist against the wood.
“That’s good. That means we’re doing our jobs,” I say to the two annoyed-looking men. It’s a hell of a lot more fun chasing bad guys than sifting through papers, spying on people, and watching security cameras.
“Since we’re getting nowhere on the note and the clown, we probably need some eyes on her apartment,” suggests Rondell.
“I’ll get those set up. I installed the sensors last night, but I think we should do cameras over the doors of the elevator, her apartment, and the balcony. I asked the property management company for permission to install those, but they haven’t gotten back to me yet. I think I’ll go ahead and install the camera above her door. They can bitch me out later.”
“You installed the sensors and you’re going to install the camera?” Mike asks. His fist full of nuts stops halfway between the bag and his mouth. He and Rondell exchange looks.
“I can take care of that for you, man. No need for you to be doing stuff like that,” he chirps.
From their shit-eating grins, I can tell that they’ve heard something about Natalie.
“Was it Sabrina?” Someone ratted me out.
Rondell shakes his head. “Nah. Vic put it together. She heard that you were going over to some client’s house to do install work. Since when do you do install work? Plus she said that you went out with her man and had no interest in the floor shows. Want us to run a background check on your woman?”
“Rondell, I hope you’re not telling your girls that you run background checks on them before you go out with them. That doesn’t go over well with people.”
“Oh,” he says, nodding his head, “so you already ran the background report. Good on you. That’s why you’re the boss and we’re the peons.”
“Right, peons I pay a fortune to.”
They both laugh at me as I leave. Her phone rings a half a dozen times and I get the voice-mail message each time. Worried that she hasn’t answered my phone calls or responded to my text, I call Oliver.
“I’d like to come over and install cameras over her balcony doors and front door,” I explain. “Building management hasn’t given me the go-ahead to do it, but I figure it’s better to have her safe, and we can always pay damages later. I have a tiny camera I can insert on the trim of the front door. It’s not my preferred method. As I told Natalie, I prefer the visible cameras. That can provide just as much deterrence as anything. People tend not to do shit if they know they’re being watched.”
“You’re coming back?” he asks, and his surprise irritates me.
It’s a good thing we’re not face-to-face, I decide. “Yes, I’ve always been planning on coming back.”
“Don’t hurt her again,” he warns. “I can easily get someone else in here to do your job.”
Again? Shit. I swallow my annoyance. “Look, Natalie’s not answering her phone, and the sooner I get into her place, the safer she’ll be.”
“Maybe if you hadn’t run off, you could’ve talked to her this morning about when the best time to install this stuff would have been.”
I run my tongue over my bottom lip, tasting resentment and exasperation at this questioning, but he isn’t wrong. I did bring this on myself, so I don’t jump down his throat. “Last night was a mistake. I won’t make it again.” It’s as much of an apology as he’s going to get.
“She’s been writing. When she’s in the groove like that with a deadline, she doesn’t answer phone calls, texts, or anything. Just puts her headphones on. You could probably meet me over here now and make the install. She wouldn’t even notice. I’d feel better, and I think she would too, if she had the cameras up. She mentioned it today.”
“I’ll be over in fifty then.”
I gather up the necessary equipment and drive over to Natalie’s condo. There’s parking right across the street from her place. I text Oliver before entering the building. He sends me a text back letting me know that I should head right up to Natalie’s.
Jason, the day doorman, is bent over a magazine. He gives me a nod and doesn’t ask for me to sign in. Either he remembers who I am, or he doesn’t care. I suppose that he could know who I was based upon Oliver’s instruction, but he doesn’t give me even a cursory perusal. I’m going to need to move Natalie out of here soon. All a few cameras are going to do is tell me if she’s being harassed, not prevent it from happening in the first place.
Graham meets me on the third floor. “How’d you get in here?”
“Your doorman waved me through.”
“He what!” Oliver bellows in outrage. It isn’t a question. “That fucking prick is done.”
I don’t know if he’s referring to the building manager or the doorman. “You got a key or do you want me to pick the lock?”
The reference to the poor security on the doors garners another glower. He produces a key and pushes the door open. The condo looks empty, but after a moment I hear a faint clack clack clack coming from the bedroom that serves as Natalie’s office.
“Just do your shit. She won’t notice, and she doesn’t want to be bothered,” Oliver instructs. He stomps over to the living room and takes a seat on the sofa. The remote in hand, he starts flipping through the channels. It’s early afternoon and the only thing on is talk shows and ESPN. While I drill holes into the door casing, he watches . . . Ellen.
“Didn’t take you for an Ellen fan,” I comment as I fish the wiring through the wall.
“You can only watch so much ESPN before it repeats itself, and I’d rather watch a couple of people be surprised with a free house than hear those asshole reporters who haven’t ever played the game talk about how they would do it better.” He gets up and strides to the refrigerator. “Want a drink?”
“Too early for me.”
“Eh, Natalie doesn’t have liquor in here. Only root beer. Pop is my weakness, so I keep it in Natalie’s refrigerator. Once I retire, I’m going to be as big as a house. No more watching my weight, working out five hours a day. I’m going to plant my ass on the sofa and never get up.”
“And watch Ellen?”
“And watch Ellen,” he confirms.
He sinks deeper into the sofa as I drill into the wall. The audience cheers and music plays in the background while I snake wires through the drywall and screw the base of the camera into the wood frame. I’m hooking the camera wires to the interior power when the office door opens and Natalie shuffles out. She’s wearing what looks like flannel pajama bottoms with penguins and a tight tank that stretches across her generous tits. From the way those babies bounce under the form-fitting knit, she’s bare under that tank. My fingers itch to push the fabric up until I can press my face between the shadowed valley and lick my way from peak to peak.
It’s not until she’s at the kitchen counter that she notices she’s not alone.
“Oh my God!” she yelps and the cup she had grabbed from the cupboard drops. Diving forward, I managed to catch the glass about an inch from the floor.
Her mouth opens again to scream—in fear or surprise—I’m not entirely certain. I push to my feet and pull her roughly against my chest. I can feel her body shake as I hold her.
Oliver is there too, his frame filling the small kitchen.
“Three’s a crowd,” I growl when he tries to reach for her. I sweep her into my arms and walk over to the sofa. “Get the door, will you?”
He makes some low, menacing sound as I pass, but I ignore it. I can feel Natalie’s little bird heart fluttering wildly against me. I scared the shit out of her, or Oliver did, and I want to make it right. Oliver stands, hands on his hips, observing the whole scene with disgruntlement.
He doesn’t like that his place as Natalie’s protector has been supplanted. I suppose that’s part of how I feel about Sabrina. Maybe I’ll share that insight with him someday, but not unless he gets his ass out the door and leaves me alone with Natalie.
When I drop onto the sofa with Natalie curling into me, he finally throws up his hands and strides out. After the door closes, I place a finger under her chin. “You okay, sweetheart?”
“Wh-what are you doing here?” she says.
I can see her fighting for composure, and I pull her closer against my chest. “I was installing a camera above your door.”
“How’d you get in?”
“Oliver. When I explained that I wanted to give you eyes in the hallway without you needing to open your door, he said he’d meet me here. Apparently you were writing and he didn’t want to disturb you.”
“I didn’t realize building management would allow that,” she says. Her voice is quiet but gaining strength.
I shrug and her body moves too, her lush tits rubbing against my chest. My cock stirs and I try to ignore it, although it isn’t easy when her sweet curves are pressing against my lap. I shift her just slightly, so I’m not shoving my inappropriate boner up her ass. “Easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. I don’t want you exposed while they dick around approving my request.”
“You’re serious about this place not being safe, aren’t you?”
“As a heart attack. My offer is still open, you know.”
“You were serious about that offer too?” She finally looks up and her red lips are slightly parted in astonishment. I really fucked up.
“I’m sorry I left you last night,” I say.
“Yeah, it’s not a big deal.” She shrugs, but her downcast eyes tell me a different story.
“It’d be a big deal if I woke up and found you gone after I’d spent that kind of night with you.”
“Then why did you leave?” She sits up and pushes herself away from me. Reluctantly I let her go.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I rest my wrists against my knees and watch her as unobtrusively as possible as she sits beside me.
In my lap, I’ve got one hand made of flesh and blood. I can touch her and feel her response, the leap of her pulse, the goose pimpling of her skin, the tightening of her nipple when I palm her breast. My left is a tool that opens and closes. Whatever sensation I have there is pain for a limb that doesn’t even exist.
In that moment, I know that before I never cared what other women thought of my new body, one both made by man and whatever higher being is in charge of creation, because I never really cared enough for those women. I enjoyed their company, their bodies. I enjoyed being wanted after those harrowing months of wondering whether I’d even be able to get an erection again.
I enjoyed the simple mechanics of fucking.
And I’d thought, vaguely, of having a family, a wife. But none of those thoughts had any substance, because I didn’t care.
But with Natalie, I care. Maybe too much.
I raise my head and look straight into her gorgeous face and her big eyes and realize that I care so fucking much that she could destroy me.
That’s really why I ran out last night—not because my leg fucking hurt. But because I was afraid.
And as my heart beats just a little faster and the moisture in my mouth dries up, I get a tiny inkling of what she feels on a regular basis.
Being afraid is a shitty way to live.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
NATALIE
He stares at me with heavy-lidded eyes and I can’t read a damn thing in them. I want him to tell me what it meant. No, I want him to tell me it meant something. I can’t lie to myself anymore. Last night the earth moved for me. My little world got spun so far off its axis, he’s set me on an entirely new rotation.
He’s contemplating something, but I don’t know what it is. Maybe I was like an ultimate warrior challenge. Find a housebound chick and see if you can make her have an orgasm without her ever seeing you. It’s the “sit in” merit badge.
“Whatever you’re thinking, stop,” he says warningly.
Grumpily I fold my arms across my chest. “What is it that I’m supposedly thinking?”
“I don’t know, but it’s not good. Your brow”—he waves a finger across his forehead—“is fierce.”
Fierce? He doesn’t know fierce. I throw up my arms. “You acted like you were so hot to get in here, demanding me to call you and have dinner with you, and then after you got some you leave?”
He lifts his hands, spreading his right fingers wide and then his left ones. Today the left hand is black, made of some fucking cool metal. I want to touch it and see what it does.
“After I got some, my leg and arm fucking hurt and I was too vain to stay.”
“You were too vain?” I echo. It doesn’t compute with me.
“I needed to take my leg off.”
“Then why didn’t you take your leg off here?” I jerk my hand toward the bedroom. “I woke up and I was all alone and that hurt!”
“I know. Shit,” he curses, as he shoves himself off the sofa and advances. I back up but the living room is small and there’s no place for me to go. “I haven’t slept—actually fallen asleep—with a woman since I was injured. I never took off my prosthetic. I’ve never been around anyone with just my stump.”
He makes a sound, a cross between a sigh and a groan. “I never want you to hurt, not because of something I’ve done. I’m sorry. I didn’t place your feelings first, but I promise that if you give me another chance, I’ll never make that mistake again.”
“Never?” I don’t believe it.
“Never.” The firmness of his voice leaves no room for uncertainty.
All those nevers undo me. He cups my face with his right hand, covering my chin, and then drags his thumb across my cheek. His left hand hangs by his side as if he’s afraid to touch me with it. It was the same last night. I had to pull his left hand to my breast.
It’s hard to reconcile the image of an uncertain Jake with the tall, gorgeous man in front of me. The way his muscles ripple under the cotton of his T-shirt could fool a person into thinking all of him is that hard, but there’s a part of him that’s vulnerable and he’s showing that part to me. I lift his left hand up to my mouth and press a kiss in it. It doesn’t feel like his right hand, but it doesn’t feel wrong either. It’s just part of him, an amazing part.
His fingers curve around my cheek and hold me tenderly. I close my eyes as I lose myself in the embrace. I don’t know if some stupid woman rejected him before, but if so, I need to send her a thank-you note, because he’s mine now and I’m keeping him. All of him. The flesh parts, the plastic parts, the metal parts. The heart parts. It’s all mine.
I raise my face and he bends immediately to fasten his mouth to mine. His tongue invades and his hands, both of them, hold me in place so he can ravish me. I grip his hard biceps and then when that isn’t enough, I drag him closer by wrapping one of my legs around his hip. He drops his left hand to help me up and then presses us both against the wall. His thick erection presses against the seam of my thin flannel pajama bottoms and the friction makes me moan into his mouth.
He feels impossibly strong beneath my touch. I grapple with his shirt until it’s out of my way and I can stroke my hands over his smooth muscular chest. I map out the ridges and the valleys, enjoying his hiss against my mouth as I scrape my nails over his nipples. I play with them until they, like mine, are hard and erect. Then I drop my hands lower to skate around the waistband of his jeans. He sucks in a breath and then releases it into my mouth.
His kiss becomes hard and fevered and I run my hands along both arms, enjoying the contrast of his warm skin and the cool metal.
His fingers find their way into my pajama bottoms and then into my panties. He strokes me with several fingers, spreading the moisture of my arousal.
“I need you right now.” I dig my fingers into his shoulders and try to press closer to him.
“I can’t really tell if you’re ready.” He slips two fingers inside me. The sensation is too good and I lose track of my complaint about the many pieces of clothing that separate us. I allow my head to fall back against the wall and he bends down to lick the pulse point on my neck. I jerk against him and he laughs. The low, throaty rumble vibrates against my frame.
Inside me, his fingers stroke me slowly, as if to tell me that we’ve got all day to wring out an orgasm. But I’m anxious and needy and want it now.
“I’m ready.” I squirm against him to show him how ready I am, but he’s working at his own pace, enjoying my immobility. He licks my neck again and then moves up to the sensitive hollow behind my lobe. He sucks the lobe into his mouth, nipping at it and then soothing the tender spot of flesh with his tongue. His mouth moves all over, slowly and leisurely learning all of the sensitive places around my neck and face. His lips never move lower, but I’ve never been more turned on.
My entire body aches with the need for friction and touch. I clutch him closer and ride his hand while rubbing my breasts against his chest.
Never once do I feel too heavy for him. The thrum of his heartbeat is steady against my chest. He holds me as if he could do this forever, keep me up against him with one hand while he strokes me with his other.
But I won’t last forever. I hardly think I can last another minute. With each pass of his fingers and the thrust of the heel of his hand against my sex, I’m growing wetter and hotter. And then I can’t hold on to reality one more second. My toes curl and my thighs tighten like a vise around his wrist. I muffle my cry against his shoulder and cling to him as the climax flashes through me from one end of my body to the other and then ricochets back again. Still he works me until I’m a sobbing, weak mess collapsed against him.
“Shhh,” he whispers into my ear. He swings me around, still with only one hand under my ass, the other cupping me. Effortlessly he walks me into the bedroom, where he deposits me on the bed.
I whimper in disappointment as we lose contact.
“Don’t worry, sweet baby. I’m not done with you yet.”
I rise unsteadily to my knees and reach over to unzip his jeans. It’s a struggle because he’s so hard and so big, but I manage to unfasten the denim without hurting him.
He watches me with glittering eyes—a dark promise there of more to come. I squeeze my legs tight again at the pulse of arousal.
“Are you getting wet again?” he asks.
I don’t think I’m ever not wet with him. “I can’t help it.” I grin. “You’re too hot. You should be dumpy and bald with bad habits like picking at your teeth or clipping your toenails while you eat.”
“Clipping my what? Is that even a thing?”
“I don’t know. It sounded gross when I thought it up.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “And you still wanted to have dinner with me.”
“Yes!” I pluck at the waistband of his underwear, brushing the broad head of his shaft as I do so. “Yes, I wanted to and I want to again. And I want you to get in bed with me and cuddle. I told you I missed that and you said you wanted to do everything that I’ve missed.”
“I did say that.” The side of his mouth quirks up.
“Yes, you did.”
“The stump isn’t an attractive thing.”
“It’s part of you. You’re hot. Ergo, your stumps are hot. Are we done with this conversation?”
He flashes a wicked grin. “Yes, we are done with this conversation. Help me take my shorts off, so I can show you exactly how done we are with talking.”
I don’t need another order. Or actually I don’t mind the orders. And by the glint in his eyes, he knows it. I push down his shorts and then sit back on my knees to await the next instruction.
He takes his heavy erection in his hand and roughly pumps it. A pearl of milky white liquid appears on the tip, and my mouth waters. I lick my lips. I want that in my mouth.
“Get on your knees, sweetheart, and open your mouth. I want to feel your hot tongue around me.”
Me too. I slide off the bed until I’m resting on my knees. Obediently I open my mouth and close my eyes. He slides his fingers, the special ones on his left side, tentatively into my hair. I lean into it, this new, wonderful caress. Embolden by my response, he tightens his fingers just slightly, as if he’s flexing.
“Okay?” he says in a growl.
“Perfect.” I reach up and grip the hand in my hair and squeeze. He’s not supposed to feel it, but I think he does because he tenses and then breathes out a sound, half wounded animal, half sigh of relief. And then the tip of his shaft passes over my lips. Once, twice. I lick the salty trail left behind and open my mouth for more.
This time he gives it to me. As with everything today, though, it’s slow. He inches inside me and then withdraws. I whimper when he does. I want to be filled up with him. I want to choke on his length and be surrounded by his scent, the thick taste of him on my tongue. “More.”
He sweeps the hair out of my face and then holds it in a ponytail behind my head. He jerks my head back and thrusts in, not all the way but deep. Desire pools in me. I close my lips and suck hard, enjoying his gasp.
“Close,” he mutters, pulling gently on my hair, but I refuse this order. I want him to come apart above me. I want to swallow him as he spends himself on my tongue. I love having him inside me. My resistance proves too much for him and he loses a little of his control.
His hips push forward as he fucks my mouth. I curl my tongue, making a bed for his shaft, and then suck as hard as I can, using my hand as a stop to prevent myself from choking on his thick, long length.
I take him in with unrestrained joy and he responds just as wildly, shoving at my mouth, gripping my hair. The pain and pleasure all blur into one until I feel him jerk in my mouth.
“Fuck,” he cries. “So fucking good.”
He comes with a low, harsh groan, and I swallow as much of the salty goodness as I can.
“Jesus, Natalie, Jesus,” he says as he withdraws. “Your eyes are like stars right now. I’m going to fuck you again soon and I want you to look at me just like that.”
He brushes the side of my mouth with his thumb. A little spot of his come rests on the tip. My tongue darts out to lap it up and he shuts his eyes, as if the sight is just too erotic for him to bear to watch.
His thumb tastes salty like his come, but earthier. Like everything else about him, I’m addicted.
He reaches down and lifts me up and then places me tenderly on the bed. And then he takes a seat and proceeds to remove his prosthetics, his actions unhurried and practiced. I don’t offer to help, but I do rub the small of his back while I watch.
First his leg and then his arm. He has more limb left than I realized. His forearm ends about four inches from the wrist but most of it is covered in the sleeve that attaches to his device. The same with his leg. I don’t find his stumps unattractive, as he warned. They are simply part of him, a part of the whole that I’ve fallen in love with. I move backward on the bed and raise the covers.
It’s probably too early for bedtime, but I want to lie in here, inside the circle of his arms, and fall asleep with my head pressed against his chest. When he stands, I raise the covers and he climbs inside. He tucks his right arm under me and curls me against him.
“You’re beautiful,” I mumble against his chest.
“That’s my line.” His palm rubs against my back. I reach across and grip his elbow to draw his arm near me. I’m careful not to touch the lower limb until he gives me the green light, but I want him to know that I love every part of his body.
He resists at first and then allows me to pull his arm close. It rests on his chest and I fall asleep with one hand under his shoulder and the other holding his elbow. As I drift off, I realize that my hand has slipped down, farther down his forearm, but he doesn’t move. Not even when I tighten my grip.
Good.
Because I’m not letting go.
