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He turns on the T.V., shows me how to dim the lights and even offers to get me a glass from the kitchen for my drink. Then he leaves with his signature instruction for me to call him if I need anything.
That damn Alfred…such a nice guy.
If I ever decide to write one of those age-play stories with the hot, older man who plays “Daddy” to the chick in her twenties, I’ll use him for my muse.
It only takes me an hour to figure out it is not a good idea to watch a scary movie in a place that has floor to ceiling windows with no blinds or curtains.
Every few minutes, I look over my shoulder and have a mini freak out thinking the creepy bitch from the movie is staring back at me. Then I realize it’s only my reflection—not some grotesque woman who could use a shower and some leave in conditioner.
I settle back into the couch that looks like something from the Star Trek Enterprise but is actually quite comfy. I throw my leg over the back of it and pull the blanket up to my chin—ready to cover my eyes the next time something or someone in the movie jumps out of a dark hallway.
I’m fully prepared to have the shit scared out of me. But I’m not at all prepared for the voice I hear on the other side of the door, or the soft click of the lock as it opens.
You know that moment when terror seizes you? When your stomach drops and your heart stops and you hear a faint whistling deep in your ear because you’re straining so hard to figure out just what the noise that has you so terrorized actually is?
That’s where I am.
“What the…”
I can’t be any more afraid than I am in this moment. Perhaps because of that, my brain takes on survival mode and focuses on something other than my fear—like the deep tenor of the booming voice radiating around me. Then a light comes on, temporarily blinding me, and after I blink through the shock, my brain begins to process the person that voice belongs to.
And holy mother of fuck.
It’s him.
That Guy.Chapter ThreeI could tell you the sight of him has my nipples tightening.
Thighs clenching.
Heart shattering.
Pussy watering…
But there’s no need. Because when you see this guy, you’re going to experience all of that shit yourself.
Cue walk out music. Maybe something by The Weekend. Or the theme song from Jaws.
Standing 6’2, weighing in at two hundred and thirty pounds, wearing an Armani suit and a look that would kill me dead if it was lethal, I give you...
Shit.
“Are you Mr. Swagger?”
His hands move to his hips. “Yes. I’m Jake Swagger. Who the fuck are you? And what the hell are you doing in my house?”
“One sec.” I hold my finger up and fall back against the couch, breathless.
Jake…Jake Swagger.
It just doesn’t get much sexier than that.
“What?” Oh man, he’s even sexy when he’s confused.
“I just, I just need a minute for my head. It’s a writer thing. You wouldn’t understand.”
I disregard his incredulity. I overlook his anger. I completely ignore reason. How can I not in a moment like this?
Before me stands a man with messy, charcoal colored hair. You know, the kind he runs his fingers through. The kind you fist your hands in when he has his mouth suctioned to your vagina.
His jaw has all those masculine features that authors use words like chiseled, strong, square, dusted-in-hair-as-if-he-hasn’t-shaved-in-a-day, to describe.
Lips ripped straight from Tom Hardy’s mouth.
A nose that can’t be defined because, who the fuck knows how to describe a sexy nose.
And those eyes? Blue like the ocean—maybe. I can’t see them from here. And they’re narrowed in curiosity? Lust? Probably anger…
My gaze moves south. Over the small dimple in the center of his chin. Down his Adam’s apple that bulges slightly when he swallows. Lower to the little bit of chest visible from the opening at the collar of his white shirt.
The dark suit jacket hugs his long arms. I follow it from his shoulder to his wrists. Son of a bitch he’s wearing cufflinks. And a belt. Hard, flat stomach above it. Outline of a big cock below it.
Long legs.
Hard thighs.
Shiny shoes.
You get the picture. But in case you didn’t, Jake Swagger is really fucking hot.
And super fucking pissed.
“Who the fuck are you?!”
I shake away my stupidity and scramble to get up. The half empty pizza box slides from my lap to the floor. It lands right side up—next to my dirty napkins and the two-liter Dr. Pepper bottle.
I stand in front of him and a shiver of fear snakes up my spine from the silent anger he emits. I want to disappear back into my writer brain. Run away from reality and build a perfect, fictional world where he is my That Guy and I am his heroine. But there is no escape from his scrutiny.
