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When my tears leaked from my eyes and wet his neck, he would beg me, “Please don’t cry, sweetheart.”
And with every step. Every word. Every temple kiss, backrub, soothing sound and squeeze, I found that my weakness had its perks. But the downside was greater. My embarrassment. The shame…. How could I ever face him? He’d called me perfect only moments before I stepped on that elevator.
What would he think of me now?
He sets me on the couch and kneels in front of me. My chin in his fingers, he tilts my head so he can look at me. Before he can ask, I answer the question written all over his face and in his eyes.
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie to me, Penelope.”
“I’m not. I’m okay, Jake. Really. I’m just tired. And sore. And my throat hurts.”
He pushes my hair out of my face. “Your screams….”
“Yeah. I know. Sorry about that. I panicked.”
“Don’t apologize. I just figured that’s why your throat is sore.”
I shake my head and look away from him. “My throat hurts from throwing up.”
“Don’t be embarrassed by that, baby. It doesn’t matter.”
“I can smell it on me, Jake,” I snap, swiping the tears from my cheeks. I’m not angry at him. I’m just…well I’m fucking embarrassed. “I’m pretty sure it’s in my hair.” My eyes widen as I scan his T-shirt. His neck. “God, I hope I didn’t get it on you.”
“You worry about all the wrong things,” he mumbles, mostly to himself. “Tell me what hurts so I can fix it. What else besides your throat?”
His eyes travel over me. Looking for physical signs of injury. I close my eyes and try to keep the blood from rushing to my cheeks. I’ve humiliated myself enough for one day. Or one lifetime. As exhausted as I feel, I shouldn’t care. But I do.
“Hey. Look at me.”
I open my eyes and he’s nothing but a blur. I’m an ugly crier. That’s usually enough to keep my emotions in check. But my emotions are in turmoil right now. And I can’t fight them no matter how hard I try.
I move to stand and he backs out of my way. I want a shower. A bed. A redo of today. I walk away from him but only make it a few steps when I feel his hand on my elbow. I stop, but don’t turn to face him.
“You’re tired because you’ve had hardly any sleep since you’ve been in Chicago. Your throat hurts because you were sick. You’re sore because of me.”
Humor. Where the fuck are you? Please come back to me. You’re around for Cocky That Guy. Jerk That Guy. Sexy That Guy. Why abandon me with Nice That Guy? He’s the only one I can’t handle without you.
For fuck’s sake. I’m having a conversation with my sense of humor.
“I just want to take a shower.” I pull away and he releases me. I’m relieved. Yet I feel cold without his touch. I don’t want to be away from him. But I can’t look at him right now, either. Not like this. Not when I feel like this.
I walk to the guest bathroom in a zombie-like trance. Inside the shower, I plant my hands on the wall and stand under the hot spray—willing it release all the tension in my body. Wash away the morning. The panic that still simmers beneath the surface.
Sometime later, I’m still just standing there when a cool blast of wind hits my naked, wet skin seconds before large hands flatten against my back. I jump beneath the touch.
“You’re okay. It’s just me.” Jake’s thick tone instantly relieves some of the tension. Perhaps because I’m not facing him. I don’t have to look him in the eye—see the pity there. The remorse. Or—God forbid—the disgust.
His thumbs knead the flesh on either side of my spine in a firm, circular motion. The result makes my knees wobble. “Feel good?”
Shivers ripple through me and I nod, unable to find my voice. His thumbs work their way up my back to my shoulders to focus on my neck at the base of my skull. After several minutes of his caresses, it’s a struggle just to hold myself up. “Lean back against me, baby.”
I stagger back until my head is on his shoulder. My back against his chest. His thick cock nestled between the cheeks of my ass. The water sluices over my breasts and causes an erotic sting in my nipples that shoots straight to my core.
His mouth finds the curve of my neck and he places soft, lingering, wet kisses there. I release a long, low sigh and his cock hardens against me. I wait for him to slide his hands to my breasts. Or down my stomach to my swollen clit. Or reach between us and stroke himself. Doing what he does best, which will help me forget everything. But he just continues to massage my neck and shoulders—his touch highly intimate and erotic in its own way, but not sexual or demanding.
