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Motherfucker.
Janey’s touching herself. She thinks I’m in the shower and won’t hear her, but I can hear every slick move of her hand and hitched breath.
I don’t think. At least not consciously, though there must be some degree of thought in my brain because I don’t charge up the ladder to take over pleasuring her myself.
But I do slowly, silently unzip my slacks and slip my hand into my boxers, wrapping it around my cock.
I have to be agonizingly careful so she doesn’t hear me and completely quiet so I can hear her, but I stroke up and down my length, using the precum that’s pouring forth to ease the motion. I imagine it's Janey’s juices running down my cock, her tight walls gripping me, and her neck I’m stifling my groans into and not my arm.
It’s delicious torture, listening to her pants get faster and faster, and when her breathing stops, I know she’s on the edge, the same as I am. “Cole . . . yes . . .” she whispers as she shatters.
She said my name.
I erupt over my hand, spasms racking through my body as I come for her, even though she hasn’t touched me. We joked about it earlier—that for tonight, she’s mine and I’m hers—but this is for her, the same way that cum on her fingers is mine.
CHAPTER 10
JANEY
I consider sneaking out of the cabin dark and early in the morning to avoid Cole after that embarrassing rejection last night. I got carried away and mistook his kindness for something else. And no, it wasn’t a good ‘heart’ pressed into my back like a thick iron rod when we lay there, but Cole’s physical reaction to my squirming around didn’t mean he actually wanted me and it was silly of me to think otherwise.
He's playing a part, Janey. Undercover, fake boyfriend, that’s it. And you need him to do that for a few more hours, so suck it up, buttercup, and don’t make things weird.
Because though I’ve also considered not going to Paisley’s wedding after the catastrophe of the rehearsal dinner, nothing’s really changed. In fact, it’s almost worse. If I don’t go, my whole family will think I’m embarrassed by last night, which I was. Embarrassed, mad, horrified, angry, and more, but I’d need an emotion wheel to decipher and label everything.
But now that I’ve had some time to think about it, I’m also grateful that Cole said and did what he did.
Was it mortifying? Yes, absolutely. Was it warranted? Probably.
Has anyone ever had my back and stood up for me that way? Never.
And it’s sexy as hell.
Maybe that’s why I basically threw myself at him?
What’s even sexier is that he didn’t do it for himself. He did it for me because he thinks I deserve better than the way my family treats me. And I do. I just forgot for a little bit.
I’ve done a lot of work since leaving home—reading books, joining online groups, and some intense self-therapy. I set out to become better, stronger, and happier. And most of the time, I am. But old, bad habits are comfortable, albeit sneaky tricksters, and I’ve fallen back into them more readily than I would’ve thought.
“The cost of someone else’s happiness shouldn’t be my own. I’m worthy of self-preservation and celebration and shouldn’t be made to feel guilty for doing so,” I tell myself, reciting a quote that’s helped me over the years.
Because that’s exactly what my family has done my whole life—made me the butt of the joke, ignored my hurt, valued others over me. And for what? They’re not any happier than I am, not really.
So with a clear head, I’m choosing to not do that anymore. I’m not participating in their stupid games and I’m not winning any more stupid prizes.
Nope.
What I’m going to do is go to Paisley’s wedding with my head held high, my back straight, my curls wild, and Cole on my arm. Just in case I freak out again, which definitely won’t happen. Probably.
Going will prove to them and to myself that their opinion means nothing. And then after tonight, I can go back to living my happy, healthy life without them. Without Henry too.
Because yeah, I see how he’s basically the 2.0 of my family and I reacted the same way, allowing myself to be undervalued like Cole said. It hurt—a lot—but he’s right. And I’m not that girl anymore. I refuse to be.
I give myself a good stare down in the bathroom mirror. “Janey Williams, you can do this. Be yourself, go in there, and show them all that you’re a badass.”
Okay, ‘Janey’ and ‘badass’ probably don’t belong in the same sentence, but I’m sticking with it.
“I’m a badass,” I tell my reflection one more time for good luck and then walk out into the living room.
