51. REEMA

Sometime later, we wake up tangled up with each other. Somehow Jake's mouth has fallen on my breast again and my hand trips up and down his cock—a few times. We're both mumbling something about efficiency and making sure this is really out of our system. Considering our combined work ethic, the diligence shouldn't be surprising. It's practical.

It's not like we're going to do this again after this trip.

As his fingers part my folds, I go very still.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Pretending to be a mannequin to get you going. Is it working?"

"Don't make me laugh." He taps the curve of my bum. "It's distracting."

His bossiness would've worked if he wasn't snorting with repressed laughter.

"I'm so very sorry," I say, bringing his hand back to my bum.

His eyebrow raises in question.

I nod.

He spanks me, harder this time.

"Are you sorry?" he asks.

"No," I sigh, humming with pleasure. My backside is warming with spiked pleasure every time his hand comes down. It's his firm, decisive taps. They're addictive. Let loose, he doesn't hold back his commitment to the task.

"I should make you sorry," he hums.

"If you must," I say with mock-surrender as if this is all such a great effort for me.

"On your knees then."

"Oh. Sure. Blowjobs are a great part of my skill set."

His eyes squeeze close. "I was going to fuck you from behind, but yes. That. Let's do that."

Pulling myself away from the pillow, I notice my skin is kind of sticky. "We should also shower at some point."

Before I can blink, Jake slides his hands underneath my knees and lifts me off the bed.

"What are you doing?" I squeal, clinging to him.

"Carrying you to the shower."

"Why—"

"We can multitask. And considering how weak you must be since I've been rocking your world?—"

"Rocking my world?" I repeat, my voice going more shrill. "It's been moderate—alright—acceptable?—"

Those would be fighting words if I didn't settle my nose against his neck and inhale. Even now, he smells so fucking good. It should be illegal to be this intoxicating.

From the corner of my eye, I spot a smirk lift his mouth. Guess his ego didn't take my words seriously, or perhaps he felt me huffing at his skin.

In the shower, he turns on the water, testing the temperature with his hands before letting me get inside. I move to go onto my knees, surprisingly eager to get my mouth on him, but Jake doesn't let me. Instead, I'm placed in front of him so I get most of the warm spray of the shower. Slowly, he soaps me up, placing intermittent kisses at the juncture of my neck as he cleans everywhere. Against my back, I feel his thickening desire, but his pace doesn't pick up. He shampoos and conditions my hair so gently that my breath stutters.

It's overwhelming in a way that lifts my heart until it feels risen to my throat, vulnerably close to the surface. If he spends any longer treasuring me like this, I'll need to find a corner to be alone until I can remind myself we're not real. That this is happening outside of our normal lives, and it's all part of the craziness of this week and nothing more. No promises were made. If anything, sex is a hall pass of sorts since we're playing fake partners so well.

The second he rinses me off, I go to my knees.

It's better when I have a task to focus on. And the one in front of me is certainly big enough.

What is great for my pussy is a challenge for my mouth.

That said, I'm no quitter.

His shaft might cover my face, but I've got a clever tongue that is greedy to explore. First contact already has him groaning. Deciding I need more of that sound for as long as I can get it, I slowly explore every ridge, bump, and vein. There is a spot under his head I lightly suckle that makes his hands jerk out and grab at the shower wall.

"You're killing me," he cries out in a strangled voice.

"That's the point."

"Proceed, then," he gasps out.

I pull back and blow on his cock. "Proceed?" I say, making my voice all low and stern. "I'm not one of your clients. I'll do what I like!"

He gargles out a laugh. "I don't—sound like that."

"Hm. More arrogant." I use both hands to stroke him up and down, then envelop him with my mouth again. My tongue strokes the underside, and when it does, I feel his hand come down and clench the hair at the back of my head. His hips shift forward, a silent begging for me to take him deeper.

I think about torturing him, but then I make the mistake of looking up.

Jake's head is thrown back, his cheeks have flushed hard, and his chest is heaving. Water runs rivulets across his torso, the muscles in his chest, and the sculpted lines of his thighs. He's—beautiful and lost, the rumblings of broken moans slipping out from his mouth. Feverishly begging.

More. More of that.

I need him undone by me.

Making my mouth open wider, I let his head hit repeatedly against the softness of my inner cheeks. And then, taking a big breath in, I tip my head up so I can take him into my throat.

His hand spasms in my hair. Precum spills, flavoring my taste buds as if he can't help himself. I lap it up eagerly, going up and down his length, picking up speed. My jaw strains with effort, but every guttural noise of his fuels me faster.

His cock becomes my feast.

On my knees, I've never felt more powerful as I do when I've reduced this man to indistinct swearing, heavy panting, and—on a particularly long suck—my name. "Reema?—"

My cheeks hollow in surprise—and joy. So much joy.

It spurs me faster.

Pretty soon, he warns me he's about to break. That I should pull away before he does, but I don't. Greedily I keep going and swallow as he shoots his release in multiple spurts inside me.

The way his arms tremble, I'm surprised he can lift me to my feet, but he does. Hungry kisses are pressed against my mouth before he pulls back. His thumb swipes the corner of my eyes.

"Good tears?" he asks, still out of breath, but as if he needs to know.

"Victorious tears."

We grin at each other, and then make quick work of leaving the shower since our skin is starting to get pruny. Somehow, he has the strength to carry me back to bed. There, I'm brought to orgasm not once but three times, as if his one needs to equal multiples of mine. The last one has me wrung out on the bed, completely reduced to sheer bliss. Almost so thoroughly that I can't register the soft warning bells in the distance.

The problem is that I like him. More than a little.

I don't even think I liked Harry. Many times I thought I loved him, but I don't think I ever liked him. Whatever is happening between Jake and me has the possibility to disturb every protective layer I've wrapped myself with these last two years.

And yet, I can't stop touching him. He seems to suffer the same, the way his hands won't stop stroking my skin. When he cups my belly, it grumbles.

He strokes it gently. "What are you craving?"

I spout off a list of all that comes to my mind for fun, but tell him anything with carbs will do.

He goes to the phone and orders everything on my list. Unfortunately, they only have three out of the six items, but it's more than enough. I overhear him telling them to charge it to his room, but to deliver it here.

Before the food arrives, I check in with my sister. Technically, Jake and I have missed out on a few ceremonies that were supposed to take place this evening. Nibbles of guilt eat at me, but those go away when my sister informs me that she cancelled most of them, and that everyone is still sleeping off the drinking. She tells me to get enough rest so we can properly party tomorrow for the big shebang. Her blow-out reception.

Leo has also texted me. He's staying in a new place with more cell service, so his message is longer. He's not asking if I fucked Jake (good, because I'm not ready to admit that I have) but is generally checking in to see how the wedding is going, and how I'm doing emotionally.

I send him a thumbs-up emoji followed by a cake emoji because I am a mature adult who can face and confess her feelings, no matter how complicated they get.

After that, I wait for awkwardness to descend as Jake and I wait for food, but the mood is quiet contentment, not screaming weirdness. It helps that he is so task focused. He is trying to tidy without being obvious about it, adorably gathering our clothes so they aren't strewn everywhere. Not wanting to scare the food delivery person, he pulls on pants. I wear a terry-cloth robe.

When Jake has cleaned enough and starts poking at the crooked painting hanging on the wall, I throw a crumpled up shirt at him.

Instead of hitting his face, he catches it. His aim is better. The bundle bops me back in the nose.

That won't do.

A competitive game of catch starts—because can we ever stop riling each other up?—only to be interrupted by a knock on the door. Carbs have arrived and saved us from ourselves.

Jake tries setting up the food on the bed, but I don't let him. I tell him that's my personal ick, which seems to surprise him. When I say I'm not a savage, I can tell he wants to disagree but doesn't. Not that I would put up much of a debate. I'm too busy funneling spaghetti into my mouth.

Only after we've cleared most of it do I feel like I've got energy again. So much so that I tidy the plates before he can, batting away his help.

"Was your sister okay?" he asks. "With us not making an appearance tonight?"

"She didn't bother going herself. The whole day tired her out as much as anyone."

"I noticed she wasn't drinking."

Of course he had. "She's pregnant," I say, surprising myself by sharing the secret.

"Oh—that's great, right?"

"It is! I don't think it was planned, but they seem really excited for it."

"Do your parents know?"

"I don't think they do. Not that they are old-fashioned enough to be disappointed by the lack of order of things. You know. Typically marriage first, then kids." I shrug. "To be fair, I think my history broke them out of that expectation."

His gaze sharpens on me. "Yes, the mystery of two years ago. Are you going to tell me what happened there?"

A mix of worry and nervousness starts bubbling inside me. Why did I bring up my history? I hadn't planned on doing that, but I'm so relaxed it just happened.

"I'm surprised you lasted this long without drilling me about it," I finally say.

"We've been busy."

"We have." I look around as if proof will jump out at me. It kind of does since we're still on the floor, both not fully dressed. Jake's back is leaned against the end of the bed, and I'm sitting on a group of pillows with my legs stretched out. If I shift forward, I could make our feet touch.

"Did you think we'd end up here?" I find myself wondering out loud.

"No."

Right. Me and him. It didn't make sense.I force a laugh. "Who could have imagined that?"

"That's not what I said." He pauses. "I've imagined it."

I should call him an optimistic pervert, but I'm too busy rolling his admission over in my head. So he thought about it. Us. For how long? When did it start? And did the sex live up to what he thought it would be like? Not that it matters to me. It's whatever. I'm not actually asking him for a scorecard. It's enough to know that he thought about it. That he wanted it.

"What's going on in that head of yours, Patel?"

"Nothing." I nudge his leg with my foot.

Before I pull away, he grabs it. "Tell me about two years ago." His hold around my ankle is delicate, but steely determination is in his gaze. Like he'll wait for as long as it takes, but he's going to find out one way or another.

As for me, my stomach has gone see-saw. "I bet you've already tried to figure it out. Considering how you like to piece things together like a nosy detective."

"I have." His hand caresses along my foot. I'm about to complain about how I'm ticklish when he starts massaging the soreness from my heels away. Fuck me. This is a dirty tactic. His voice is deceptively casual when he talks. "You've hinted at financial troubles, so I'm guessing it has to do with that. Maybe it's related to this Harry person. And I bet your parents and maybe even your sister don't know the full details, otherwise they'd be more worried. Though some of your other relatives keep acting like you survived some disease and are finally in a good spot—" His hand freezes. "Were you? Sick?" His expression tightens. "Patel?"

"No.No that—no sickness."

"Good. I'm glad. That's really—good. So you aren't and weren't sick." He peeks at me again, as if needing a second confirmation.

"No, that's not it. You won't guess what it was."

"Then put me out of my misery and tell me the truth. If you want me to say please, I will."

"Say it," I demand, mostly to buy time.

"Please."

For a man who hates unknowns, the mystery is probably killing him. Regardless, I shouldn't be pressured to open up, but that's not the actual issue. The problem is how words have bundled up inside me, wanting to get out. Somehow, I'm not lying or changing the topics. I'm considering sharing with him when I've never done so with anyone else.

I open my mouth, then close it. "I need some water first, I think."

I move to get up, but Jake is faster than me. He's up and searching for a fresh bottle he put somewhere. Meanwhile, I'm suffering with my thoughts.

What happens when he learns the truth?

He won't jump to my defense anymore, because who would? That's why I've kept my humiliations to myself. These last two years have been about hiding, recovering, trying to erase evidence, and living in shame quietly until I've done enough to pull myself out of my situation…

That way, no one knows I was ever stupid, misguided, foolish, and pathetic. But then, why am I not lying to him straight away now? Or flashing my tits, so we go back to fucking each other senseless?

Instead, there's a weird stirring inside me that I'm not used to feeling. Actually, it's been there since the wedding started, I think. Something about being around family that cares for you and wants to become closer again is part of it. The other part has come back with water for me. I chug half the bottle, trying to delay the inevitable.

The real me.

That's what it is, I realize.

It's what bothered me about my drastically different hair.

I felt like it erased the bun-loop. The me I had become to survive.

Maybe I don't want to be buffed out like a brand new penny, because my pain has shaped me—and also clawing myself out of the pain has shaped me. Could it be? Do I want Jake to see the entirety of who I was, all my stupid flaws included?

Putting the bottle down, I toy with the cap. "This is hard. Because you're—you. I bet you've got all sorts of savings and investments and your credit score is magical, and nothing in your life has ever gone off the rails or not happened according to some brilliant plan. You're fucking perfect—and I've—not been."

"I almost don't want to disagree with you," he says, with an odd wistfulness to his tone. "When you call me perfect."

A shocked laugh burst out of me. "Seriously? My god, your ego!"

"Yes." He's back to massaging my foot. "But that's not how I meant it."

"Oh, and how did you mean it?"

"Being perfect—" He hesitates. "… for you, specifically, is appealing. I want you to think I'm—" He swallows. "Never mind. The point is that I'm not how you see me. And I'm not just saying that to make you feel better." His hand reaches over and finds mine, which has curled into a tight ball. "Though, I don't like this."

Long, skillful fingers start massaging the tension out there, too.

"How are you not perfect?" I ask, still holding onto the fulcrum of this moment. Before he knows the ugly truth. "Be detailed."

"I hate mangos."

"That's… so random."

"And I favor my right side, so if I don't consciously work out both sides of my body, I become lop-sided."

Tilting my head, I examine him. "Hm. Yeah. I see that."

He pinches my ankle (rude), before soothing the minuscule discomfort away with the pad of his thumb.

"As for savings," he continues. "I'm about to spend a lot of mine because of someone else's negligence."

"Whose?"

"My father." He takes a long breath. "The man I try hard to hate, because I don't want to love him, even though he died from cancer way too young. The one who never told any of us in the first place he was dying, so when he collapsed onto the floor one day, no one knew what was going on. The man whose lies have left me so mad that I don't like remembering him at all. How's that for not being perfect?"