Chapter Thirteen

It's the fourth time recentlythat I've skipped Friday evening drinks with my coworkers. My boss insists the ritual isn't mandatory, but strongly encouraged for "team building purposes". I don't miss attending. I've seen too many male colleagues intoxicated to the point where they start groping or flirting with their female counterparts.

If I'm going to be flirted with or inappropriately touched, I'd rather it be by someone I want to have sex with. That's why I'm deep in Brooklyn while most of NexaCorp's legal department is in downtown Manhattan, where I impulsively left them.

When I enter the dark hallway of The Devil's Court, I still don't belong, but at least it feels a little more familiar. As I step further in, my heart drums against my ribs, my breath shallow and quick. I'm about to see Jake again, and my entire body has come alive at the thought.

I still can't believe I sent him that raunchy photo. I've never done anything like that in the past, and I'm not sure what came over me, but I stood from my chair, closed the privacy curtains of my office, locked the door, and undressed enough to snap the photo. But as mortifying as it was, I'm one item closer to fulfilling my list. I'm amazed at how fast I'm going through it. If Jake is as eager as I am, we might be done in mere weeks.

The dark and packed atmosphere is the same as when I was here last, with all types of people mingling together. The band performing on the stage isn't the same as last week, and the alternative rock vibes are softer.

As I look around in search of Jake, I question my decision to come here unannounced. In my defense, I didn't know I'd end up here until thirty minutes ago when I snuck away from my colleagues. Jake told me he was here every Friday evening, so I assumed he would be today. What if he's already busy with another woman? Something twinges in my chest at the thought. I hate wasting time and coming all the way here for nothing would be precisely that.

Since I can't spot his tall silhouette in the main room, I make my way to the back, where it's calmer. Maybe he's indulging in a game of pool.

My eyes instantly fall on his familiar face when I get there. He's sitting on a low leather couch with his friend Eli by his side, and on the opposite side is another man—the one from behind the bar. A dozen bottles of whiskey are on the table between them, with glasses scattered around. Crap, he's already in the middle of something. It was stupid to come and think he'd be available.

Since I don't want to interrupt whatever is going on, I decide to discreetly retreat, send him a text asking if he wants to meet up, and then pretend I'm on my way if he says yes.

Just as I'm about to back away, his green gaze lifts to me. Something lights up in his eyes, and I discern satisfaction despite his surprise. Feeling like an idiot, I stand there while he says something to his friends and gets up to come to me.

"We have to stop meeting like this, red," he says once he's close enough, his smirk devilish and charming. His hand snakes around my waist, and he bends toward me. "Here to work on that list of yours?"

I nod, entranced by his aura, which fills the air surrounding us. He gives me a small, lopsided smile and lowers the rest of the way to press his lips on mine. The kiss is soft, almost chaste, and then he straightens up.

"But I can—I can go if you prefer," I offer, my eyes fluttering to his friends. "I didn't realize you'd be busy."

"Nonsense. We're just trying some whiskies to add to the bar's selection. Do you want to join?"

"And meet your friends?" That sounds intimate and personal. I'm not entirely sure how sex arrangements work, but this might be off-limits.

"Gen!" someone calls from behind him. When I look, Eli is waving for me to join them, and the other guy—Killian, I think it was—is twisted around to watch me.

"They know about me?"

"Well, Eli knew about you before I did. And because he's a little twat, Kill also knows."

"And what do they know exactly?"

"That you're the woman I'm currently fucking," he nonchalantly explains. That's crude but accurate, I suppose. "Come, love. We'll have a few drinks and head out."

His hand is still around my waist, and he uses it to pull me toward the couches. I'm not shy, nor do I mind meeting new people, but the circumstances are awkward, making me uncomfortable. Jake doesn't seem to be though, and when we reach his business associates, he proceeds to introduce me.

"This is Gen. Love, this is Elijah and Killian." The former smiles and gives me a wave, and the latter offers me a small nod. "Move over, mate."

Eli immediately follows the command, joining Killian on the other couch while Jake and I sit side by side. I set my bag down, remove my short trench coat, and adjust the hem of my dress over my thighs. Maybe I subconsciously knew how the day would end when I dressed this morning because my outfit isn't too out of place. I'm wearing a teal wrap dress with sleeves that reach just above my elbows.

My eyes fall on the man I don't know, the other member of their trio, and I quickly study him. He also has tattoos slithering out of his black T-shirt, but not as many as Jake. His shoulder-length hair is a dark shade of auburn, its upper half tied into a bun at the back of his skull. He has a beard, darker than his hair, and it gives him a rough-around-the-edges look. Maybe it's his stoic expression or the dark brown of his eyes, but he doesn't seem as open or social as his two friends.

"It's nice to officially meet you," Eli says genuinely. "Jake's told us so much about you."

My attention switches to the man by my side, who's throwing metaphorical daggers at his friend. Jake's not supposed to disclose anything intimate about me to anyone, and I hope to God he didn't. When he turns to me, I give him a disapproving look.

"Ignore him. Being a cunt is his favorite pastime."

"He can't help himself," Killian adds caustically. It's the first time I hear him talk, and I realize he's undoubtedly Irish.

"Alright, alright. Jake didn't say much," Eli concedes. "But he said enough."

Probably to make his friend stop talking, Jake grabs a bottle of whiskey and pours a finger into four glasses.

"Do you like whiskey?" he asks as he hands me one. "We're trying new ones for the bar."

"It's not my favorite alcohol, but I indulge occasionally."

"I can get you something else if you want."

He's about to stand up, so I mindlessly rest my hand on his muscular thigh to stop him. "No, it's good. I'm a bit of a connoisseur, so I can help decide which one's worth investing in."

"Really?"

There's a hint of amusement in his eyes, so I decide to satiate his curiosity. "My parents have these trays of alcohol all over the house, and whenever I wanted to get drunk as a teenager, I used to take the smallest sips from each bottle so they wouldn't notice. I still do it whenever I visit. Needless to say, I became acquainted with many vodkas, whiskies, gins…"

The glimmer in his gaze is even more apparent, and he chuckles with a head shake. "I never imagined you were a rebellious teenager."

The lightness of the moment fades as soon as I think back to my problematic high school years. I open my mouth to try to reply with something humorous, but nothing comes, so I bring the glass to my lips and take a small sip. The liquor clings to my tongue, raspy and heady, and a smoky aftertaste is etched in my mouth when I swallow. The men try it as well, and they debate for a moment. Since it's the first one I've tried, I can't compare it to the others, but I share my thoughts—it's good, not too rough on the tongue, and the smokiness adds an interesting nuance to the flavor.

"Scotts really make the best whiskies, don't they?" Eli says, making the amber liquid twirl in his glass.

"Not this again," Jake groans, falling back onto the couch.

"You little shite," Killian snarls at Eli. "They make more of it, but it's not the best. When will that big thick head on you get it?"

Elijah watches with contained hilarity as he continues into a tirade that I can't focus on because Jake bends over. "He always does this," he discreetly explains. "And Kill is way too proud to let it slide."

"How did you guys meet?"

"We were flatmates. Eli had a place in the Bronx, and his mates bailed on him. So he was looking for new ones. I wanted out of the roach motel I'd been in since arriving in the US, Kill was thrown out by his ex, and we ended up shacking together."

"So you've known them for thirteen years?" I ask, hoping I remember it right.

"Good memory, red. Yes, I have."

I look at the two men before us, wondering what these three have been through together. A lot, it seems, given how close they are. My glass isn't empty yet, but Jake leans over, pours another one, and extends it toward me. Its color is lighter than the other, but I've learned that it doesn't always mean something.

"Try that one. It's my favorite so far."

We switch glasses, and our fingers brush together a little longer than necessary.

Curious to see what good whiskey is to him, I take a small mouthful and let it linger on my tongue before swallowing. It's raspier than the other one, but I discern more flavors when the pungent taste of alcohol fades away. This one is older and more sophisticated.

Jake's waiting for my verdict. "It's good," I say with a smile. "I prefer it to the other one."

"Right?" He looks very satisfied that I agree with him, and I find it amusing that my opinion has any weight in his eyes. His friends are still arguing when he interrupts their banter. "We're getting this one," he decides, pointing at the bottle I just tried.

"This one's expensive," Killian objects.

"We'll sell it at top shelf price, then."

Jake tops up his empty glass with it and leans back until his side is against mine. When his hand comes to rest on my leg, just under the hem of my dress, sparks fly up to my center.

I almost forgot what I came here for, enjoying the moment. But as his fingers trace mindless circles on the soft skin of my inner thigh, I'm reminded of why I escaped my colleagues to join him here. I consider swatting his hand away, unused to such displays of intimacy, but it feels too good to deprive myself of it. Also, his friends already know what we've been doing and don't bat an eye at the gesture.

All I can manage is ten minutes. Ten long and insufferable minutes where he caresses me like it's the most normal thing in the world, conversing with his friends and making me try more amber liquors, his hand barely ever leaving my skin. He makes sure to include me in the conversation, but the brief responses I give are pathetic. I'm on fire by minute one, overwhelmed by shivers and desires, my core growing wetter with every faint graze. Is he even aware of what he's doing to me?

When Killian and Eli launch themselves into another heated debate about whether there should be ice in whiskey, I lean closer to Jake, bringing my lips to his ear. "Let's go to your place," I whisper.

His hand freezes on my leg, his focus shifting to me. It seems he forgot about what I'm here for too, because arousal suddenly strikes him, his pupils dilating until only a thin ring of green is left. I don't need to say anything more as he rips himself from my side to stand up. When he offers me assistance to do the same, I gladly take his hand.

"You guys are leaving?" Eli asks once I'm up, clearly disappointed.

"We've got better ways to spend our evening than entertaining you two bellends," Jake replies, picking up my jacket. He helps me slip it on and then bends to take his.

"I need to return behind the bar, anyway," Killian says, standing as well.

Eli looks positively discontent when his eyes dart to all three of us. "So what? I am to spend my Friday evening alone?"

"Your inability to pick up women isn't our problem," Jake muses with a stifled smirk.

"You know what I mean."

"If it can reassure you, I'll drop Mulli at your place so you won't be entirely alone."

With that, he gives Eli a wink, slips a hand to the middle of my back, and leads me out of The Devil's Court.

Once we're out in the quiet streets, where the air is fresh and the night dark, I look up at him with curiosity. "Mulli?"

"Mulligrubs, my dog."

That unexpected piece of information makes me smile broadly. "Oh, you have a dog?"

"Yeah. Had her since she was a pup. She's mean-looking, but really, she's a softie inside."

The evident fondness in his voice has me grinning even harder. "That reminds me of someone."

"Do you mean me?"

I nod. "You look like a bloodthirsty gang member, yet you've been nothing but kind and patient with me."

"Hmm… I suppose I could be considered a softie. Although, soft isn't the adjective I'd use whenever you're around."

The salacious joke makes me laugh, and I fight the urge to look down and confirm what he's implying. I'm still chuckling when he urgently lowers to claim my lips. The intoxicating graze of his tongue in my mouth sends my heart racing, and I clasp a hand on his neck to save my balance, my knees buckling.

Only a week has passed since we last saw each other, and I missed this terribly. So much so that I considered dropping everything on Wednesday and taking him up on his offer to meet.

There's something empowering about the way he holds me, about how he craves me. His towering height and muscular broadness should make me feel small and delicate, but it's the opposite. I feel mighty and strong in his hold, like I could take on the world and conquer it. When his large hands pull me in closer, plastering me to him, I'm convinced of it.

"Do you-do you live far?" I breathe out, ripping myself away from the kiss.

"Too fucking far," he mumbles, tracing a burning line down my neck with his soft lips.

"Really?"

"Yeah." He gives the base of my throat a long and hungry kiss, making everything in me palpitate. Then he gestures to his left with his chin. "Two blocks that way."

I quench the laughter that tries to climb up my throat. "Terribly far indeed. Maybe we should get on with it right here, in the middle of the street."

His chuckle ripples across my collarbone in a gentle caress. "Don't tempt me, red." After one last kiss on my heated skin, he straightens up with a groan. "Let's go."

My heart expands when he intertwines his tattooed fingers with mine before pulling me alongside him. "Oh, before I forget. I have a late brunch tomorrow morning," I explain as we make our way to his place.

"We should be done by then," he says with a cocky smirk, squeezing my hand gently. "I'm glad you came."

"I didn't plan on it, but I'm glad I did too."

"The temptation was hard to resist, was it?"

I give him a side glance, struggling to contain a shy smile. "You have to stop fishing for compliments, Jake. It's very insecure of you."

"Well, that's what you do to me."

"Me?"

"Yes, you, Miss Kensington. You intimidate me."

I reflect on his words for a few silent seconds, wondering how that's even possible. He's the most intimidating man I've ever met, and I'm… Well, I'm great at my job, and I know people fear me in that field. But on an intimacy level, I'm not much, am I? It's a fact that I'm boring, even.

We pass by the wide entrance of what seems to be a tattoo parlor set in an old warehouse. A few paces later, Jake stops us before a large door. "This is it," he states, releasing my hand and robbing my palm of his warmth.

"Very far indeed," I muse, watching as he pulls a set of keys out of his pocket.

Moments later, he holds the door open and invites me in. My body wakes as soon as we enter the dark hallway, and the lights flickering on aren't enough to tame the wild desires growing within me. We're minutes from having sex again, and I'm absurdly excited about it. I can't wait to revel in his magnificent body once more, to drown in pleasure, to bask in the rawness of passion…

If things had been this incredible with Edward, I most likely would have made more time for intimacy rather than forget about it altogether.

Jake leads me to the end of the hallway, pulls up the railing of an industrial elevator, and parts a second gate in the middle. His hand on my back gently encourages me in, and he then does the opposite process. The ride up is filled with silence but heavy with anticipation.

There's only one door when we reach the fifth level, so I understand he has the whole floor to himself. Still, when I step inside and he turns the lights on, I'm not ready for how big and beautifully decorated his place is.

The entire apartment is one ample space, compartmented in various areas with bits of walls that never form a fully closed room—aside from what must be a toilet, in the far corner from where we stand, near a massive bed. I'm more of a sleek Scandinavian or minimalist kind of person, but the industrial decor fits the place to perfection, and it also suits Jake. Exposed red bricks adorn the walls, and tall, wide windows open to a view of the night outside. The space must be remarkably luminous during the daytime. That explains why so many green plants are scattered all over, including a few dangling from the high ceiling. Wherever there is space on the walls, art hangs against the brick—colorful, abstract, and often oversized.

I'm still taking all that in when an enormous, excited Rottweiler rushes to us. "Mulli, be nice," Jake warns, to no avail. The dog welcomes him with cheerfulness and then turns her attention to me, coming to sniff me while wagging her tail.

"Hey, Mulligrubs," I greet her, extending a hand to let her get familiar with my smell. When she seems to approve of me, I pet her imposing head, scratching her between the ears.

"You like dogs?" Jake asks when I lower to give her more pets.

"I've always wanted one, but my parents refused. Then I was in college, and after that… Let's just say my ex kept delaying getting one, so that never happened either."

"I got her three years ago, and my life has felt fuller ever since."

I give him a contrite smile, shrugging my shoulders. "Maybe it's better that I never got one. I probably wouldn't have time to care for a dog like it deserves."

"Yeah, I get that. I'm glad I can take Mulligrubs with me to work most days."

It looks like the dog got enough scratches because she leaves us to return to the huge round pillow set on the floor for her. "What field do you work in?" I ask, pushing my jacket off my shoulders.

He gallantly helps me with it. "I'm an artist."

"Really? What medium?"

"Skin."

It instantly clicks into my mind. "You're a tattoo artist."

"I am."

That explains a lot, actually. "Are you a good one?" I feel compelled to ask, even though his fantastic apartment is all the information I need to get my answer.

"Some think I am, yes. Forever growing though, as any good artist."

"You never showed me your favorite tattoo, by the way."

"Let me take Mulli to Eli's, and we'll correct the oversight," Jake says in a flirty manner. "Grubs, come here," he calls, picking up a leash from the coat hanger by the door. Although reluctantly, the Rottweiler comes when he encouragingly pats his solid thigh.

"I'll be right back," he promises. Then, he seems to remember something. "Fuck, I also have to walk her. Give me five minutes. There are beers in the fridge and liquor in that console right there. Glasses are on the shelves in the kitchen. Oh, and there's a cat somewhere—Beelzebub. Unless he's out exploring again. He's… well, you'll see. But maybe don't pet him if you find him."

I nod, watching as he exits the apartment with a very docile Mulli.

Although I didn't expect to end up alone at his place, I welcome the opportunity to snoop around unsupervised. Leisurely, I stroll around the vast space, admiring the art, decorations, plants, and little details. There is no cat in sight, so I guess I won't have to see why Beelzebub shouldn't be touched. There's a sketchbook open on a low table, and I bend over to admire the intricate details of the beetle on the white page. If he's as skilled with a tattoo gun as with graphite, he must be quite good indeed. When I pass a bookshelf filled with hundreds of works, I tilt my head to the side and read the titles on a few spines. He seems to have versatile tastes, with an interest in contemporary fiction, art, history, and autobiographies.

My little promenade through his personal space leads me to a vintage stereo cabinet. A vinyl record is already set, and a sleeve lies next to it—Moon Safari by Air. Curious, I examine the sound system to figure out how to play the record. It takes me a minute, but the tonearm eventually moves into place and the needle gently lands on the vinyl. The sound of rain rises from the silence before a melody emerges from it, and I adjust the volume to fill the entire space.

I'm just returning to my exploration when the main door opens again, startling me. Those five minutes flew by.

He removes his jacket, hangs it next to mine, and after he locks the door and throws his keys on a console, he comes further in, joining me in the living room area. "You didn't get yourself a drink," he notes. "Do you want something?"

I shake my head. "I'm not here for drinks."

"What are you here for, then?" The challenge in his eyes sets a small fire within me.

Instead of answering, I step closer to him until I can feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Even in my stilettos, I have to tilt my head back to meet his ravenous gaze. Slowly, seductively, I drag my hands up his stomach, enjoying the rigid musculature under his T-shirt. I feel the piercing in his nipple when I pass it, and it makes me want to undress him even more.

"About that tattoo," I start. He doesn't expect it when I give him a sudden shove, but I'm not foolish enough to think it makes him fall back onto the couch behind him. He made that happen as much as I did.

I lift my dress higher on my thighs, which he observes with interest, and then straddle him. His hands instantly come to rest over my hips, his smirk carnivorous.

"By the way, that's sex music," he explains.

"Is it?" Frowning slightly, I focus on the music instead. The rhythm is slow, knowing, and I guess I can see how it can be sensuous, too. That's not music for rough sex though. It's a song for lascivious sex. Which I'm very fine with. "I suppose it is. Another item we'll tick tonight."

He eagerly welcomes my lips, his hands grasping me tightly as I ravish him. I swerve and grind on top of him while my tongue samples his, subconsciously following the song's tempo. Time slows, nothing exists but him for several moments, and I don't register it right away when he speaks into our kiss.

"Love, wait," he groans, gently pushing me away. "I was wondering. Why are you doing this?"

Still seated on him and very aware of his erection below me, I stare at him confusingly. "I told you. I have a list."

"Yes, I know. But why are you going through it now? What compelled you to?"

"Why does it matter?"

His hand rises to my face, and he tucks a loose red strand behind my ear. "I just want to understand you a little better, what pushed you to meet me, and what keeps you coming back."

My chest tightens at the thought of telling him. He's been doing all the work, so he hasn't realized how unimaginative I am in bed. But he will eventually notice because that can only go undetected for so long.

Which is why I have to tell him. It's better if I'm honest and it doesn't suddenly become clear to him. And while it's a nerve-racking thing to admit, knowing we're not anything serious helps. I'm not trying to bag him and keep him close for the rest of my life. We're just having casual sex, and we'll part ways as soon as we're bored with one another.

Something that might happen for him much sooner than it will for me. But that's alright.

I always knew what I signed up for.