Chapter Eighteen

What happened at the gallery remainsetched in the back of my mind for the following days. I can't get over it or figure out what I should do about it.

After what happened in the restroom, I returned to Eddie, only to let him know I had to leave, pretending I had a headache. Hana was over it too, so we headed back to our respective homes, sharing a cab. As suspected, she's now a fervent Jake defender. Which I can't blame her for because he's the most charismatic person I've ever met. But as handsome, humorous, and charming as he is, he's only a fun time, the kind of person to fool around with for a bit and move on.

He himself made it very clear that he wasn't into relationships. Jake is in this for the sex, just like me, and I don't understand why everything suddenly got so complicated. It's supposed to be a mindless, no-strings-attached pastime, and I don't get why it derailed.

But now, Jake isn't texting me, I'm too scared to reach out, and I have no idea if our arrangement still stands. He did say we'd meet on Tuesday, but what if he digested everything and decided I wasn't worth the hassle?

And as if things weren't complicated enough, Eddie is slowly trying to creep back into my life. Thankfully, it's just good morning messages for now and the occasional, "Hey, what's up?" He hasn't suggested that we meet somewhere, and I dread the day he might. It's too early for that. I'm not finished with my list and haven't had my fill of Jacob Clarke. Far from it.

In the meantime, my heart races with every text notification I get, only to squeeze with disappointment when it's either Hana or Edward.

Ugh, why is this so messy?

I'm still in my NexaCorp office late on Tuesday, fixing mistakes my colleagues left behind or picking up their slack. I'm so done with this position, and I cannot wait to get my boss's job.

When my phone vibrates on my desk, I know it'll be Edward asking what I'm eating or whatever excuse he found to text me again. I distractedly check the screen, knowing I won't answer right away. In an attempt to slow down his advances, I've been giving myself a couple of hours to reply to him every time.

But it isn't Eddie. Nor Hana.

My hands fly to the phone to pick it up eagerly.

Jake finally texted!

Ladder Guy

Are you still skipping Pilates?

I check on the time. I'm already late for that, so there's my answer. The evening is even more advanced than I'd realized. Although I try not to let it hurt me, it's hard to ignore how his text feels like an afterthought, like he completely forgot we were supposed to meet and only sent it because he's bored and trying to occupy the rest of his evening. But I can't let it affect me because we're supposed to be detached and distant outside of sex. We're not friends or a couple. Just two adults with needs and pieces that fit well together.

So, swallowing back my pride, I rise above my conflicted feelings and send him an answer.

Me

Yes, but I'm still at work. I have to finish something before I leave, so it'll be about an hour before I'm at your place.

Ladder Guy

What if I come to you?

Me

I can be at my place in 20-25 minutes.

Ladder Guy

Send me your address.

My thumbs are unsteady as I type the reply. He's being very clinical and cold, which I'm not used to from him. No nicknames or flirting. He's doing the bare minimum, so I suppose he's still pissed about Saturday.

I try to finish what I was doing, but it's useless. I could hardly focus before, and now it's even worse. So, with a long and trembling sigh, I give up and grab my things, turning my computer off.

The old security guard is at his desk when I pass it in the ground floor lobby. "Another late night, Miss Kensington?"

"You know me, Farrell. Always girl-bossing."

He laughs, his pearly white teeth contrasting with the dark brown of his skin. "You have a good evening, miss."

"You too! And say hi to your wife for me."

"Will do."

A sedan is already waiting for me by NexaCorp's entrance, and ten minutes later, I'm entering my building. Mickey—the night concierge—started his shift, and just like Farrell, he's used to seeing me finish my day so late.

As soon as I'm in my apartment, I make the rounds, ensuring everything is alright. The maid came this morning while I was at work, so it's squeaky clean, and aside from some messy folders in my office, there isn't anything out of place. Then I inspect the fridge, looking for what we could drink. There isn't much aside from beer, but I have ice cubes and liquors, so that'll have to do. I already ate a small salad at the office, and given the time, I suppose Jake will have eaten as well.

When the intercom rings, I'm in the bathroom, adjusting my makeup and fluffing my hair. I also changed into a dress more comfortable than my work clothes. My legs are a little unstable as I go to answer the call. I'm impatient to see Jake, but also apprehensive. How will he behave after what happened at the gallery? Those texts he sent aren't a good sign, are they?

Once I tell Mickey to let Jake up, I stand by the entrance, taking long and deep breaths. My heart is in my throat, and I wish I weren't so damn affected by all this. It's supposed to be a mindless sex thing, not whatever this is.

Every few seconds, I peek into the peephole because things might be a little easier if I see him coming. My anxiety peaks anyway when he appears, wearing all black and holding a brown paper bag on one side and what looks like a helmet on the other. I didn't even know he had a bike, and the mere idea of it makes me weak in the knees.

Why does he have to be so hot all the time?

So I don't look too pathetic, I wait for him to ring the bell, count to ten, and then unlock the door to open it.

The lump in my throat swells enough to cut off my breath as I take him in. He's wearing a black sweater, its long sleeves rolled up his artfully tattooed forearms, and he has thick black leather gloves on his hands. As always, his jeans are the perfect fit, tucked into his military boots.

Once I'm done drooling over his wardrobe choices, I meet his green gaze. His face is closed off, but his eyes hold an intensity that I can't miss.

"Uh, come in," I say, shaking myself out of this. He does, and I let him in the foyer.

"I didn't know if you already ate," he explains, setting the paper bag on a console table. "I had some things to deal with at The Parlour, so I didn't have time to."

"Were you tattooing someone?"

"No, I barely ever get time to do that now," he explains, pulling off his gloves and revealing his inked knuckles. "I was handling the accommodations for our next guest artist."

"Oh, I see…"

We stay silent for a moment, sitting in awkward tension. The delicious smell of whatever he brought gives me the presence of mind to do something about it.

"Let's go to the kitchen," I offer, picking up the bag.

"Should I remove my shoes?"

"As you prefer. I usually remove mine because they are uncomfortable," I explain, which makes him look at my elegant slippers.

When he kneels to undo his laces, I offer, "I think there's a pair of—" No. Suggesting that he uses the slippers Eddie left behind is probably not a good idea. "Never mind," I say instead.

Even though I make my way to the kitchen alone, I'm tense all over. Things will get better. As soon as we're naked, everything will flow like it always does. By the time he joins me, I've taken out plates and cutlery and am emptying the bag to discover what he brought. Lebanese food. Yum!

Now that he's with me, the tension builds up again. This silence between us is so uncharacteristic that it's all I can hear. We're never like this, we always have things to say, even just to provoke or tease one another.

We both try to put an end to it at the same time.

"Jake, I—"

"Gen, I wanted to—"

We stop, stare at each other, and amusement cracks through his unreadable expression. "You first," I insist.

He passes a nervous hand through his hair, averting his eyes. "I wanted to apologize for the way I behaved at the gallery. I shouldn't have done or said those things. It was weird."

"It was, wasn't it? Maybe Constance put something in the champagne," I say pensively, trying to lighten the mood.

He chuckles, scratching his angular jawline in an embarrassed manner. "I'm sorry for acting like a prick."

I appreciate that he acknowledges it, and I hope the incident was only a fluke, not the worrisome preview of more problematic behavior to come.

"I'm sorry too," I say in return, hoping for a clean slate.

"For what?"

"I didn't know Eddie would be there, and I'm sorry you had to… I don't know, see me with him? I'm not familiar with sex arrangements, but they often get messy, don't they?" I ask.

He thinks about his answer for way too long, so it doesn't feel genuine when he settles on, "They do, yes."

But I dismiss my doubts, deciding to believe the gallery was indeed a fluke. "So, we're good?" I insist.

"Yeah, of course. I told you I was fantastic at one-night stands. I just need to get used to having several of them with the same person," he humors.

I grin, amused by how he puts it. "Let's eat."

Before I can pick up the plates, I feel his looming presence right beside me. When I questioningly glance up, he frames my face with his big hands and holds me in place while his lips softly land on mine. He doesn't devour me like he usually does but gives me a series of brief and intense pecks instead. My heart flutters with every single one. Then, he pulls away, enough for me to get lost in the lush green of his eyes.

"I missed you, red."

"I missed you too."

And I mean it this time. I'm not embellishing like I did with Eddie—not just saying it because I should. This is the undeniable and unaltered truth. I missed his texts, his touch, his humor, his face…

"Alright, food first, then you," he declares, releasing me. Before he moves on with it though, he gives me one last adamant peck.

We fill our plates with food and then move on to the dinner table between the kitchen and lounge space. "Do you want something to drink?" I offer.

"Whatever you'll have."

"I'm having water. If you prefer, I also have a couple of fancy Belgian beers in the fridge."

"Water's perfect, love."

As I return with a bottle and glasses, I sense how different the atmosphere is now. We're not quite there yet, but it's not as tense and awkward. Especially not when we start eating and the conversation flows.

"I never asked where you work," Jake realizes.

"NexaCorp's headquarters, on 7th Avenue."

"Is that the glass one shaped like an obelisk?"

"Yep. There's an amazing view from the 63rd floor."

"Which is where you are, I reckon?"

I nod. We talk about my work a little longer, and he listens, even though it must bore him to death. By the time I'm done explaining my situation, we're done eating, with nothing left on our plates but falafel crumbs and humus smears.

"Your boss sounds like a proper cunt."

I chuckle. "I painted an accurate portrait, then."

"What happens once you get his job? Will it make your life easier?"

"Probably not. If I do things the way he does, I would have fewer hours than I do now. But I'm too much of a perfectionist to half-ass the job like him. So I'd probably end up with more hours overall, and I can kiss goodbye most of my Saturdays."

"Then why are you gunning for it?" I can tell he's intrigued and curious to understand my reasoning.

"Well, the work will be more satisfactory, and I'll make a bigger difference. It's also one step closer to the top, which is my goal."

"And once you get to that?"

"I probably won't have Sundays either," I humor. But the joke doesn't land, leaving him even more perplexed. "Anyhow, what about you?"

"I'm making my way through the world one day at a time."

"Really? No big goals, no ten-year plan?"

"Not exactly, no. I've been working my arse off for fourteen years. But I'm doing the things I love, so I'm enjoying it. It's been working well for me so far."

"More than well, I'd say."

"Yeah, I'm good at what I do, and that paid off. I have gotten to a point where I get to tattoo whatever I want, and people will accept it as an honor. I can do all sorts of personalized projects, but those come at a high price."

"So, you're reserved for the elite?"

"I also take on smaller clients as long as I like the project. But yes, more than one celebrity out there has my work on their skin."

"Maybe I've already seen one, then. Do you have a particular style?"

"Insects."

"Insects?" I echo, surprised. I do remember seeing a beautiful beetle drawing at his place.

"Hyper-realistic ones. I get people from all around the world coming to get one done."

"That is such a peculiar choice."

He dismissively shrugs his broad shoulders. "I grew up with too many of those fuckers in Australia, so I was familiar with the topic. And when I was a kid, we had this neighbor in Brisbane who collected insects. He was a retired researcher who wasn't quite done with his passion. His home office was filled with hundreds of preserved bugs in cabinets, drawers, or even framed on the walls."

"Did you develop a fondness for them, then?"

"Not really. It's more of an appreciation. The varieties in shapes, sizes, colors… When you observe them well enough, some actually look like they come from another world."

I ponder on that for a moment. Yes, there are some beautiful insects out there. "My sister had a thing for ladybugs," I disclose fondly.

"You have a sister?"

Ah, shoot.I shouldn't have brought up Victoria. That'll ruin the mood. "I had a twin. She died almost ten years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's alright, it-it was a long time ago."

He reaches out, resting a hand over mine. "Still. It couldn't have been easy."

"No, it really wasn't."

"Can I ask what happened to her?" he wonders.

"Car accident. She was driving at night, hit a deer, and…" I shake my head, the pinch in my heart preventing me from saying more. Almost a decade, and it hasn't stopped hurting.

Jake arranges my hand into his and gently squeezes it as if to let me know I'm not alone. Desperate to change the topic, I ask, "What about you? Do you have siblings?"

"Not that I know of. My father was quick to disappear though, so who knows?"

I wince, too familiar with broken families, even though my parents remained together. "Was it just you and your mom, then?"

"Yeah. She was a nurse, earning a shit salary and working long hours. But she always provided me with everything a child needs."

"Is she still in Australia?"

"Technically, yes. She died when I was thirteen."

Oof. Now, I properly managed to ruin the mood. I try to find something to say other than the usual condolences—which are too generic to sound sincere. Before I have something, Jake chuckles.

"We're a depressing duo, aren't we?" he asks humorously. "Thank God we're better at fucking than small talk."

I giggle, impressed by how easily he diffused the situation. "We should venture into a more fun territory and leave our chaotic pasts behind us," he suggests in a flirty way.

"Oh, I know! I finalized the new contract!" I spring to my feet to go get the copies in my office.

"I said fun territory, red!" he protests.

"It will be!" I promise. The first time we did this was very entertaining, so this time will be too.

When I return with everything, he has brought the dinner stuff back into the kitchen and is on the couch. I giddily join him there, hand him a copy, and sit.

"You know we don't need a contract, right?" he carefully asks. "I'm a decent bloke, and I don't have to sign something to treat you right."

"I realize that, but I like the idea of it. It gives me a sense of security—like I'm in control. I know you would be the same with or without it, but having it is like a safety blanket."

He says nothing for a while, and I expect him to tell me it's ridiculous. The contract isn't because I don't trust him, but because it reassures me that we are legally obligated to behave well. And I also like the idea that we're bound together by it.

To my surprise, he focuses on the sheet he holds and says, "So, what's new?"

"Well, most of it is the same as before," I start. "I have changed the consent part to include a clear word. It's a dotted line, so we can decide on it together, but I was thinking of ‘Jessica' as a safe word."

He chuckles, his eyes skimming over the contract. "It works."

"Then, I also added more sexual practices so we can go through the entire list."

"I see that, yes."

"Now, I already told you about the no-condom addendum. I know you got tested and are waiting on the results, but we can get over the—"

"I got the results this afternoon," he interrupts.

"Really? That fast?"

"With the small fortune I paid to get them quickly, yes."

His impatience is evident, and I wish I'd done my part with that much zeal. "Hmm, I'm still waiting for mine."

A dark expression passes over his face. "Have you had sex with anyone but me since the test from last time?" My cheeks warm up, and I shake my head. "Then you don't need one."

"It was for the fairness of it."

"Love, I couldn't care less about fairness if it means I get to fuck you raw tonight."

Well, when he puts it like that.

"I take it everything came back negative?" I venture.

"I'm as clean as it gets, red."

He picks up the pen I came with, and when he sets the papers on the table to sign them, I suggest, "Do you want us to review the contract and the addendum, like last time?"

"No, I trust you."

Less than a minute later, everything's signed, and I added our safe word. I'm going over everything again when he moves close enough for his warmth to envelop me and his lips to drop on my neck. Tingles ignite everywhere he kisses, soft and patient, and I close my eyes and tilt my head to the side so he has better access. The caress of his tongue on the tender spot below my ear has me sighing.

I feel the papers being pulled from my hands, and I let him. When I open my eyes, I see how he sends them flying on the coffee table. And when I turn to face him, his hands cradle my cheeks, pulling me in for a famished kiss. Before I know it, I'm wrapped in his embrace, the dizzying graze of his tongue demanding entrance. The instant I indulge, he invades me like a conqueror. His enthusiasm makes me laugh, which comes in the way of our kiss.

"Are you by any chance impatient, Jake?" I giggle.

"I've been thinking about it non-stop since you suggested it."

Then he's kissing me again, one of his large hands slithering up my side to cup my breast. He pinches the hard tip of it, and I moan into his mouth. As always with us, we get caught in a loop of wanting more, and more, and more. Before long, I end up straddling him, grinding onto the hardness of his crotch.

"Bedroom," I breathe out, relinquishing the kiss for an instant.

His big hands squeeze my behind intently, which is bared, thanks to my bunched-up dress. I'm airborne in a split second, clinging to him while he carries me away from the couch.

"Where?"

Between heated kisses and the entwining of tongues, I guide him through the apartment all the way to my bedroom. Once we reach it, he drops me on the bed and looks down at me with hunger.

"Undress," I order, rising to my elbows to watch him do it. The command brings out a cursed smirk that has me pressing my knees together. He swiftly sends a hand behind his head to remove his form-fitting sweater, but that won't do. "Slowly," I add.

Now, it's arousal more than amusement that has his eyes sparkling.

"How bossy you are, Miss Kensington."

"You've seen nothing yet, Mr. Clarke. Now, undress for me—slowly."

This time, his gestures are deliberate and seductive. Wholly delighted, I gnaw at my bottom lip, preparing for a spectacular show just for me.

Lucky Gen…