Chapter Twenty-Four

That report damn near killed me. I can't remember when I last had to work this hard, and I hope I won't have to ever again.

To my dismay, my suspicions were on point, and Ralf and his team didn't take the assignment as seriously as they should have. I'm the one leaving a day earlier, so I'd be the one blamed if it's incomplete. This means my team worked twice as hard as his, and I worked five times harder than anyone else.

But at least it's done, and I can take my Friday off without getting penalized for it or compromising the promotion I'm after. Alas, it means finishing at two in the morning and not getting to see Jake before taking off to the Hamptons for the weekend.

I briefly saw him twice since the Edward incident, which is way too little. He doesn't complain about it, even though I can feel how reluctant he is whenever he has to leave earlier than he normally would. We've agreed that I'll try to return not too late on Sunday and go straight to him. I'll even spend the night at his place, and since I have my car with me, I'll drive to work on Monday morning and keep my weekend things in the trunk.

With everything going on, I almost forgot it was my birthday. But I received a text from Jake a little after midnight, while I was still up in the NexaCorp tower, that read, "Happy birthday, red." That energized me enough to push through and finish everything within the next couple of hours. Then, this morning, I woke up to a text from Hana, also wishing me a happy birthday. Now, I'm not expecting texts or calls from anyone else.

I don't have a Facebook account that'll remind everyone of it, and I don't have any friends close enough to care to set a reminder for it. As for my parents, they tend to forget that today isn't just Victoria's day. Eddie won't message me either, that's for sure.

After his unexpected visit, I hired a moving team to pack up every last thing he left behind and deliver it to the place he shares with his friend. My apartment feels a little empty now, but I'll quickly fill the spaces left by Eddie's complete disappearance from my life. That void is only material though, because mentally and physically, I've never felt more fulfilled. Which is insane, because I want even more of Jake despite him being infinitely more than any man I've had before him.

I'm just done packing my things when my phone buzzes from a text. It's Jake again.

Wombat Guy

Have a safe drive today, love. Text me when you get there.

Me

I will. And I'll let you know when I have an ETA for Sunday!

Wombat Guy

Perfect. Happy birthday again, sweetheart.

Today doesn't feel as emotional as I expected, and I think it's because of him. He's been distracting me from my gloomy thoughts, even more than the report I've been working on. Every free moment my brain has is devoted to Jake—daydreams that involve him, fantasies of what else we might try together, or reruns of moments and conversations we've had. He has become a solid obsession, and I'm not even trying to fight it. It brings me too much joy for that.

Because I barely ever use my car, it looks brand new despite having it since I moved to New York after Harvard. It's an Audi A5 Cabriolet I gifted to myself for passing the bar. Because I don't feel safe driving with the roof folded down when I'm stuck in traffic, it's still on when I roll out of the building. About an hour later, once the city is in my rearview mirror, I make a quick pit stop to let it open. Then, I'm on my way again to East Hampton.

The drive is smooth but feels longer than it is. Probably because I'm apprehensive about spending the weekend with my parents. It's never a walk in the park, but it gets even worse around this time of the year. And later today, there's the "little" gathering Mother organized in loving memory of Victoria, which I'm also not looking forward to.

I feel guilty enough as it is. I don't want to face everyone who ever loved or cared for her.

I'm making another pit stop when I receive an additional birthday text, which genuinely surprises me and warms me up inside.

Eli

Jake told me it's your day, so happy birthday, Genny bean. I'll buy you a drink at the DC when you come back (or five, so I can finally beat you at pool). Enjoy your weekend while I'm consoling Jake over here ;)

Me

You'll never beat me. I'm a pool goddess.

Maybe I have more friends than I thought, after all.

The massive gates of the Kensington Estate feel ominously unwelcoming when I stop in front of them. I count to sixty in my head, building up more courage with each number, and then press on the intercom. A few seconds later, a cold "Yes?" emerges from the speaker.

"It's Genevieve," I say with a clear voice.

No one answers, but the gates slowly part. I drive through the three-hundred-yard lane and stop the car in front of the house. Or maybe I should call it a modern castle, because this can't be called a mere house.

I'm just done taking my Louis Vuitton duffel bag out of the car when someone from the staff comes out to welcome me. "Miss Genevieve, I hope you had a good drive," John greets me.

"I did, thank you."

"Happy birthday from the staff, miss."

"Thank you, John. Are my parents home?"

"Your father is in the city, but your mother is in the ballroom."

When he reaches out for my bag, I let him take it. I know better than to do the job meant for "the help" and get another earful for it. Before I forget, I send Jake a text.

Me

Got here in one piece. If you don't hear from me in the next twenty-four hours, send the SWAT and the Special Forces.

Wombat Guy

I'll be the one leading it, kicking doors down, whooping arses, and taking names.

Me

I might not text you just to see that happen.

Wombat Guy

How am I supposed to worship you more if you're not even here and won't reply to my texts?

Me

Good point.

Okay, the butler is looking at me weirdly. Gtg see my mother in the ballroom.

Wombat Guy

Butler?!

Ballroom??!

I stifle my laughter as I walk into the house with John at my heels. While he heads toward the bedrooms with my things, I venture to the large room we use for receptions. Sure enough, Mother is there with an army of people from whatever event service she hired. As I suspected, this isn't a little get-together. This is an opportunity for the Kensingtons to show off their wealth while networking and getting sympathetic condolences from the guests.

Because I was in a deep state of shock when it happened, I didn't realize back then that Victoria's funeral was meant for my parents more than it was for her. They invited people who never knew Vicky, work relations who couldn't possibly refuse the invitation, clients, partners… My dissociative state blinded me, but that fact still sits wrong.

"Good morning, Mother," I salute Vivienne when I reach her.

"Genevieve, you've arrived." Since she can't help herself, she scans me from head to toe, her eyes unforgivingly precise. "I see your work situation hasn't improved since I last saw you," she notes with pinched lips.

"It actually got worse, thank you for noticing."

Either she doesn't notice the sarcasm in my voice, or she doesn't care because she continues with, "Good thing I have a hair and makeup team for both of us. You'll look more presentable."

Isn't maternal love the sweetest thing in the world?

I force a smile on my lips and look around the room. Tables have been arranged, enough to host about a hundred people. The caterer's team is setting porcelain plates, crystal glasses, and silver cutlery on the white tablecloths, and the event team is adjusting floral arrangements, setting candelabras, and finding room for various decorative trinkets.

Victoria would have hated all of this. She always felt uncomfortable when our home was turned into a venue for one of our parents' receptions. There's nothing more invasive than dozens of tipsy people venturing into the house after too much French wine and fine food. My twin wasn't a very social person, easily triggered by crowds, so it was a lot worse for her than for me.

"The first guests will arrive at five," Mother tells me. "Maybe you could go lie down and get some rest. I'm not sure makeup will be enough for those bags under your eyes."

I don't even say anything because I actually want to go to my room and never come out of it. So, I smile instead and give her a nod. "Great idea. I will take a quick nap and join you for lunch."

"Oh, we are not having lunch. You know how I get before those receptions. My stomach is in knots."

Well, that's on me for not taking the time to eat before leaving. Maybe I'll sneak to the kitchen once I'm done with my much-needed moment alone.

I walk out of the ballroom, welcoming the stillness that fills the rest of the house. It's as silent as ever while I make my way to the private wing, where my old room is. When I pass the door of Victoria's room, I momentarily stop my course and lay a hand on the golden plate with her name engraved on it.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, hoping that wherever she is now, she knows just how much I mean it.

A few steps later, there's the same plate with my name this time, and I push the door open. The space still bears traces of my younger self, even though it isn't as bad as it used to be. Something switched in me the day Vicky died, and I matured overnight. I still remember how I ripped my One Direction and Twilight posters. Now, all that's left to testify for their existence are small pinholes in the wallpaper. On the shelves though, I still have the books I used to love, CDs, and trinkets.

With a sigh, I lie down on the bed, staring emptily at the white ceiling. Right there, I used to have a Jacob Black poster. A smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I realize I wouldn't say no to a Jacob Clarke one.

I swear we must be connected because my phone vibrates in my back pocket, and I just know it's him.

Wombat Guy

Should we set up an hourly check-up or something?

Me

Maybe. I already want to leave :(

Wombat Guy

That bad? You haven't even been there for half an hour.

Me

You'd understand if you knew my mother.

Wombat Guy

As someone who lost his mum way too young, I tend to remind people to be grateful for having a mother at all.

My heart drops all the way to my guts, and I suddenly feel terrible for even complaining to him. He's had it so much worse than me, and he doesn't deserve my entitled ranting.

Me

Crap, right. I'm so sorry, Jake.

Wombat Guy

It's alright. I finished mourning her a long time ago.

Me

Still, it was insensitive of me.

Wombat Guy

Are you still with her right now?

Me

No, I'm alone on my old bed. She sent me here to rest because I apparently look like a corpse.

I chew on my bottom lip, hoping he isn't annoyed with me—which he would be entirely entitled to. Instead of a text coming in, it's a call. I pick up and press the phone to my ear.

He opens with, "Alright, maybe I was wrong about your mother."

I giggle, relieved. "She's something, that's for sure."

"Honestly, if corpses looked like you, necrophilia would be a much bigger kink."

This time, I let out a conflicted laugh. "What a weird and twisted compliment."

"I excel at those."

It's so good to hear his voice that I can already sense my anxiety dissipating. But it's also weird to be here and talk to him. The most that ever happened in this bed were a few self-inflicted orgasms with tentative fingers in the middle of the night, and on the other side of this phone is a man who's made me come harder than I ever thought I could, who's licked every part of my body, and who can set me on fire with a mere gaze.

It's like two worlds are colliding together.

Now, I kind of understand why that was on the list—raunchy sex in a childhood bed. It feels taboo, forbidden.

"Did you know," I ask, "that among the things I removed from the list, there was one about having sex in my childhood bed?"

"Really?"

"Yep. ‘Have you ever had the nastiest, naughtiest sex in your childhood bed as an adult?'" I quote from the quiz word for word.

"And why did you remove it from the list?"

"Because it's a hundred miles away, and you can't meet my parents."

"Fair."

We say nothing for a moment, and an idea grows and grows in my mind. We could do two birds with one stone since we haven't checked phone sex off the list yet.

Hesitantly, I say, "Do you think we should—"

"Abso-fucking-lutely. Let me lock the door of my office." His eagerness makes me giggle, but then I let out a curse, so he asks, "What?"

"My door doesn't have a lock."

"Really?"

"My parents argued we shouldn't have anything to hide from them, so it was unnecessary."

"That sounds healthy. So, what do we do?"

I think about it for a moment, glaring at the door. I really could use some serotonin right now. And it's my birthday, after all. "We do fast," I decide.

I distinctly hear a lock being secured on his side of the line. A thrilling shiver runs through me, my heart racing under my ribs. My free hand tremblingly flies to my waist, where I undo the button of my jeans. This is insane. The man has the ability to make me do the most unhinged things. But as I tug at the waistband to lower it, even if I know my mother could come in at any point and not even knock, like always, I can't stop myself from wanting to do this.

He must hear me struggle to push my jeans down because he commands, "Put the phone on speaker and set it next to you."

Smart. I do just that and then shove my pants and underwear all the way to my knees. "Is your pussy bare?" he asks.

"Yes. Is your dick out?"

I can hear his smile when he answers, "Yes."

"How—how do we proceed?"

"Well, normally, we take it slow and get ourselves in the mood, but time is pressing. So, I will tell you what to do, and you will obey. Alright?"

Just the thought of it makes something throb inside me. "Yes."

"Good. Since I can't see you, don't hold anything back, red. I want to hear every moan, every whimper, every breath… You give them all to me. Is that clear?"

"Yes."

"Good girl."

My walls clench again.

"Do you have a sex toy hidden somewhere in your old room?" he asks.

"No." Because Mother used to snoop around our rooms whenever we were away, I only invested in one after I left for Harvard.

"Then fingers it is. What are you wearing, love?"

"Partially jeans and a blouse. Oh, and that green lacy lingerie you like."

"I like all your lingerie. I need you to open the blouse, Gen."

"Completely?"

"Yes. And when you're done, you'll pull your bra up and free your beautiful tits."

My fingers shake as I follow his instruction, tension growing in my core and chest with each button I undo. If someone comes in right now, I'll never be able to set foot in this house ever again. Which, admittedly, wouldn't be such a terrible thing.

"There, done," I say once my breasts are exposed to the open air.

"Are your nipples hard, red? Are they all pebbled and perky, begging for my tongue to play with them?"

"Yes. I can even feel them tugging."

"Hmm… Touch them. Pinch them with your fingers. Twist them between your thumb and index. You love when I do that, don't you?"

My hands don't even need my brain's command to move into action, my entire being devoted to Jake at this moment. "You know I do," I mumble, surprised by the small electric shivers my fingers trigger.

"Now, pinch them hard enough to hurt, Gen. Imagine I'm biting them." Again, I do what he asks, ripping a small moan out of myself. "Hmm, such an obedient girl. Gently caress them with your thumbs like I would with my tongue, soothe the pain away, sweetheart."

"Jake," I whimper, pressing my knees together to fight the urge growing inside me.

"We'll get there in due time, red. But perfect tits like yours deserve some attention. This morning, I rubbed one out to that pic you sent me back then. You have such beautiful nipples."

"Hmm," I moan, twisting my tips again between my fingers, wishing he was doing it instead.

"Alright, I want you to keep fondling your left breast, but move your right hand between your legs." He gives me enough time to comply. "Are you wet?"

"Yes…"

"I bet you are." I hear a spitting sound, and I imagine him with a dollop of saliva in his hand that he coats on his erection. "You're always so wet, love, flooding my cock with your cum when you orgasm. It drives me fucking mad, you know that?"

"Jake, please… What do I do?"

"Your index and middle fingers. Run their tips over your soaked slit. Get them all glistening for me, red."

"God, I'm so wet."

He groans on the other side of the line, and it makes my clit pulse with need. "Circles—draw tight circles around your clit, Gen. But softly at first. Tease yourself. You say you hate it when I do that, but it's a lie, isn't it? Don't you love when I edge you to the brink of insanity just to make you shatter even harder?"

My back arches against the mattress, my fingertips as light as feathers on my needy little bud. "Mmh, yes."

"The way you beg, red, how you plead with me to let you come… It's the sexiest thing in the world. Are you still playing with your nipple?"

"Yes. Jake, I need more."

"How much more?"

"Everything. I need everything."

"That's my greedy girl. Go ahead, press harder. Give yourself those little shivers of pleasure that make you jolt."

How well he knows me should be worrying, but I'm too absorbed by my hand twisting and pulling the rosy tip and the other drawing tight circles between my legs. My breathing is irregular and shallow, and I can hear his too, which comes out in deep, heavy pants.

"Jake, I need—aah, I need more."

"You need my cock, don't you? You need my big fat cock to fill your tight little cunt."

"Yes! Oh God, yes!"

"Then use your fingers. Three of them. Bury them deep inside your pussy, red. Inside your tight, wet, and warm cunt."

I pinch my nipple hard enough to make it hurt again and lower the hand between my legs to align it with my opening. I don't waste any time following his order, shoving my fingers inside me as far as I can. I made a tactical error when I didn't remove my jeans entirely because I can't spread my legs enough to take in every knuckle. Still, it's better than nothing.

"Aah, Jake!"

"Does that feel good, red?"

"Yes!"

"As good as my cock?"

"Not even close. But—Aah. It feels good."

"I wish I could see you right now, writhing and fucking yourself like the horny woman you are, desperate for release."

He sounds so tense, speaking through a clenched jaw as he fucks his fist. I can actually hear it, the rhythmic sound of his hand fisting his magnificent dick and the silver chain that bounces on his wrist. "Thrust them in and out, red. Fuck yourself with them like you wish I was fucking you. I bet you want it hard. And fast. You want to come all over my cock, don't you?"

"Jake, I'm so close! Oh God, I need—"

"Let go of your tit. Suck on the fingers of that hand. Make them all wet and ready for your clit."

While I keep up with the intense pace between my legs, I bring my index and middle finger to my lips and welcome them against my tongue. I suck on them like I would suck on his cock if he were there, bringing them all the way to the back of my throat. I don't even have to force the moans that I make around them, completely entranced and lost in the moment.

"Now bring them between your legs. Touch your clit. No circles this time, but left and right, over and over again. Fast."

His commands are scattered, rough words thrown into the phone as he closes in. He's almost there, just like me.

"Ahh! I'm gonna come!"

"Good. Keep the same pace, red. Keep fucking yourself with your fingers, keep rubbing your clit. God, you're so fucking wet I can hear it."

Just like I can hear the intense pace of his hand as he fucks himself.

With my eyes tightly shut, I keep doing everything he demanded and only think of him. Using his groans and pants, I build a mental image of Jake vigorously fucking his fist in his office, pumping his big, hard, and pierced cock like a possessed man. I can see it perfectly, down to the precum that coats his tip and the letters inked on his knuckles. In my vision, his eyes are closed, and he imagines me in the state of absolute abandon that I am in.

That's what gets me to finally tilt—knowing he's doing precisely the same with me.

With a soft cry, I reach the peak he brought me to, my toes curling and my back arching off the mattress as my muscles flex under the intensity of my orgasm. Around the three fingers that I keep pumping inside me, I can feel my walls clench, wetness gushing out of me and turning my insides all creamy and slick.

"Yes! That's it, red. Keep going, keep fucking yourself. Don't. Fucking. Stop."

His broken sentence ends with a deep and mighty roar that I know all too well because I've heard it uttered right into my ears so many times. He's following me in bliss, his cum spilling in thick, white ropes. I don't stop, pushing my orgasm to the verge of discomfort as I ignore the way my wrist hurts from the repeated motion, my fingers cramping.

"Aah, fuck," he grunts between whimpers, his breathing as erratic as mine.

When I can't take it anymore, I pull my fingers out of my spasming intimacy and lay my drenched hands on each side of me, completely spent. For several long seconds that turn into minutes, we don't say anything, my heaving breaths matching his. I have never, in my entire life, given myself such a phenomenal orgasm. Especially not with just my fingers, which usually turns out so mild and unsatisfactory. But this… this was almost as good as when he fingers me himself.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he whimpers.

"Happy birthday to me."

"And to me, at this point. Holy fuck, that was…"

"I know. Heaven's sake, my entire body feels like Jell-O."

"I can't even get up right now. Fucking Christ, the things you do to me, woman."

"Well, ditto."

We fall silent again, still struggling to recuperate. When my phone blips next to me, I expect it's some random notification. I throw a vague look at it though, and I see it's a message. From him. Puzzled, I pick up the iPhone and open the text. He sent me a picture.

No, he sent me the hottest picture I have ever seen in my entire life. Sexy enough to make my insides spasm one last time.

I must have made a sound, a moan or something, because he cockily asks through the speaker, "See what you did to me?"

Oh, I do. I really, really do.

In the picture he took, I can see his softening dick with the piercing at the tip catching the light, but the main star is his big and strong hand. His palm and fingers are sticky with semen, white and thick against his calloused skin.

"Did you lose your tongue again, red?"

That brings me back to the present. I kick my feet to get the jeans to lower, so I can spread my legs better. "Yes. It's on its way to New York to lick all of that off you."

He lets out a surprised laugh. Trying to be discreet so he doesn't see it coming, I bring the phone between my legs, struggling to figure out how to take a decent picture of my drenched folds.

"Do you want me to save it for you in a vial or something?" he offers.

"Don't tempt me. I'm so hungry right now."

"Then go eat something."

"I will."

The first picture I snap is out of focus, so I delete it and try again. This one isn't perfect, but at least better, so I hit send.

A second passes. Two. Three. And—

"Fucking hell… That's not fair, red."

"You started it, and I finished it."

"We clearly both finished."

His wit makes me laugh until I hear a sound outside. Shoot, right. I'm busy pulling my pants up when he asks, "Can I print and frame it? I promise I won't let anyone else see it. But your pussy is a fucking work of art, and after you come, it's a masterpiece."

"This is for your eyes only, wombat. It doesn't leave your phone—ever."

"But I need something to start my Genevieve Kensington shrine."

I giggle again. "I'll give you a lock of my hair if you want, but not that."

"Well, now I want both."

Another sound echoes from the hallway outside, and I have to accept that this fun moment is coming to an end. I lower my bra and rebutton my blouse. While I hate being sticky like this, I like the idea of not washing up right away, so I can feel the remnants of what we did for the next hour or so. Until I have to get ready for Victoria's memorial.

"I'm sorry, but I have to go," I reluctantly say. "Thank you for this, Jake. I feel a little more ready to face the day now."

"Oh, trust me, it was my pleasure, red."

"Yes, I heard. I'm not sure when I'll be able to talk to you again because things will be intense over here, but do keep me in your thoughts and prayers."

"Always," he chuckles. "And I'm here if you need to vent."

"Thank you for that."

We linger a little longer, not ready to let go yet, and a knock on his office door forces us to cut the call. I roll to the side with a long and satisfied sigh, observing the room. Being here brings back many painful memories, but Jake and I just worked on making a new one. I'm sure that steamy phone call will be my first thought every time I pass this door now.

That's a lot better than memories of the sister who died because of me.

The rest of the day goes exactly as I expectedit to—disastrously. Especially since relatives arrived shortly after I did, which means that avoiding people becomes particularly hard. Unless I remain in my room, which doesn't even work because my aunt comes to see me there, as well as three cousins.

When I hear the distant sound of a helicopter landing on the dedicated space at the other end of the estate, I become even more adamant about disappearing and never resurfacing. My father, Gerard Kensington, has returned from his affairs in the city. We don't have a flag to hoist up whenever he's home, but maybe we should—it's always a big deal that rarely occurs. The Queen of England herself was never as busy as Father, which is saying a lot.

The best course of action is to sneak out of the house and head to the beach, where I sit in the sand and watch the lazy waves roll in and out. If it were my choice, I'd stay here the entire weekend. I lose track of time, listening to the seagulls and watching the hypnotic motions of the water. Victoria always loved the beach, whereas I grew jaded since we lived right by it.

At some point, I hear someone making their way onto the sand, approaching me from behind. I don't look because I don't care who it might be. Either way, they'll be an inconvenience. Only when I discern a man's silhouette sitting down beside me do I rip my eyes from the sea to look at him.

It's my brother, whom I haven't seen in months. Because he's twelve years older, Vicky and I were never close to him. He understandably had different interests than spending time with his baby sisters, and then left when we were seven to study business at Columbia in the city. Every time I see him, I'm reminded of how much he looks like our father. He's his spitting image, with light brown hair, angular features, and the blue eyes we all share. And it seems like he'll follow the same prestigious path as our genitor, given how involved he is in the Kensington empire.

"Hey, Gerry," I greet him, somehow glad it's him. Better my broody brother than Aunt Felicia, who never shuts up.

"Hey, bug. Happy birthday."

The nickname brings back a surge of memories I wasn't expecting. Our old nanny used to nickname Victoria and me "ladybug" because of the red of our hair and the spots of our freckles. But as we grew, it became clear I was no lady, so I became "bug" while my twin kept the original pet name.

"Thank you," I tell my brother. "Where are my favorite nieces and sister-in-law?"

"Your only nieces and sister-in-law stayed in town."

"How lucky."

He nods pensively, his eyes on the waves. "We found out last week that Camellia has generalized anxiety disorder, so we didn't want to put her through all that stress."

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that, Ger." I knew that his second daughter was having some issues, but I never thought it was something this serious. He looks clearly affected, so I wrap an arm around him and lean in closer, laying my head against his shoulder. "I'm sure she'll be fine," I say hopefully. "She's got the best mom in the world and an okay dad."

The teasing earns me a small shove and a look down as he grins and shakes his head. "Yeah, she'll be okay. Her therapist says we caught it early, so she's optimistic about us getting solid results before the year ends."

"That's amazing, Ger."

We exchange smiles, don't say more, and watch the waves together. He doesn't ask how I'm doing, and I prefer it that way. The answer to that is unknown even to me.

"When did you arrive?" I ask after a while.

"With Father. We had a meeting early in the morning."

"I see. Did it go well?"

He nods, eyes still on the ocean. "Our inheritance just got a lot more profitable."

The way he puts it makes me laugh.

About ten minutes into this weird and silent bonding between siblings, he clears his throat and stands. "Mother sent me to fetch you. She wants to make sure you're ready on time."

He extends a hand to help me up, and I take it, sighing. Begrudgingly, I pat my behind before we return inside.

Let the show begin.