She grows stiff as I run down my complaints, but I keep touching her, keep reminding her with my big body and presence that I’m here and she’s safe. I whisper kisses across her cheek and forehead, nuzzling her as animals do in the wild, providing comfort to those in their pack that need it. She leans into my touch, needing it as much I need to give it.
“Would you let me worry about Dr. Terrance? If I can arrange it, would you consider it?”
“I don’t know.” She worries her lower lip between her teeth. “I’d rather just go into the bedroom and have you distract me with sex.”
I cup her face tenderly and press a soft kiss to her temple. “You don’t have to ask twice.”
She races to the bedroom and is in bed before I make it to the doorway.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
NATALIE
In the end the decision to move in with Jake is easy. I don’t want to leave him and he doesn’t think this place is safe. I can’t think or function when I don’t feel safe. Whether he intended it or not, my apartment is no longer the haven it once was.
But Jake offers me a different safe harbor and I want to try. For both of us.
In order to make the trip, I take my medication. Under the layer of drug-induced calmness, I feel my anxiety flutter its wings, like a butterfly trying to escape a net. He doesn’t say a word when he arrives to pick me up, dressed in a sweater and the skirt he asked for. He only leads me down to the lobby and out the front door. I’m in the back of a car before I know it. Before the driver starts the car, Jake’s mouth is on mine. Surprised and distracted, I lean into him.
He attacks me. His hands and mouth are all over me. The anxiety of being in a moving car is flush against the immediate arousal. Between my legs, I feel the smooth slide of his prosthetic. I widen my eyes and he laughs.
“You okay with this?”
I nod. It’s a surprise. He’s never touched me like this before. It’s strange, erotic, and almost forbidden. It almost distracts me from my anxiety. He doesn’t tell me to breathe or relax. He’s jacking up my tension, but moving my focus from being afraid to being aroused. The shock of it works.
He doesn’t do anything but cup me. His rough mouth and right hand are very busy, though. He places my lax hand against his hard denim-covered shaft. I squeeze it and he springs to life.
I don’t even get the chance to undo his jeans as we come to a stop and he bustles me out of the car and up the stairs, faster than I can turn my head. The double doors of the vestibule slam shut behind us and then we’re inside the foyer. His left hand is under my ass and his right is pulling down my pants.
Before I can take another breath, he’s shoved his way inside me. The broad head of his staff thrusts deep. Each labored breath I take isn’t because I’m scared but because I can’t get enough. I can’t get enough air. Enough feeling. Enough of him.
He slams me against the wall. The force of his thrusts shakes the table beside me. Pleasure grabs me by the throat and throws me down into a kaleidoscope of sensation. Somewhere I hear a cry followed by a low, raspy groan. He moves against me faster and harder until the coil of tension that wound itself inside me, worrying about how I was going to get here, breaks into a thousand tiny pieces and I fall, tumbling hard. I clutch him, gripping him as if he’s the only safe port in a very real storm. And he catches me, whispering into my ear that he is there for me. Always.
“I’ve got you,” he repeats over and over as I shudder from pleasure and something more.
He allows me to slide from his palms and drags his heavy, turgid shaft out of me.
“Did you come?” I ask, feeling stupid. I was so caught up in my own pleasure and inside my own head, I didn’t pay attention.
He nods and presses a kiss against my sweaty forehead. He busies himself with the condom. I wonder when he put it on. I don’t even remember. Before he came to pick me up? In the car? He’s very good at distracting me.
“Welcome to my home,” he says, and takes me by the hand.
He leads me from the entry hall into the living room. I think this is called the parlor floor, and the tastefully decorated room, consisting of two off-white sofas flanking a black iron and marble fireplace, overlooks the street.
“Here’s the oatmeal and brown toast living room.” He gestures into the room. I note the deep brown rug and splashes of yellow on the wall in the form of a painting. It’s abstract and right now I can’t really concentrate enough to figure out what it’s supposed to be. Is it a horse? A cow?
Gently he leads me into the room, but I stop him to lean down and take my shoes off. I don’t feel right walking on his acres of gleaming oak floors with my shoes. He doesn’t stop me, because I know he wants me to be comfortable here. He told me to make it my home too, and I don’t wear shoes in my home.
I allow him to lead me down the hall. “Bathroom.” He flicks open a door, and I catch a glimpse of a small bathroom with white chest-high wainscoting. I nod to let him know I’m ready to move on. Across from the bathroom are stairs leading up and down.
“The kitchen is on this floor in the back. This place has five floors. The bottom two are my offices. There’s a steel door between the offices and the living space. Only I know the code.” He tugs on my hand and we walk down one flight. The door takes up almost the entire space, floor to ceiling. There is no knob. On the wall to the right is a square black pad and a visible camera.
“The camera is viewable upstairs. I installed a program on your laptop that allows you to receive the internal house feeds. There are sound and visuals on every entrance and opening in this place. Some clients like the cameras to be hidden, and in a retail setting that makes sense, but from a security standpoint it doesn’t. The cameras tell anyone who comes here that we’re watching them. Most folks will decide that they’ll go two houses down or two houses up to a place that doesn’t have such visible security. This door only opens with my biometric handscan.” He places my hand on the door and nothing happens. Then he lifts his right palm and spreads his fingers. While I’m watching, he moves his fingers in a pattern, index finger down, pinkie to the right, thumb in the circle, and then the index finger twice more. I hear a buzz and click, and then the door slides open. We’re standing behind Jake’s desk.
“Shit, this is like a spy movie,” I say. The door and opening mechanism is cool enough to shake me out of my post-orgasm, drug-induced stupor. He grins like a big boy with his fun toys and I can’t help smiling back at him.
“Yup. You want to see?” He opens his hand in invitation. Do I want to go into his office? I do, but . . . his office is full of people and the door could open at any time. I can feel my heart start to beat a little faster and I step back up the stairs, one step and then two.
“Another time?” I say, but I’m really asking, Is it okay if I just stay in this pretty house and never leave?
“No problem.” He swipes his fingers down and the door thuds shut. “Up the stairs and I’ll show you the rest of this joint.”
“The rest” consists of a big kitchen on the other side of the living room. We walk up a flight of stairs and when we stop on the landing, he directs me to the right. Although the shape of the room isn’t the same—mine is basically a square, and the room here has a curved nook because the townhouse front has a sort of turret built into the side—I stare in amazement. The queen-sized bed—the same size as mine—is topped with pink and white pillows and a rose quilt, just like mine. There are several windows, but all are covered with shades that keep the light and street noise out. It’s only bright in here due to the lamps and the crystal chandelier. I can’t speak. I’m so overwhelmed.