Jake turns me away and then leads me down the hall into the other room, which has a fireplace and is set up to mimic my living room and office. It has a similar sectional and there’s a corner desk. “I figured we could put your treadmill over in the other corner. I couldn’t make it exactly the same without knocking stuff out, but I figured you’d like the wet bar here. I added a hot plate, a convection oven, and a microwave, and if you stay longer, we can have a full kitchen installed here. You don’t have to go downstairs to the kitchen if you don’t want to. Above you are two more bedrooms. One is my sister’s. I’m going to introduce you to her later if you’re okay with that. The top floor is my bedroom with an exercise space.”
His hands are tucked into his pockets and he rocks slightly on one foot. It’s as uncertain as I’ve ever seen him. He’s nervous, nervous about making this perfect for me.
Even with the dullness of the diazepam, I’m overcome with emotion. My knees feel weak and I barely make it to the sofa before collapsing.
“It’s so much, Jake.” But I can tell he wanted to do this, so I don’t make the mistake of telling him that he shouldn’t have gone to such effort. I raise my arms to him. “Hold me,” I ask. He drops down next to me and gathers me up. Into his neck, I whisper my paltry thanks: “You’re never getting rid of me.”
His hold tightens. “That’s the idea.”
I lick the salty skin on his neck and revel in the shudder it produces. “Take me into the bedroom and let’s see how well your performance holds up.”
He powers up to his feet with me in his arms and strides down the hall. “You’re on my turf now. Let’s see how your performance holds up.”
The sad fact is I can’t keep up with Jake, and after the second orgasm, I beg for him to get inside me and when he does, I nearly pass out with the pleasure.
He leaves me snuggled under the covers while he goes to use the bathroom. I’m getting used to having sex with him while he wears his pants. It’s actually kind of deliciously sexy to be completely undressed while he’s half clothed. It’s as if we’re doing something naughty and getting away with it.
“Okay if I go downstairs to work?”
I nod. “Okay if I lie like a slug in my bed and fantasize about you?”
He grins and bends down to stroke my face. “Write down a list of your fantasies and we’ll check them off.”
“How do you know that you’ll want to do them? Maybe one of them is you wearing a French maid’s costume.”
“I look damned good in a skirt. It might be too much for you. Besides, we both know how that fantasy ends.”
“How?” I raise a haughty eyebrow.
“With the feather duster up your ass and my cock in your pussy.”
I squirm under his hot gaze. “I’ve never done that before. Maybe I won’t like it.”
His hand pulls down the covers to stroke between my legs. “Hmm,” he muses. “You’re getting turned on just by the mention of it.” He slips a finger inside me. “Let’s feel how wet you are.” I leak all over his hand. With a low satisfied chuckle, he withdraws and then sticks his finger into his mouth and sucks as if he’s trying to absorb every drop.
God!
I reach for him, but he shakes his head with regret. “Sorry, I really do have to go.” He bends down to kiss me. I can taste a faint hint of myself on his tongue. “Later,” he murmurs.
With that, he picks up his knit shirt and tugs it over his head and is gone.
Not removing his clothes does make it easier to fuck and go. I lie for a few more minutes in bed, making a mental checklist of fantasies before I force myself to get up. I spend more time exploring.
There’s a completely empty walk-in closet and a bathroom with a shower/tub combo, a sink, and a toilet. The single window is again covered.
Out in the hall, I find two other doors. One is the entrance to the elevator and the other is a storage closet. I don’t open either door.
Inside the office/living room, there’s another set of shades covering doors that Jake had explained earlier led to a small balcony. I take a seat at the desk and click on the video feed program. Each feed is labeled and my computer screen is big enough that I can watch eight cameras at once. Jake’s place has a lot of doors. The back cameras show the small courtyard where nothing is happening. The courtyard must be on the same level as Jake’s office. The front door has two views, one of the stairs and one of the street.
I watch the street view for a long time. Cars pass by. A cab stops and drops off a passenger, and I tense but relax when I see the person go to the opposite side of the street. A black SUV pulls up and parks illegally. The driver, a big man with a shaved head, steps out and trots down the stairs. Hurriedly, I switch over to the camera marked “TSE,” which I presume stands for Tanner Security Entrance. The man walks in without knocking. I don’t hear a thing.
Jake was right that I wouldn’t even know that there were people below unless I wanted to. Part of me wonders what it’s like down there, but as more people arrive and leave, with me tensing each time, I’m glad I don’t hear them. Eventually I have to turn away from the cameras.
I open my emails, which consist of a few fan queries that have been screened by Daphne’s assistant and then two emails from Daphne. I don’t read Daphne’s emails. I know what they are going to say. I answer the sweet fan emails and then open my manuscript because Daphne’s right. I won’t have fan emails if I don’t put out another book. And my amazing fans deserve more work than I have done.
I force myself to write and then, unlike before when I’ve taken diazepam, I find myself pouring out words, fun words, fun dialogue, an action scene. I barely notice when Jake checks on me later, inviting me down to dinner. I’m too engrossed to break away. When I finally look up from my screen, hours have passed and I’m both hungry and exhausted.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
NATALIE
The smell of coffee and fried batter lures me off the third floor, down the stairs to the bright kitchen with its huge marble counters. Off-white rustic cabinets run the entire length of one side of the long room, with a long counter space breaking up the storage on top and the bottom. In the middle is a center island large enough to hold five barstools. Across are more cabinets and all the fancy chrome appliances that a person would need and then some. At the back of the long slim room, a small nook overlooks the postage-stamp-sized backyard—which, by Manhattan standards, is actually sizable. Jake is ensconced in one of the chairs with the Times spread out in front of him and a plate empty of anything but a few traces of syrup.
A girl is standing in front of a large six-burner stovetop pouring batter into an ancient-looking cast iron pan, which is a perfect snapshot of the townhouse—a blend of new and old but all sturdy, workable items. She must be Sabrina. The similarity in their features is unmistakable.