Chapter 4

 

Jax

 

Just like the way you dress, the place you live says a lot about you. Not least when you’re one of the most in-demand architects on the West Coast.

I’m flying down the winding roads of the Hollywood Hills, Lizzie in the passenger seat of my car, which- for the record- is black. The window’s open, and the air is flowing through that wild hair, sending ripples over that red dress – and I’m over here trying my best to keep my eyes on the road.

We don’t say anything. I can still taste her on my lips, and I can tell by the way she rubs her legs together she’s still feeling the glow. When my house comes into view, the landscape lights highlighting every perfect feature, she looks right at it.

“Beautiful,” she says, just before I turn the wheel and take the exit which leads up to it.

“It’s mine.”

“Right,” she scoffs.

I guide the car up the driveway and pull it to a stop in front of the entrance. When I turn to Lizzie, she’s got her hand over her mouth.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

“Are you kidding me?” she says, getting out of the car and walking around the front, looking up and taking in the curved walls and tinted glass of my Hollywood home. “What is this? Are you some kind of Bond villain?”

I kill the engine and walk up the steps.

“Come inside, I’ll get you something to drink. You’re gonna break your neck if you keep looking around like that.”

She follows me up the steps and into the house. I look back at her, and she’s got one of those Disney princess things going on, hands to the side, looking around like Cinderella at the ball.

I push a few buttons on a wall panel inside, and the bluish light turns to a warmer yellow glow, then a couple more, and the tint on the windows disappears to reveal a view that looks out over the hills of LA. The lights of the city stretching out into the distant darkness, until they merge with the stars in the sky.

“Oh my God,” Lizzie says, in a deep exhalation of breath. “Did you drug me or something? Am I hallucinating? This is crazy…”

She follows me to the lounge, where I open a cabinet and mix up a couple of drinks. When I turn back towards her, she’s standing by the window, looking out like she’s waiting for Santa Claus to show up.

I hand her the glass. She takes one look at it and breaks into an indignant laugh.

“Ok. Ok. Time out,” she says, turning around, looking up, then looking back at me over her shoulder. “How did you know this is my drink?”

“That’s what you were drinking when I first saw you at the bar, right?”

She turns to face me, searching my face for signs that I’m joking.

“And you remember?”

“You seemed rather fond of the lemon peel.” I open my hands and shrug. She looks at her drink, laughs into it, then takes a long gulp.

“Why do you act like that?” I ask.

“Like what?”

“Like it’s so strange for a guy to remember what you drank at a bar. Like you’re surprised a guy would show interest in you. Like you don’t belong here.”

“I don’t belong here. This is…”

I cut her off. “You belong here.” I try holding her gaze, but she looks away.

“No, I don’t.”

She may think that now, but I’m about to show her how wrong she is. All night long. I walk over to her slowly, and she sips from her glass, like she’s hiding behind it. I put my hand on the small of her back and turn her towards the window.

“See that view? See how it just knocks you in the gut when you first see it? And no matter where you look – the curve of those hills over there,” I trace my fingers down her spine, “the colors that trail off there,” I brush my hand up her arm, “you just keep finding more layers of beauty?”

“Yeah,” she says, wistfully, then looks up at me.

I say nothing. She knows I’m talking about her.

“Damn,” she says, pulling away and breathing deeply. “This is too much.”

“What? Gin?”

“No, this,” she says, gesturing at the view, “you, everything! The perfect house, the perfect view, the perfect suit, the perfect face-”

“The perfect girl.”

She steps back. “Stop! Wow. Do you always have a line?” There’s frustration in her voice now, but I know it isn’t directed at me. There’s something else going on. Maybe it’s the breakup with that douchebag.

I try for an honest reply. “Only when I’m feeling inspired.”

She downs the last of her drink and takes a deep breath, her breasts heaving softly against the top of her dress.

“I just broke up with a boyfriend I had since high school. And I’m not even sure why. I thought he cared about me. And then I realized the most fun I’ve had these past few months has been going to bed at 10 pm after watching Animal Planet while he’s out schmoozing and doesn’t even invite me to come.”

I walk over to the drinks cabinet and start mixing her another drink. I hand it to her, and she immediately gulps from it. Her breathing is finally calming down, and so is she.

“You feel better?” I ask.

She shrugs. “A little bit.”

“Ok. Well now that you’ve gotten that off your chest, how about I take you on the tour?” She nods, and I hold out my hand.

I guide her through the house, taking my time, showing her the art I’ve collected during work trips around the world, the furniture and toys I pick out with all the taste you’d expect from a person who designs homes. I watch her run her hand across the granite counters and textures on the walls.

“So how did you get this place?”

“I built it. I’m an architect.”

She breaks out that killer smile again – the one that kicks a little mischievous look into her eyes, and says, “Of course you are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, teasing.

“Oh, nothing.” But she’s still smiling.

I save the pool area for last. It’s on the other side of the property, and has a view that stretches out towards the ocean. Lights shine from the bottom of the aquamarine water, and the wood for the furniture and paneling around it comes straight from Japan.

When she sets her eyes on everything she exhales again, and shakes her head.

“This is…amazing.” She gestures at the view, the pool, the house behind us.

“Thank you.” And I’m not saying it like a jackass, either.

Seeing her at a loss for words stirs up something I haven’t felt in awhile: pride. Not the pride that comes from doing a job exactly to a client’s specifications, or making a ton of money at it, but the kind you feel when something you’ve created has the power to awe.

I bring her to stand in front of the pool, looking out beyond it to the rolling ocean.

“So I take it your other boyfriends have never shown you a view like this one?”

She turns to me, and the snarky look from earlier is completely wiped off her face. “I’ve only been with one guy. I mean, unless what we did at the party counts, which I don’t really know if it does ‘cause—”

Hold up. “One guy?”

“Yeah,” she says, shrugging. “I told you we’d been together since high school.”

This poor girl. She’s completely inexperienced.

And I know just what to do with her.

“That explains a lot,” I say. I realize my words have come out all wrong by the look on her face.

“What?” she says, now indignant.

I backpedal. “No. I mean, why you’re so unhappy.”

She crosses her arms. “You know, you’re such a…”

I wait for her to finish, but she just shakes her head.

“You want me to finish that sentence for you? Handsome guy? Good dresser? Great cocktail maker?”

“Manwhore,” she finishes. But I see the sparkle in her eyes.

“Oh!” I say, clutching my chest like she shot me through the heart.

“I just wish you’d tell me one thing about you that isn’t perfect,” she says, genuinely pleading. “One thing that isn’t a Ferrari, or an amazing house, or a snappy line, or Prada—”

“Tom Ford.”

She smiles, then her face fades into an expression of helplessness.

“Just one thing. Just so I know you’re human. Come on.”

I roll on my heels a bit, take a few steps away, and look back at her.

“Ok. I’ll tell you one thing. So you know I’m not perfect. Or a robot. Which I’m not.”

She brushes her hair aside and stands straight, like she’s bracing herself for some truth.

“I’m… Uh… I’m never satisfied. I got a Ferrari – now I want a Bentley. I got this house – I’m buying an apartment in Paris. I got a hundred girls I could call tonight – I want you.”

She bites her lip.

“Always looking for perfect. Unsatisfied. But I’ve realized something.”

Lizzie takes a step towards me and tilts her head. “What’s that?”

“Perfect… is a moment. Not a life. You don’t get to perfect with long conversations and a shitty job and a high school sweet heart. Perfect comes, and it goes. Perfect is a moment. It comes, you make the most of it, and then you let it go.”

She’s hanging on my every word, and I realize: I’m not bullshitting right now. And there’s something intoxicating about just saying what I think, and the way she gets exactly what I’m saying.

I step back before continuing, dropping my voice to a low, stroking growl. “Perfect is me, watching you, take your dress off right now, and dive into the pool. Your naked body shimmering under the ripples like a dream. Your hair flowing like you’re falling from the sky. That’s perfect. Anything else – is being unsatisfied.”

We stand there, watching each other. Her lips parted, like she wants to say something but can’t. Doesn’t know what to say, and knows that the time for words is over.

In a gesture as elegant as some ballet, she pulls her dress up over her head, whips it to the side, and dives.

Seeing her near naked makes my whole body get hot. I take off my clothes in seconds, watching her supple body slice through the water. Spinning and turning like a Renaissance nude.

I watch her for a while. Then I slide off my underwear and I dive in myself. We see each other underwater, circling each other, brushing past each other softly in the cool, blue-lit pool. She makes to swim away, and I catch up to her with a couple of powerful strokes, then trace my hand up the back of her leg, skimming her ass, then stroking over her back. She pulls up at the side of the pool for air, facing out across the ocean, and I come up behind her, my arms clutching the pool either side of her.

I kiss the back of her neck, down across her shoulder, and she pushes eagerly back into my chest. My hand finds her midriff, and searches downwards.

She spins around and we look at each other, so close we can feel the heat of each other’s bodies. The sound of our heavy breathing mixing with the distant sound of ocean waves against the rocks.

I kiss her. Not like she kissed me. Not tenderly, or innocently. Not like the first kiss at prom, but ravenously, like a man with a hunger that comes from somewhere deep inside himself. I’ve been thinking about this woman for days, working myself up to this, rolling this lust inside myself until it’s turned into something I can’t even control.

I thrust my tongue into her mouth, tasting once again that sweet, heady aroma of crimson wine. My body presses her against the side of the pool, and she traces delicate fingers between my pecs, down to the outline of my abs.

Her fingers press against the head of my cock, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from entering her. I push away from the side, still clutching her closely, and we spin into the center of the pool, our bodies intertwining and touching like entangled snakes, unsure where one begins and the other ends.

I pull her to the steps, and she stumbles over the first few, before I pick her up in my arms. She squeals eagerly, putting a hand against my cheek and stroking the stubble as she searches for my lips with hers.

“I’d invite you back to my place, but it seems you’re already here,” I say.

“Take me upstairs,” she pants. “Now.”

I carry her to the bedroom. It’s big, with glass walls on either side that look out over the ocean on one side and the city on the other. The bed is shallow, and I’m so revved up I nearly throw her onto it. Our bodies are still dripping wet, but I don’t care. I can barely think, her body’s turning me into a madman.

I climb across the bed toward her and peel her lacy underwear off. When it reaches her feet, she kicks it to the floor. I grab her hair in an expert fistful. She moans, tilting her head back as her eyes start to close. I stop to watch her and she looks at me.

She’s soft and feminine under my hands, her beautiful body weak against mine. I roll her on top of me in one swift motion and push her head down towards my hard cock, sticking ramrod straight up into the air. I guide her mouth to it, and she wraps her lips around the head. They suck gently, and I hold her just on the edge, just where her lips can kiss it, until I can hold it no more. I want her wetness, her hotness. I force her to take in the rest, pressing my cock into the side of her cheek. Her teeth graze the sensitive curves, but I’m so hot for this girl even the mild pain feels good.

With her head under my palm, I guide her thrusts, forcing her into my rhythm. I pull her ass around so she’s sideways in front of me, then land a sharp, loud smack on the round cheek. She moans, her body jerking. I rub the redness that emerges on the erotic curve of her backside, and as her mouth pumping gathers pace I smack her again. Harder.

I find her pussy with my fingers, exploring the walls with my index finger, my thumb gently pressing against her asshole, and my middle finger pushing up against her clit. I roll my knuckles in and around her holes with the expertise of a piano player. My other hand is still pulling her mouth over my cock, and I have her entire body under my control.

I’ve had my share of blowjobs, but right now this woman is making me forget my own name.

I tease and stroke until her pussy is dripping with frustration, until the itch that needs to be scratched is so deep inside of her that she’s screaming for me to get inside. I pull her head off my cock, and it’s like she’s a different person. A different Lizzie. Mouth open, begging, desperate, insatiable, panting. Hot gushes of pleasure throbbing through her body.

With a single push I throw her down, head-first into the pillow, and brace myself behind her. In a well-practiced move I slide a condom out of the bedside drawer and have it over my cock in seconds. I heave her hips up, putting her ass in the air and making her squeal. The head of my cock against the lips of her pussy.

“Fuck yes,” she moans.

It’s tight, but so wet that I slide inside like she was made to fit me.

Her pussy squeezes and pulls as she feels my length reaching inside of her, scratching that itch, pushing further until it’s pressing up against the sweet spot.

She moans again, low and loud, and as she whips her head around to look at me her face contorts into one of unrestrained lust. I smack her ass once again, and press my other hand against the back of her head, pressing her face back into the pillow, as I fuck her harder.

“Mmmm,” Lizzie groans, and it’s all I can do to stay in control of myself.

She moans louder, her body throbbing, her ass rolling up against my hips. I lean over, bringing my muscles in contact with her back, pushing my dick deeply inside of her. Her pussy starts pulsating in waves against my cock as she starts to come. I bring my lips close to her ear, and whisper in breathy, husky tones, “Perfect. This is perfect.”

I slam into her harder, feeling the hot wet pulse of her orgasm tightening around my shaft, and as she screams my name there’s no way I can hold back any longer.

I let myself go, releasing my lust for this girl, pent-up for days, out of my balls. It rushes out of me like it’s crashing through a brick wall.

I throw my head back, savoring the moment, then look back down at Lizzie. At the curves of her waist, at the relaxing muscles of her shoulders, and roll onto my back beside her, trailing my fingers along the flushed handprints on her ass.

She’s still breathing hard, her eyes pressed up against the pillow, her ass still jutting out.

I love this moment. It’s like climbing a mountain, having your breath blown away, and then just letting it all sink in. It’s like hitting a hundred in your car, and then just laying off the accelerator a little, feeling the zen of the speed. Nothing can ruin those kinds of moments, except…

“Was it good?” she says.

I hate that question. Partly because it’s a really stupid one – the sweat on my face and the curve in my lips should be all the answer she needs – and partly because it’s the kind of minefield question women love to ask.

Luckily, I’ve made my mistakes, and I give the only answer I ever give anymore.

“It was some of the best I ever had.”

I couldn’t even tell you what the best I ever had is, but Lizzie was damn good. She smiles, and snuggles into the pillow, but she’s got that cat-like smartness in her eyes again, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned tonight, it’s that this chick is a lot more trouble than she looks.

“It was okay,” she says before rolling over, away from me. “You weren’t so bad.”