Chapter 6

 

Lizzie

 

You ever wake up in the morning and just feel fantastic?

Yeah, neither do I.

I’m not a morning person. For me, getting up usually feels like being dragged limb from limb by the four horsemen of the apocalypse: Work, lack of coffee, , and my boyfriend taking up so much of the queen size bed that every second I stay I’m in danger of falling off.

Except today. Today I wake up feeling sensational.

I wake up before my alarm does, giving me plenty of time before work. And my body’s tingling with energy already, so I don’t even feel my usual addict’s desperation for coffee.

And my boyfriend? Well, we broke up. As I slide out from the middle of the bed, rather than tumbling off the edge, I feel like it may be the smartest thing I’ve done in a while.

I still need to pee, but some things just aren’t meant to change.

Entering my bathroom is always a tricky process in the morning, mostly because I don’t want to look at myself. Not before the sleep’s been rubbed out of my eyes, my hair has stopped looking like someone stuck it in a cotton candy machine, and a hot shower has taken the stiffness out of my muscles enough that I don’t move like a bad robot.

Today, though, I feel like I’ve woken up in somebody else’s body. Somebody fitter, happier, and a lot less self-conscious. I walk into my bathroom and face my reflection without fear.

My hair’s messy, sure, but it’s boutique salon messy. The kind of hair you can tousle and have it still fall in a nice shape. Either my good mood is making me unable to see the usual imperfections, or I really have woken up in a fairy tale. I check myself out with all the pervy lecherousness of an old guy at a dive bar.

I twirl, checking out my ass.

“Damn girl, you’ve got good legs,” I say to myself.

Even my breasts look bigger, perkier; or maybe it’s just the way I’m standing. I don’t know what’s getting into me, but I bend forward and arch my back like I’m on a photo shoot. Cupping my tits, pouting at myself in the mirror. It may be the most arrogant thing I’ve ever done, but I swear to God, I bite my lip at how good I look.

None of this is normal to me. I mean, I’m not ugly by any stretch - then again, neither are most girls in LA. My body is usually something that I fight with in the gym or at yoga class. It’s an enemy that tempts me evilly whenever I pass a fast food place or a bakery, only to punish me later with random zit breakouts and blotches. It’s like a fickle mafia boss that demands expensive clothes and creams or else it’ll embarrass me in public.

Now, it’s like some switch was turned on, and everything just feels right.

I run my fingertips slowly down from my throat, between my breasts, all the way to my navel, and the gentle touch reminds me of who flicked that switch.

Jax Wilder. The devastatingly beautiful man with the sharp suit and sharper lines. The alpha who walks with a swagger that could only come from a body as sculpted as his. The mouth of a wise-ass in the body of a caveman.

It comes back to me in flashes. The rough and dominant way he takes control; inside and out of the bedroom. The secure confidence of a man who always says the right thing. The sweet release of letting him take control…

And then I remember our arrangement. My proposition.

I pee, and get in the shower. Even the hot water and soap suds rolling down the curves of my body feel better than usual, reminding me of the way Jax explored me so expertly; hungrily, sensually.

And I basically gave him carte blanche to fuck me whenever, wherever, and however he wants. For the next week, at least.

I should regret that. I should be hearing my mother’s voice espousing the benefits of a stable, boring man. I should be wondering what my friends and colleagues will think if they heard about – let alone saw – the kind of things Jax will have me doing. I should be calling in sick so that I can buy some Ben & Jerry’s and spend the day crying about breaking up with my high school boyfriend.

But all I can think about is Jax sliding up behind me in his amazing pool and pressing his rock-hard body up against mine. Fucking me face down in the pillow, my ass in the air, until he’d completely worn me out. I never came that hard in my life.

I get out of the shower and dress. Slipping on heels that usually take me a whole morning to muster up the courage to wear, and a skirt I would usually only wear to a club. Today I want to look good. I want eyes on me.

Is this what sluts feel like? If it is, then sign me up. Hand me my regulation come-fuck-me boots and emergency condoms now, because this is some really good shit.

After putting on my make-up, and checking myself out one more time, I grab my purse and make my way to my car. I’ve been holding off looking at my phone, waiting for just the right moment to see if Jax texted or called – as he said he would – but he hasn’t. Instead, there’s just a message from Brody asking if I was alright. I text him back that I’m fine. I don’t have much to say to him.

Until last night, Brody was the only guy I’d ever been with. We dated in high school and stayed together all throughout college, even though we went to different schools. But now that we’re in the real world, the last few years have been difficult. He hasn’t been able to give me what I need. He was good-looking, sure, but never sexy. He worked hard, but was never really ambitious. When I brought up the future, he’d shrug it off or change the subject. He loved me, of course, but he never really fucked me.

We had sex, and it was nice. But ‘nice’ doesn’t give you a rush of blood to the head when you remember it. You don’t get wet with anticipation for ‘nice.’ You don’t wake up the next morning feeling like a goddess after a night of ‘nice.’

For that, you need a guy like Jax.

Brody was the kind of guy my girlfriends would sigh over and say, ‘I’d like someone like him’ about. The guy who’s great for your friends. The kind of guy whose idea of dirty talk was ‘Oh, this is new,’ or ‘Are you sure?’ The kind of guy who turns down sex because he’s ‘got work tomorrow.’ The kind of guy too polite to pull my hair. The kind of guy who eats pussy because he wants to do you a favor, and not because he likes it.

What was a girl to do? When my friends were out partying and fucking while the nights – and their bodies – were still young, I was having business-casual sex with a guy who would leave me hanging the moment his cellphone rang or one of his work cronies wanted to grab a drink on a Friday night.

Then, out of nowhere, Jax comes along. Jax: The guy who’s always hard. Jax: The guy who can work my body and make me scream like an electric guitar. Jax: The guy who agreed to teach me how to fuck, so that when I really do meet the guy I want to spend the rest of my life with, I’ll know how get him, keep him, and make the most of him. Of us.

I know I shouldn’t, but I check my phone constantly as I drive to work. Along with the buzz I’m still feeling from the night before, I’m bursting with anticipation of what’s about to happen. This is our first day of ‘lessons,’ and my imagination is running wild with the things Jax will have me doing tonight.

As I get out of my car and walk to work I’m thinking about his glorious dick, and about how much I wanna suck it, stroke it, take it inside me and control it like a joystick to heaven. There’s a smirk on my face like I know something everyone else doesn’t, and I don’t care. Today, I’m not the kind of person who’s going to hide.

You ever see those cartoons where when something wonderful happens they show it by having birds and animals fly around, or inanimate objects come alive and sing? That’s kind of how I feel, except instead of cute and fluffy things I’m seeing sex everywhere. I can feel guys undressing me with their eyes, sense them turning their heads for a second look as I walk past. I walk with my head up, long strides, letting my skirt dance teasingly up and down my thighs. They say the best things in life are free, and right now, I certainly feel free.

I step into the elevator and lock eyes with a cute young guy standing there. No more staring at the ground shyly for this girl. It takes a second, but he realizes I’m out of his league and looks away. I smile with satisfaction, push the button for my floor, and wait.

Nothing could kill my buzz right now. Nothing except Brody showing up and acting like an asshole. Which, of course, is precisely what happens.

“Oh, hey Lizzie,” he says, as he pops up out of nowhere and steps beside me into the elevator.

“Brody? What are you doing here?” I ask slowly, afraid of the answer.

He smiles in that dishonestly humble way he has, and suddenly I remember so many things that I never allowed myself to hate about him.

“I work here. Our office just expanded, so we own the top two floors of this building now.”

“Oh, wow. That’s…great.”

He nods way too enthusiastically, like I’ve just given him a huge compliment. Brody was never very good at picking up my emotions.

“Yeah, it really is. I’m one of the heads of the new department.” He looks me in the eye, “With all the benefits that entails.”

I look at him with an expression that is one-part disgust, one-part surprise, and three-parts kill-me-now-please. This is the man I spent almost half my life with. A man who refers to his company as ‘we,’ and who thinks telling me he got a pay raise is going to make me fling my panties off with excitement. For the first time ever, I’m actually hoping that Brody’s phone rings and takes his slimy gaze away from me.

I’m saved the torture of his attention by more people entering the elevator, including Brody’s buddy, a shady-looking guy with a pot belly and a sly grin that makes you wonder what kind of horrendous white collar crime he’s just gotten away with.

“Brody! First day here, looking forward to it?”

“You know me, I’m always looking forward.”

I cringe and step backwards into the shadows, praying to all the major religions that this elevator works both smoothly and quickly today.

“You’re not still thinking about that redhead from last night?” Pot-belly chuckles, smacking his lips in a way that makes my stomach turn. “Wow. She was really a knock-out. I mean, a girl dresses like that, you know what she wants. But her? Damn. She was really a ten. Kudos to you, my friend.”

“Well, that’s why they pay me the big bucks,” replies Brody – my ex-boyfriend, I’d like to remind you one more time.

“What was her name?”

“You know what,” he says, making no effort to bury the conversation, “I don’t even know.”

They laugh loudly together, and I suddenly feel the need to take a long shower with bleach.

Pot-belly leans in to Brody’s ear and says in a conspiratorial, low murmur: “What was she like?”

Brody’s eyes shift a little as he makes sure I’m within earshot – not that he’s keeping his voice down when he speaks.

“Let’s just say that she was very quick and to the point…”

They laugh again, and it grates on every pore of my skin like a Chinese torture device. The elevator dings on my floor number and I push through the crowd like it’s every woman for herself.

“It was nice seeing you again,” I quickly say, as I step out.

“We’ll be seeing each other a lot I imagine,” he says, his face still plagued by that grin like it’s a zit he can’t get rid of.

“Yeah,” is all I can say, and I turn away as quickly as I can.

I walked out of that elevator a different woman. Suddenly, my killer heels are hurting, and the skirt I’m wearing feels way too short for a workplace. Suddenly, I’m staring at the ground a few feet ahead, wondering how I walked with those long, easy strides a few minutes ago. Suddenly I feel like I’m not wearing enough make-up, and that I really should have combed my hair a lot flatter.

I get to my desk and slump over it like I’ve already worked eight hours, then I grab my head in my hands and breathe deeply, trying to suppress the urge to cry right there in the middle of the office.

What the hell am I doing? What the hell am I going to do? Wasn’t there a circle in hell devoted to making people listen to their exes’ sexual exploits? Right next to the one where you’re forced to see your ex every day at work? If there wasn’t, it should be there, because that was the most awful elevator ride of my life.

Maybe I really should call in sick. Maybe a tub of Ben & Jerry’s, a DVD of Casablanca, and a party-size margarita is what I need. Maybe I’ve made a terrible mistake.

My head is still in my hands when I hear my phone vibrate in my purse. It takes another minute of deep breathing before I’m ready to pull my head out of my hands and check it.

It’s a text from an unknown number, and all it says is:

Are you ready for your first lesson?

Jax: The man with perfect timing.