Chapter4
She had a headache; she knew it even before she had fully woken up. Where was she last night? Did her shift end so late? Her eyes popped open, hoping she had gotten home safe. The sheets felt different; the pillow underneath her head felt too soft. Her vision focused, and she saw skylights above her and a chandelier hanging above. This was not her room. She slowly sat up, her head throbbing from the pain.
Where on earth was she? Some hotel room? She checked into a hotel room? She leaned against the headboard, hoping she was somewhere near her place and that she didn’t plop a few hundred dollars for one night’s stay.
She heard a noise, and then she realized someone was beside her. She gasped, looking down. She was naked. She quickly drew the bedsheets close to her body, grabbing as much fabric as she could. Her breathing had quickened, and she gingerly grabbed a bit of the blanket to see who the person was hiding underneath it.
It was James. It was James! She gasped in horror, wildly looking around. Where were her clothes? How was she getting out of here? Did they—?! She saw him stir, and she didn’t move, almost forgetting to breathe.
“You up?” he mumbled at her.
She held her breath as he opened one eye, looking at her while still lying down. He didn’t have a shirt on. Was he naked? His mouth was filling up with drool. Not too romantic, not too handsome to look at. He heaved himself to sit up, wiping the sleep off his eyes.
“You look shocked,” he commented with a sigh. He massaged his neck, looking at her like nothing was wrong, and then he leaned against the intricately carved wooden headboard, closing his eyes.
“What the hell happened?” she whispered.
“You were drunk, you didn’t tell me your address, so I had to drive back to my place.”
“Why would you do that?”
He opened his eyes, irritated by her question. “Would you have preferred that I leave you sleeping on the pavement?”
“No, but—”
“There you have it.”
“But I’m here, without clothes, sleeping beside you.”
“And you think something happened?” he smirked. “I assumed you weren’t the type. And I’m not one to take advantage of any intoxicated lady.”
She drew the sheets closer to her, her grip tightening. She couldn’t remember anything. Wasn’t she passed out? She remembered stumbling out of the bar, and James holding onto her. And that was that. She didn’t feel violated, but she wanted to get out of wherever this place was. She wanted to stand up, but she was naked.
James sighed and stood up, revealing that he had been wearing sweatpants all along. She breathed an audible sigh of relief, and James found himself grinning.
“Relax,” he told her, “I laundered your clothes last night.” He saw the look in her eyes. “Even your underwear.” He couldn’t help but notice the little birthmark she had on the right side of her hip, a few shades darker than her skin tone, curiously shaped like a heart…
She felt warmth spread to her cheeks. “You took off my clothes.”
“While you were unconscious, yes,” he told her matter-of-factly. “Trust me, if I was so sex-starved, I could have found someone else to bed, and not you.”
“Then why did you sleep beside me?” she asked him, her eyes narrowing.
“You could have puked or something, and I wouldn’t want that. I have the sheets changed every week,” he told her.
A lot of things were running through her head. Couldn’t you have put clothes on me? Did you stare at me, you pervert? What else did you do while I was knocked out? She took a deep breath, closing her eyes.
“I’m making breakfast. There’s a bathrobe inside.” He pointed to a door that was ajar. “Just use your smell to track the kitchen.”
He hopped out of bed, leaving her alone.
So, she was in his house? This was his bedroom? It didn’t look very personal. It looked like a grand guestroom of sorts. The bed was large enough for three people to lie in comfortably. The room was larger than her entire apartment, not counting the bathroom. She hadn’t even stepped inside the bathroom yet. Stepping out of the bed, she checked if the blinds were drawn. The door was closed. Aliya quickly made her way inside, her eyes widening at the sight of the bathroom. If the bedroom was grand, the bathroom was its equal.
Done in a sandstone finish with expensive-looking fixtures, there was a large tub that could fit two people, and a separate area for showering, encased in glass. The counter by the sink was stocked with expensive toiletries, lotions from France and perfumed talc from Italy lined in neat rows. A thick cotton robe hung outside of a wooden cabinet. She needed a shower, she thought.
The warm water was welcoming, and days from now, Aliya would think it was one of the highlights of getting to know James. The bathroom was one made out of dreams—she knew it was an exaggeration, but she had never seen such a beautiful bathroom in her entire life until today. Even the shampoo, conditioner and bath wash were placed inside crystal bottle pumps. What little hangover she had disappeared after her shower.
There was a sleek hairdryer hanging on its own rack, and imported wooden combs were placed inside a drawer, devoid of dust and hair. She took her time, seeing it was just seven in the morning. There were spare toothbrushes inside unopened packaging, and she used one, remembering she had gross morning breath from her alcoholic misadventure. Slipping into a robe (Did cotton count matter with robes? she thought), she set out to find the kitchen. How big was this place? She marveled at the sight of the hallway as soon as she stepped out of it.
Looking out of the window, she saw a magnificent courtyard, complete with an Olympic-size pool and foliage that gave it an oasis-feel. The ceiling was high, and the staircase to the ground floor was done in finely wrought iron and marble. French windows adorned the house, and monotone colored curtains framed them, casting a cheery glow inside the house. There was a room beside the staircase, a library of sorts. She pushed the half-ajar door completely open. It was filled with books, a mixture of hardbound and paperback copies. On another wall, she saw a shelf that went from floor to ceiling, filled with trophies and medals. She walked in closer, wondering whose it was.
Every medal and trophy had his name on it. James Warren Douglas III. He wasn’t lying about his name at all. The trophies ranged from championships in quiz bowls to lacrosse and regatta and even fencing. So, he had graduated from Princeton with honors. Was this guy for real? He was like the poster boy for every old-moneyed family in the country, a poster boy for success and achievements—the all-American boy-next-door whose house was not your typical next-door house.
Looking around, she spotted a few photographs in gilded frames. She walked up to one on the large oak table. It was clearly a younger James with a cheeky grin, standing beside a woman who looked chic in all her 80s fashion finery. Her eyes narrowed, and then she realized it was one of those actresses her mother had admired back in the day. Deborah Walcott. She had been the TV ‘it girl,’ with her wide smile and sparkling grey-blue eyes. Deborah had been all over the news before, until she disappeared from public view. No wonder he was such a good-looking guy. With a mom like that… She found no pictures of his father in the premises, though.
Sighing, Aliya figured she was taking too long being here. She followed her nose. The house was heavily influenced by Mexican architecture and interiors, and she had a feeling this house was even older than her father was. Paintings adorned walls, adjacent to each other, and bouquets of fresh flowers were on tables. She could hear a fountain somewhere. The house was too quiet. Did he live all alone?
“Enjoyed your tour?” he asked her as she walked into the kitchen. The kitchen was beautiful as well, with its colorful Spanish tiles and exposed wooden beams, plus it smelled wonderful.
She could only nod. She was more mesmerized, though, but she didn’t want to refute the master of the house. She cleared her throat. “What are you making?”
“And I’m guessing you want to help,” he said, raising his brows.
“No, not really,” she said.
“Good. This is my kitchen, so I have creative control over it,” he said with a grin.
Aliya could see he was deft with kitchen utensils, expertly cutting up chives, mixing these into an egg batter. He was cooking a full breakfast meal for two. Was he for real? She said nothing, trying to soak in the sight. Here he was, still shirtless (save for the apron), wearing sweatpants that hung around his hips. She could see his defined abdominal muscles with the obliques to match. For a moment, she regretted not sleeping with him…
“Grab something to drink for us,” he told her, noticing her gaze.
Aliya opened the fridge to find it neatly stocked with everything she’d ever wanted in her own fridge.
“How’s your stomach?” he asked her.
“It’s okay,” she said.
“Great. Use the blender; grab some of those oranges on the island.”
She looked to see a bowl overflowing with fruits. It was as if she was inside some architectural digest, where everything was picture perfect. All he needed was a dog and maybe some supermodel wife.
Quietly, she began to separate the peel, dumping in the oranges inside the blender directly. Fresh oranges. Wow. And she had been so used to the boxed juices that obviously lied when they put “100% real orange juice.”
“I just brushed my teeth,” she suddenly murmured.
The corners of James’ mouth turned up, and he gave a short laugh. “You know what they say about orange juice? Beer before liquor, never sicker.”
“Toothpaste before orange juice, dead,” she finished, and her face broke into a smile, the first smile in hours.
He grinned, grabbing a plate and placing omelets on it. The toast was ready by then as well. “Might as well eat first, huh?” he told her. She nodded, bringing glasses filled with fresh orange juice.
The spread looked like a continental breakfast when he was through, and there was a host of other pastries apart from the toast he had prepared for them.
“You’re a bad drinker,” he told her in between bites. He was careful to speak without food in his mouth; it was something his mother had taught him never to do.
She nodded. “I am. I think I told you.”
He shook his head. “Nah, I figured it out for myself.”
She stopped eating halfway through her meal. “Who are you, really?” She eyed him, watching his reaction. He was as calm as the morning air, drinking from his glass. He looked at her without batting an eyelash.
“I already told you my name.”
“Does this always happen?” she asked.
“What always happens?”
“You take girls out for drinks, and once they’re drunk, you bring them to your place, then have a normal breakfast like nothing happened?”
“I take ladies out for drinks, and if they’re ever drunk, I bring them back to their respective homes. We’re having a normal breakfast because nothing happened between us,” he told her, his tone changing.
He looked cross, and it was a look that she didn’t like. It scared her.
“Don’t accuse me of doing something inappropriate to you. It’s not in my nature. I’ve done my best to take care of you, breakfast included. If I was an asshole, I’d have left you drunk and defenseless.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Barely,” he huffed. “It’s almost nine in the morning. I understand you have work. The laundry room is two doors down that hall,” he said, jerking his thumb towards it. “Your clothes are there, including your virginal lingerie.”
Heat rose up her face, and she forced herself to eat what food remained on her plate. The orange juice still tasted bitter, as bitter as the bile that rose up her throat. What a wonderful way to ruin a Sunday morning in a stranger’s house.
“You still didn’t answer my question,” she mumbled.
“Don’t mumble,” he snapped at her. “It’s irritating; you’re not a child.”
Her eyes widened, and she swallowed some saliva. She felt her cheeks redden again, unable to believe he had been that rude to her. She knew this wasn’t her house, but she had to assert herself.
“I’m James Warren Douglas III, eldest son of John Warren Douglas II, CEO of Douglas LTD, which has been in the real estate industry for more than fifty years now, sixty-one to be exact. My mother was the actress Deborah Walcott. I’m an only child with three half-siblings. I’ve lived alone in this house since my mother’s death when I was 15. Will that be enough to satiate your curiosity?”
She didn’t say anything. It stung. That was a part of his personal life, a life she didn’t want to invade. But she was curious and tactless.
“Get dressed,” he told her irately. “I’m bringing you back to your borough.”
James watched her as she walked away from him, heading for the laundry room. His easy-like-Sunday-morning mood had turned foul. She was feisty in her own way, but he wouldn’t have any of it. He was boss through and through. He had wanted to enjoy his morning breakfast with company he had thought was decent enough. She could hold a conversation, but she couldn’t hold her tongue.
He had taken into consideration that her thoughts might have changed after finding out where he lived. She didn’t seem like a gold digger; in fact, her pride and focus on studies made her decline $1000 already. Whatever her inane reasons were, she was immature. What had ever made him consider her as a lunch date, anyway? The fact that she was attractive? In fact, she was the one who stood out that day; that was all. Her tawny skin had taken his attention. And her smile—ha, there was a multitude of women who had lovely smiles. She was not an exception to this… but her smile. Damn, that smile. Damn that infectious smile.
She came back, wearing her freshly dried clothes, the same ones from last night. “I can take the bus,” she announced.
“Take the bus?” he scoffed at her. “You’ll have to walk under the heat of the sun for fifteen minutes to get to the nearest bus stop.”
“Then I’ll walk,” she told him, her chest heaving up. She was having an argument with a stranger. He was still a stranger. He had told her something intimate, and yet, he was still someone she would never get to know. Bringing her back to her borough? He made it sound like she lived in the slums. The jerk, the ass...
“You’re an idiot,” he told her.
She spun around. “There’s no need for name-calling,” she told him, her eyes narrowing. She could feel her temper flaring.
“I wasn’t name-calling,” he said, lifting his chin high, his eyes dancing with sarcasm.
“Oh, so it’s a damn fact?” she said, walking up to him, her palms clenched. She didn’t care if she was being rude now. There was no excuse for him to be so arrogant, regardless of his social status or his achievements.
“Careful with the words, Aliya Jones,” he told her, cocking his head sideways. “You’re tempting my temper.”
She shook her head, looking at him with disgust. How could she have thought he was attractive? All those endearing thoughts about him dissipated. He was a disgusting human being who had absolutely no regard for anyone else’s emotions but his own. Aliya took a deep breath and spun around, determined to get away from this morning hell.
He grabbed her arm and spun her around. Aliya almost stumbled, but he held onto her other arm before she could.
“Are you for real?” she sputtered.
She looks great even when she’s angry, he thought, unable to let go of her arm. He knew he was hurting her a little, but what would a tiny bruise do to her? It certainly wouldn’t affect her work.
“Let go of me,” she said between gritted teeth.
“What if I don’t?” James whispered, his body moving closer to hers.
“I’ll scream,” she whispered back. “I swear I’ll scream.”
“No one’s here,” he told her with triumph.
She didn’t feel any fear, except it emboldened her. This was a game she intended to win, since he was clearly interested in games. This CEO wasn’t getting away without a scratch…
“I’ll hurt you,” she told him, her chin rising.
“How?” he asked her, his face just millimeters away from hers.
Aliya found herself backing away, but he pulled her close to him, her chest hitting against his. His eyes were ablaze... with what? They were smoldering with something that wasn’t anger, cold grey-blue eyes that signaled another emotion far more dangerous than anger. She found herself cemented in that spot, unable to look away from him.
In a heartbeat, he violently grabbed her closer to him, his hand around her waist. She gasped aloud, shocked at the sudden turn of events. Without another word, he crushed his mouth onto hers, and he felt her lips purse, unwilling to let him kiss her. Aliya squeezed her eyes shut, hoping this wasn’t happening, hoping she had the willpower to overcome his intention. His tongue traced the corners of her lips, she squeezed her eyes shut tighter, and the sensual trail made her knees buckle.
Stop it, she thought, stop it. His hand cupped her chin, and he continued to kiss her, teasing her mouth, sensual and sensitive. He bit her lower lip, and she let out a tiny gasp. James took advantage of her half-open mouth, and he kissed her, a hot-mouthed kiss that she couldn’t help but respond to.
Slowly, her tongue began to ease into his mouth, and he couldn’t help but smile, triumphant. Their mouths began to mate, and he could feel her eagerness rising. No one could resist him; he knew this.
Her cheeks had begun to feel warm, and he began to grow hard. Slowly, his other free hand held onto her back, moving down to her waist, and he pulled her closer to him. Slowly turning her around, he hoisted her on top of the island counter. Aliya’s thoughts of resistance dissipated the moment she tasted him.
One finger moved down her chin, tracing her jaw, and she couldn’t help but shiver. His touch went down to her neck, lingering on her collarbone as he continued to kiss her. She held her breath the moment his finger dawdled on her collar, toying with a closed button. She didn’t stop him; she welcomed it, in fact.
James’ hand found her bra, and he slipped in a finger, caressing her skin as lace rubbed against his own. Her breasts heaved at his touch, and she found herself completely unbuttoning her own shirt as he continued to caress her.
He looked down, seeing her chest exposed, excitement filling him. He squeezed her breasts harder, kissing her with more ferocity. Her palms were on his chest, and she felt his muscles ripple every time he moved. Aliya’s hips gyrated against his groin as their tongues feverishly mated.
His tongue moved down from her lips to her neck, and she let out a low moan as he bit onto her earlobe. He pulled her bra down, not caring to take it off, squeezing one rigid nipple. She let out a louder moan, and he cut her off, devouring her mouth with his kisses.
Her body shuddered as his hands grasped her thighs. She didn’t care how they were going to do it, as long as they did. Quickly, Aliya unzipped her pants, struggling a bit, and James pulled them down for her. She held onto his hips, enjoying the warmth of his skin on a cold morning. She had always wanted to try rough morning sex…
His eyes grew dark as she pulled down his sweatpants, and they hung around his ankles. He began to play with her, parting her plain black panties. Her pulse rose as she felt his fingers touching her.
She was wet, and she began to pant the moment he slipped in his finger. Her back arched a little as he played with her clit. She bit her lower lip, stopping herself from making too much noise. What if someone was here? What if someone was going to walk into them? It thrilled her.
“You can scream, you know,” he whispered to her as he positioned himself, knowing she was as eager as he was. This was a pleasure he had denied himself for so long, and her wetness was an invitation he would never refuse. Sliding one hand on a drawer, he pulled out a packet of condoms, his eyes slowly concentrating on her. She was breathing heavily, in anticipation and need.
Without another word, he thrust himself inside her, and she let out a loud moan, closing her eyes, reveling in the feeling of his manhood. She had wanted this from the start; she knew it. He locked her in an embrace, and her legs wrapped around his hips. James thrust deeper and deeper; she was tight and hot and wet—everything he had anticipated and more.
“Harder,” she whispered to him.
James smiled and gave in to her request.