Chapter Twenty-Seven
I slept alone last night.
After my confession, Jaxon left the room and didn’t return.
I didn’t go after him. He’s a big boy. He’ll get over it.
Whatever it is he’s upset about.
To be honest, I don’t get what the big deal is. The man lies and cheats for a living, for Pete’s sake. He resides in a house full of tricksters and liars. He can’t possibly expect me to believe he’s never had one pulled over on him before. Seriously.
Instead of being mad, we should be having a good laugh over this. And lots of sex.
I think back on the brunette woman in Paris, the one who thought she had him right where she wanted him, unaware he was ten steps ahead of her. He might not have trusted her, but she had still been in a position to set him up.
I’m not convinced he’s angry he was fooled. I think he’s mad I did it. Me. The chatty nerd he muddles for fun on a daily basis. Maybe it’s an ego thing?
Whatever his deal, the fact is, I’m a starving virgin, and I want him like mad, and I can’t have him like mad because he’s mad at me.
I slept like a newborn from that orgasm he gave me last night, his unreasonable ire affecting my mood not one iota. Oh, if only I could have two doses of that at 10 p.m. sharp every night before bed. It’s the most epic of sensations ever to be experienced.
For once, I admit, I was wrong. Orgasms are definitely not overrated. They’re totally worth the hype.
I’m not expecting to find him in the kitchen when I amble in to steal cereal, last night’s high still hovering over me like a halo despite the drama at the end.
But there he sits, at the table.
With her.
He looks sharp as a blade in a well-cut black suit and tie. His hair is slicked back from his face, accentuating his distractingly perfect features.
God, I just want to grab his face and lick it.
Beside him, Nadine looks just as sharp in a blood-red, form-fitting pantsuit, with lipstick to match, her hair pulled back, diamond earrings glinting.
He glances up at my shuffled entrance. His bored gaze sweeps me over, brief and disinterested, before returning to Nadine, who’s mumbling something sarcastic as she steals a piece of fruit from his bowl with her fork.
He has fruit. She has oatmeal.
Their chairs are unnecessarily close. Their arms are touching on the table.
I hate it.
Before we were partners, we were lovers. Before we were lovers, we were best friends. Before we were best friends, we were classmates.
Nadine’s his best friend. Best friend from childhood. Best friend, with benefits.
We know each other well.
She knows him. All the things. In all the ways. She knows him.
And I’d be a stinking liar if I said that doesn’t make me green with jealousy.
I want to know all the things she knows about him. I want to feel all the things he’s made her feel. I want to be in her place right this very moment. To sit beside him, eat breakfast with him, laugh with him as my arm brushes against his.
“Good morning!” My smile is bright and 100 percent authentic, despite the razor blades of jealously slicing at my veins.
A mumbled acknowledgment from Nadine.
Nada from Jaxon.
Shocker.
I came for cereal but decide to linger and make breakfast for the rest of the house instead—a reason to be in the kitchen and kill their precious little moment.
Nadine, however, is clearly determined to keep him all to herself. She switches from speaking English to Latin.
Ha! Silly wabbit. Not my fault she doesn’t know I speak at least seven languages, and Latin happens to be one of them. Photographic memory, remember?
Jaxon responds in kind. Seems he doesn’t know, either. And, here, I thought he was an omniscient god of all things. I’m disappointed.
But not really. This is a golden opportunity.
With a mild facade of minding my own business, I crack eggs, whip them, scramble them…and eavesdrop.
But all they talk about is their impending meeting.
Now I really am disappointed.
I hear the sound of a chair scraping backward. Footfalls echo off the hardwood floors. I feel heat at my back.
As he comes up behind me at the sink, reaches around, and puts his dish in.
With his dish in the sink, he’s got no reason to still be standing at my back. Yet, he doesn’t leave. He’s just…there.
I don’t flinch. I don’t look. Because that’s what he wants. That said, the raspberries are being washed a little longer than needed, and there’ll be no nutrients left if he doesn’t move soon.
“Did you make the bed?”
No. “Yes.”
His breath scorches my temple. “Lies are like taste buds on your tongue, aren’t they?”
He’s one to talk. Lying is his frigging paycheck.
I’m abruptly bumped to the side as Nadine comes up and chucks her dish into the sink.
“Are we heading out, or what?” she snaps at Jaxon, then whirls and leaves the kitchen, vexation loud in the click-clack of her high heels.
Even then, he doesn’t move.
I wonder where he slept last night. With her? Is their friends-with-benefits thing back on? Even after his touching little admission last night? Or maybe that was just a lie… After all, he left with a bulging hard-on. Someone had to have taken care of it.
I turn off the tap and drain the water from the bowl of raspberries, then smoothly move to the counter, refusing to turn around.
I think I’m safe, but I’m not. I think he’ll leave, but he doesn’t.
What he does is he moves along with me, stopping behind me again. Closer this time, his chest pressed against my back, his hips pinning me to the counter.
His lips to my ear, he whispers, “The answer is no.”
Huh? At the sudden pressure of his erection digging into my back, my breath catches. “P-pardon me?”
“You don’t remember what you asked me last night?” he tortures. “If we’re going to do…that again?” He punctuates the word “that” with a sharp thrust of his hips.
My. Precious.
Everything down south clenches and tightens. I want him to touch me. I want him to kiss me so, so bad.
“Answer?” he continues to torment. “No. We are never, ever doing that again.”
But he’s hard! For me! We sleep in the same bed, and he’s obviously on fire for me. Does he seriously have that kind of self-control? Or will he just run to Nadine—or whomever—whenever he gets a hard-on for me? Just to spite me.
He’s suddenly no longer at my back, and the loss of contact has me whipping around, calling after him. “Jaxon. Wait.”
He doesn’t wait. His stride doesn’t break. He walks right out of the kitchen. Not a backward glance. Not a damn given.
No, I’m not safe. I’m not safe, at all.