Chapter 12

Sierra

THE GAME couldn’t finish fast enough. I was bouncing on the balls of my feet, a tangle of nervous energy, as I watched the other couples go through the wringer.

Jacob, Jacob, Jacob. His name repeated in my mind like a mantra… or more accurately, a question. What did that boy want from me? And what did I want from him? Argh, sometimes it’s hard having feelings. I wished I could rip my heart out and put a computer router inside, so that all my confusing, difficult feelings could turn into binary.

Thankfully, the game finally ended around five. Pillers had done, in my estimation, a decent job, but I couldn’t think too deeply about it. I was preoccupied with my own drama, and had no time for game show rigamarole. I scampered off the minute Charles announced we were finished, darting away from my co-workers and up to my bedroom. If anybody thought my exit was untoward, they didn’t show it.

Once inside the safety of my room, I turned the lock and slid down the perfectly polished door, putting my face in my hands and rubbing forcefully at my cheeks. Not that I could see, but I imagined the movement made me look a bit like one of those classical theater masks — riddled with extreme, almost grotesque expression.

“What the hell is going on?” I groaned into my palms, banging my forehead against them.

Then I abruptly lifted my face up, remembering that these walls might be awful thin, and that there was every chance Jacob could hear me. Without thinking, I stood up and strode to the wall that separated our two rooms, and put my hand on the gilded wallpaper, woven through with birds, cherries and other elements reminiscent of chinoiserie, touching its surface as though it could somehow connect me to Jacob.

Here’s the thing, as much as I wanted to hold my grudge, to be right — I liked being right, it was a hobby of mine — I also could no longer deny how much Jacob affected me, how his presence set every nerve end on fire and dampened my panties. Everything about today, from the golf course up through the Newlywed Game, had shown me as much. At least that question was no longer in play. However, a larger, more daunting one had taken its place — should I still fight the urge to make mad, wild love to Jacob? Maybe. But in the meantime, I needed some relief, if only so I could start thinking less about this man, and more about the seriously important presentation I was slated to give, which was looming closer and closer in my rearview mirror.

I had a thought. A probably not good thought, but then again, how many of my thoughts these days were what I would deem classically “good”? The thought was… oh, I can’t believe I’m admitting this… the thought was — Flo might not have been so crazy, after all.

And no sooner had it crossed my mind than I knew I had to give in. If I let myself yield to one temptation, maybe I could withstand all the many others.

Or at least, that’s how I justified it to myself.

I yanked my top up above my breasts and turned to throw my back against the wall between Jacob and me. Before I knew it, before I had time to fully think through the implications of what I was about to do, I was lifting my pleated white skirt and desperately shoving my fingers in my thong. It felt like an awakening. Or maybe, a remembering.

My fingertips found my drenched clit, and began to frantically stroke it back and forth, back and forth. The tension in my muscles drained as all the energy in my body flowed to my core, which contracted with every flick of my wrist. My other, unoccupied hand pulled the bra cup down to squeeze my breast and pinch my nipple. I’d forgotten that I could possibly feel this good.

In the heat of the moment, I decided to stop thinking and start feeling. Or at least, that’s how I’d later justify the sounds I began to make, the ones I hoped that Jacob would be able to hear.

With my back against my wall — his wall too, technically — I began to moan, loudly and with abandon, noises I hadn’t made since… erm, since I’d been with him, actually. My vocal cords and my pussy strained with pleasure. I needed more. There was a desk right next to me, flush with the wall. I turned, bent over, and began to rub myself against it with a fury and urgency that I hadn’t felt since puberty, since I first discovered how good touch could make me feel.

I rubbed on the desk and moaned and fingered myself. Fuck being responsible, fuck grudges, fuck the past. This was the present, and in the present, I wanted an orgasm, goddammit.

It didn’t take long. I’d been so pent up during the trip, hell, maybe for the last two years, that I exploded within minutes. I groaned as I felt an extra gush of wetness fill my panties and warmth spread through my body like spiked apple cider. Sweat dripped down my neck and onto the desk. My thighs shook with exhaustion, and I wiped a hand across my damp brow, and then across my even damper pussy.

And I hoped, against all reason, that Jacob had heard every last minute of my quaking orgasm.

After a few more pants, sucking in much needed air, I disentangled myself from the furniture and went about getting ready for the night, as though I hadn’t just brought myself to sweet completion loudly enough for my ex-boyfriend to hear.

Dinner was on Charles’ yacht, and while his itinerary was thorough, it failed to specify the expected attire for boating. Did I go nautical stripes, or make myself up like one of Leonardo DiCaprio’s yacht girls? Given the fiery mood I was in, I decided on the latter.

I wiggled into a pair of black, strappy underwear with gold fastenings and a matching black cage bra. If the dinner was a bust, I still had time to audition to play Mrs. Smith — à la Mr. and Mrs. Smith, obviously. After taking a moment to admire the lines of my figure in the mirror, I pulled out a black dress from my closet. It was all black, but with mesh sections to give the illusion of cutouts. It was appropriate for work, but only just barely. I’m walking a lot of thin lines tonight, I thought with some pleasure.

All that, plus a pair of patent leather stilettos and red lipstick, and I was ready. One more once over in the mirror — damn, I was looking good — and I walked out my door and down the stairs.

Jacob was waiting at the bottom of the steps. For a moment, I had a funny flash of us attending prom together — me, walking down the grand staircase as he twitched nervously at the bottom, corsage in hand, my parents looking on. In reality, I’d attended prom with a jerk who left with another girl. In that split second, I wished we’d done every big life milestone together, had experienced it all and could share it in secret laughs between pillows.

Girl, pull yourself together, my inner voice nearly shouted.

Inner voice was right. I was losing my senses. I cleared my throat and held my head high, trying to ignore Jacob’s gaze raking over every inch of my body like a hungry panther. Untamed, insolent — sexy.

To be plain, it was a two-way street. Jacob had evidently drawn the same conclusions as I about the boating dress code — he’d gone for a sleek black suit, tailored to his body within a hair of an inch, with a thin black tie and matching belt. His oxfords were shiny but not showy, and his cufflinks looked vintage. He grinned, and his brown eyes leapt, as if concealing internal flames. I wanted to run my hands through his hair, trace my cheeks against his stubble, feel those smooth lips on my own.

“You look… lovely,” he purred, and it was clear that ‘lovely’ hadn’t been the word he really wanted to use. ‘Fucking hot,’ perhaps? That’s what his tone suggested, anyways.

“You too.”

“I clean up all right, sure, but you — well, you’re a damn masterpiece.” The lighting was high enough that I could see his hands clench in his trousers, as though he were literally holding himself back from tearing off my dress.

“Thanks,” I replied, unable to muster more. “Shall we head to the docks?”

He nodded, and I descended the remainder of the stairs. We were now on the same level, and I loved how he towered over me like a rakishly handsome guardian angel.

Without further discussion, we exited through the giant back French doors of the house and out to the garden, where just a few hours prior, we’d played that game, the one which had begun to maybe, just a little, change my stance on Jacob. Not that I’m giving up ground, mind you, but…

Ahem.

Anyways, Charles’ house was on the water, so he docked his yacht directly behind the garden. I thought rich people were usually in a yacht club or something, but I guess it’s actually swankier to have the boat right outside your own home. I wouldn’t know — it’s not my milieu, to put it mildly.

Moonlight played across the tree boughs and speckled the large roses coming into bloom, petals open wide. The smell of sea salt filled my nostrils as a gentle wind lapped at my face. The waves crashed in my ear — no, not crashed — fell. They were genial waves, runners for the moon.

Jacob and I didn’t attempt to speak as we walked towards the boat. What was there to say? We used to date and then you broke my heart and then I hated you but now I’m just really confused? Wasn’t exactly appropriate dinner talk. Both of us had words on the tip of our tongues, I knew, but neither were brave enough to ford those choppy waters. So silence sufficed. And with him, for what it’s worth, silence was comfortable — not awkward, and prolonged, but easy, like a hammock on a summer’s day.

At last, we arrived at the boat. Excuse me, I mean, the yacht.

For it certainly defied the term ‘boat’ — it was at least seventy-feet long, done in all white fiberglass from stern to bow, and starkly modern in contrast to the opulently vintage mansion. It was something out of a spy movie. I gave my outfit a once-over, and realized it was a shame cameras weren’t rolling. I was perfectly kitted out to be a Bond girl.

Jacob whistled low through his teeth.

“Fancy,” he remarked. “You sure they’ll let an average ol’ construction worker like me up on that pretty thing?”

I laughed. “Being a construction worker has never stopped you from enjoying the finer things in life before.”

Again, his eyes held mine, then darted down to my lips before returning to hold my gaze.

“Ain’t that the truth,” he murmured, then abruptly refocused on the boat. His strong arm extended outward, and I followed its scintillating line to see that his finger was outstretched and pointing. “Look, the party’s already started.”

Sure enough, on one of the several decks, our colleagues were gathering.

“Then let’s shake a leg,” I pronounced. In my mind, I thought, anything to put a little space between me and Jacob. If we stayed like this, alone in the dark, for one more minute, my steel-clad self-control would start to melt.

But as much as I wanted to distract myself from Jacob, I was also none too eager to board that boat.

I’m not proud of this, but I’m not great with open water. Or rivers. Or shallow pools. Where I grew up, there were plenty of small lakes but nobody to teach us how to swim in them — and we were certainly too poor to hire an instructor. Besides, the ponds had all been contaminated by various factories in the vicinity, so it wasn’t a brilliant idea to wade through them, anyways. Point being, I was now too old to learn how to swim — if a friend had a pool party, I politely stuck my feet in, then promptly put on a sarong and went to the bar.

This was different, though — this was for my job. There wasn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for my job, as evidenced by, for instance, my pretending to date my ex-boyfriend for the good of the company. So I swallowed my pride and boarded that damn boat.