Page 56 of Please, Sir

My phone rings,and I wonder if it’s Jake calling to see where I am, so I slip my hand in my purse and search for it. Pushing aside my extra pair of panties and travel toothbrush–because I don’t know what to expect for tonight–I snatch it and bring it to my ear.

“I’m like, three minutes away,” I say as I turn the steering wheel onto his street.

“Riley,it’s Michael.”

My heart drops.

“Who did you think it was? That guy that showed up at your house?” he asks.

I refuse to acknowledge Jake. “I blocked you, how are you calling me?” I question, as irritated tears sting at the back of my eyes. I pull over, Jake’s house visible from my position along the shoulder. I’m excited to see Jake, to feel his hands on my body, to be in the company of someone who really wants to be in my presence too. I don’t want a single moment of my time with Jake to be tainted byfucking Michael.

“This is my work phone number, you know that,” he says, exasperated. “Who did you think it was?”

I lick my lips, anger simmering in my blood.

I shouldn’t. It’s stupid and it’s immature, but I do. I snap back.

“The guy whose house I’m driving to, that’s who.” I finally let out a breath, and decide right then and there that I will not let Michael‘it was just the booze, I swear that’s not who I am’Rhodes ruin my night.

No fucking way.

“Stop calling me. I am going to get a restraining order if you call me one more time. Got it? We’re done. You put your fucking hands on me, and we’re done. And you can brainwash my parents all you want. I will never be persuaded, blackmailed or guilted into being with you ever again. This is your last warning.”

He starts to talk but I end the call, block the number, and shove my phone in my bag. I refuse to swipe the angry tears that roll down my cheeks and make my face all red for Jake’s place. No. No. This is not how this night is gonna go.

Back on track, I take a few deep breaths as I steer my car up Jake’s long driveway. The other night when I dropped off Jo Jo, it was dusk, about the same time as it is now, buttonight his house seems to be glowing. The lights tracing the pathway to his front door are glowing, illuminating the thatches of carefully planted, colorful flowers beneath them. The grass is lush and green, trimmed and edged, and the trees around the yard are mature, offering beauty and texture to the yard. The craftsman style home is so large, and when I finally make it up to the porch, I start to wonder if Jake built this home himself. I could see it. Those strong hands, solid thighs, his eye for detail evident in his creations.

I’ve seen the work at his booth at the farmers market. Ornate, elaborate, almost exhaustive detail goes into everything he makes with his hands, that much is clear. And all of Bluebell uses Turner saddles, too.

Standing in front of the large walnut door, I lift my hand to make use of the fancy camera doorbell, but I don’t need to. The door swings open, and Jake appears, possessing the entire door frame with his strong, mountainous shoulders exposed from beneath a white tank top. His jeans are clean–and it’s clear to me now, he just got out of the shower, feet bare and drops of water dripping from the ends of his shaggy dark hair.

I think about the way he looked in the open door of his truck, water dripping from his hat and hair, and the memory of us echoes, leaving my body humming, my core alive.

“Hey, perfect timing. I just got out of the shower,” he greets, his smile soft and subtle, offsetting the depth of his voice.

A foot of space between us, impending night licking at the back of my arms, the scent of his cologne and dinner cooking, all of it creates a forcefield that engulfs me, taking my willpower away from me and placing me at his feet.

I’ve never felt this strong of an urge to submit to a man, but it’s not even that I don’t want power, or a voice. I simplywant to please him, give to him, make him feel good because I trust that in return, a man like Jake will always take care of me, support me, both my heart and mind. I feel that, and when I look into his eyes, I see it. I don’t know how to describe it, and it’s such a powerful base feeling that heat springs to my eyes.

His hand slips off the door frame, falling to his side as he takes a small step toward me. He reaches for my hip, and the weight of his heavy hand makes my heart flutter so quickly, I can’t breathe for a moment.

“Riley, what’s wrong?”

I lick my lips and speak past the sudden dryness in my throat, finding words that rattle my heart and make my toes curl in my boots.

“Please,” I start, so many pleas preloaded on my tongue that I almost don’t know where to start. “I need you.” His hand moves from my hip to my ribcage, and my eyes snap shut in reaction. I take a breath, and open them again, his smoldering gaze lingering on me. “Please, sir, I need you.”

His other hand slides around my ribs, and in one short tug I’m in his arms, pressed to his chest, his soft lips grazing my ear. “I got you, I got you, Riley.”

The door closes behind us, and before I can drop my purse, I’m over his shoulder, watching the shapely globes of his ass work as he navigates the halls of his home. In a matter of steps, another door opens and closes. He lowers me to the ground, the temperature slightly cooler, the faint smell of motor oil and leather hanging in the air. We’re in his garage, with his large truck shiny and clean in the center, standing tall on a lifted chassis, the upgraded wheels telling a story of dominance and exploration. Looking around, like the yard and the truck, everything else from floors to corners to the shelving units are neat and clean. It’s sexy that he takes careof his things; then again, with the way my heart is beating and my pussy is pulsing, I don’t know if there’s anything about Jake Turner that I don’t or won’t like.

He is what I want. He is what I need. I’m very quickly falling for a man I hardly know, but my instincts are drowning all doubt, nudging me on, telling me that I belong to him. That I am his.

He waffles his fingers through mine, sending a burst of desire down my spine, pooling in my core. A hand hold is so intimate and he does it so easily, seemingly without thought, and I wonder, does Jake feel drawn to me, too?

He brings me to his work bench, various leather working tools suspended and organized in a custom racking system. I point to it.

“I like how you have your tools stored along the wall that way, not in a tool box,” I comment, reaching out to trace the curve of his glass burnisher. I saw him using it at a farmers market once, explaining to a group of kids what it does.

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