Page 42 of Please, Sir

“I think you sit tight and watch him come to you,” she says.

“If I take your advice and sit tight and I see him at a football game dating Cadence Caine, you realize I’m going to kill you, right?”

She laughs. “Cadence is not his type. Cadence is no one’s type. No, correction, she is someone’s type but he’s already married.”

“Who?” I ask, because I cannot imagine anyone wanting to put up with a teenager in a grown woman’s body, no matter how good that body is. And, of course, like every archenemy since the dawn of time, she’s got a good one.

“Hades,” she answers. “But unless Cadence can overthrow Persephone, she’s shit outta luck.”

I can’t help but laugh at that, but it fades quickly when I think about Jake Turner pursuing me. “You really think letting him pursue me is the way?” It’s not like I’d really know how to pursue him, anyway. Maybe take Jo Jo to get a tattoo so he has to come see me again? Kidding.

“I do. I absolutely do. Oh shit, I gotta go, my soup is boiling over.” In the background, her gas burner clicks off.

“Big Saturday night, huh? Soup,” I tease.

“Hey,” she scolds. “Soup is underrated.”

“Right,” I tell her, and we swap goodbyes, leaving me with an 80s movie on a Saturday night. And truthfully? Soup doesn’t sound half bad. But after a day like today, the only thing I can do to ease the edge in my nerves is take a run.

When I lived in Willowdale,I took night runs all the time. It was peaceful, but Bluebell is even less populated, with more mature trees and lush vegetation all around. Evening and night running is so peaceful here, it’s almost zen.

That’s how I feel turning the corner on mile three, zen; my mind clear and my chest light. The creamsicle sky bleeds into the dark horizon, blending fading day with emerging evening. The temperature is just right, and the air smells so good, like pinecones and traces of rain.

My pace is good when all of a sudden, there’s a truck on the road behind me. I make sure to lean heavily into the shoulder as it approaches, but when it doesn’t pass, I stop and look back. Idling in my footsteps is Jake Turner behind the wheel of his pickup truck. His eyes pierce me and steal my breath, and he drives around, pulling up to drive right byme with his passenger window down. I resume jogging but he catches up, riding his brake in pace with me.

“You shouldn’t be running alone at night,” he hollers across the cab, out the window.

I glance at my watch, bypassing the run information blinking on the screen to find the time in the top right corner. “It’s 7:32, is that late to you?” I ask, picking up my pace, only to have him increase his speed, too.

“It’s not safe,” he hollers again.

“Bluebell is safe,” I counter, the end of my ponytail giving me a shudder as it sweeps over my bare back.

“Get in the truck,” he says, only, it feels like a command. Bumps rise up on my arms, and beneath my damp old sports bra, my nipples harden.

“No.” I face forward, continuing my seven minute per mile pace, refusing to give in to him even though all I want to do is crawl into his lap and devour his mouth. Something tells me that Jake Turner might like a little challenge.

A beat passes and I realize the truck isn’t there anymore. My legs slow and I come to a stop just as I hear boots crunching in the gravel. Turning, Jake stands behind me, nostrils flared, intense eyes pinned to mine. “Get in the truck. I’m taking you home. It’s not safe runnin’ on the side of the road at dusk alone. C’mon,” he says, hooking his head toward the truck. The setting sun casts a glow along his face, highlighting the day’s worth of growth along his jaw. His jeans are filthy, his boots worn, and the top two buttons on his plaid shirt have given up. He looks like he’s hot and tired from working all day, and it turns me on like crazy.

“No.” I fold my arms over my chest.

“Get. In. The. Truck.” He takes a step with each word, and it leaves us nearly toe to toe.

The edge of my mouth curls into a lazy grin. “Make me.”

Lightning flashes, illuminating the sky as the Earth rumbles around us. The first few drops of rain thud against the ground. My heart is beating so fast that my eardrums ache, and for some reason, the urge to cry burns in the base of my throat. I hold it down with a harsh swallow. The energy shifts from playful to desperate in a handful of seconds, and I chase the desperation.

“Please, sir,” I breathe, praying my words get lost in the patter of soft rain. Equally praying he heard. “Make me.”

At this precise moment, it’s like a dream state; I know I’m short-circuiting, but I can’t stop it. I want him. I deserve to have what I want.

Just once.

It won’t have to mean anything. I’m letting loose to this feral desire clawing me. I’m pining to willingly fall subservient to this god of a man and give myself over to him as his to use.

I’m terrified of how unashamed I am to say it, too.

He charges me, a thick noise breaking loose from his chest as his boots shift in the gravel. I’m gasping for air, my insides quivering with shock, as he slings me over his glorious, heaving shoulder. Heavy with power, his hand slides over my ass, holding me in place.

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