A man who owns your soul.
We wait for the limo. The cool Seattle breeze whispers off the Puget Sound and sends a shiver through me. Jesse pulls me closer, and when the car arrives, he guides me into it before climbing in himself. And it isn’t until we’re a few blocks away that I realize I’m still pressed against Jesse’s side, sitting in silence.
Jesse’s hand rests on my one bare leg, his fingers absently running circles on my knee. Like he’s forgotten we aren’t actually a couple and that he doesn’t owe me affection.
Part of me wonders if the kiss changed our boundaries. If he felt the spark that lit when our lips connected.
Or maybe he’s just really good at playing this game.
“I know something’s wrong,” Jesse says, looking over at me. “It’s all over your face. You’re a shit liar.”
“And apparently you’re a jealous asshole,” I shoot back with a careful smile, and his grip on my bare thigh tightens.
“Maybe if you hadn’t shown up looking like fucking dessert, I wouldn’t have had to claim what’s mine.”
“Yours, huh?” I lift an eyebrow at him.
“For now.” He shrugs, and his free hand reaches up and pulls my lip from between my teeth. I’m not sure when I started chewing it, but it hurts.
“You all right?” he asks again, this time genuinely.
I nod, because it doesn’t matter if what those women said cut me a little inside or not. Telling him what I heard lets him in, and I still don’t know if I can trust him with that kind of vulnerability.
“I’m fine. I just needed to get out of there,” I tell him.
“If you say so.”
There’s a beat of silence in which I forget I’m staring at Jesse. Watching him watch me. His gaze follows the path I’ve seen it travel many times tonight: down my chest and bare leg, to my high heel and back up again. One look and it’s abundantly clear—Jesse might not be my real husband, but he’s no longer my enemy.
So what am I hiding from?
Feelings? I don’t get those.
Attachment? No thank you.
Sex? We took it off the table. Although, I can’t help but wonder why in this moment, as his dark stare boils my insides.
I’m not shy in the bedroom. That’s how I work out my stress. Skin to skin. Orgasm to orgasm. Keeping things strictly physical prevents people from wanting more from me than I’m willing to offer. And it’s worked for me up to this point.
So why did I draw the line with Jesse at sex? It doesn’t have to mean anything. Jesse isn’t the kind of man I need to worry about getting attached to me. He avoids relationships like the plague. If anyone understands that sex is simply an urge to be satisfied, it’s him.
“Jesse?” I say to him, lighting the fuse of the bomb in my chest, knowing once these words are out, there’s no going back. “I’d like to reevaluate the rules.”
His eyebrows pinch in confusion. “What did you have in mind?”
I run my hand along his leg, inching it upward, knowing there’s no stopping once we breach this barrier but not sensing any other option. Maybe if I prove to myself that what I’m feeling is simply sexual tension, I’ll be able to ignore those hooks that feel like they’re in deep.
I shift in my seat to face him.
“Sex,” I say, not missing that he swallows hard at the word.
His fingers grip my leg tighter, and I hope we’re on the same wavelength and I’m not misreading things. I know he’s attracted to me—Ifeltit when he pressed close behind me earlier. But I’m just not sure how far he’s willing to take this, if he’ll go where I need him to go.
To bed.
My friends would probably say I’m insane, or maybe they’d say it’s just me being me. But while most people talk out their problems, I prefer taking action. There’s tension between me and Jesse, and there’s only one way I know how to channel it.
“You want to—”