Page 55 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
I'm not even going to jack off right now to the thought of her, even though my cock is so hard it's painful.
Instead, I'm going to calm myself and go about my night like nothing happened.
Even if it kills me.
The next few minutes are torture.
I have to shower, feeling the water sluice down my body, recallingherbody, glistening in the water, the way her breasts moved, the look in her eyes as she brought herself to a peak… and I can't do a single thing about it.
I get into bed, pretending it's just like any other night. Like I'm not dying inside. I close my eyes, telling myself not to think about her. Think about something else.Anythingelse. Football. Politics. Alien abductions. Anything at all, just nother.
I fail. Badly.
After much tossing and turning, I finally drift to sleep, only to wake early, foreheads sweating, tired as fuck, my bedsheets in a knot, and not remembering what I've dreamed, though somehow knowing it was all abouther. I recall some vague images of soft skin and tangled sheets. I know there was moaning, kissing, and biting, and a sweet, hot vice around my cock, ripping a groan from my chest.
I look down, and for the first time since I was a teenager, my pajama pants are wet and sticking to my skin.
She's going to be the death of me.
"Have you always been like this?" Jenna asks during breakfast. It's the first words she speaks to me that morning. Previously, the only person she'd deigned to talk to was my chef as she arranged the breakfast spread for us. With her, Jenna had beenall smiles, chatting away about the weather, and fashion week coming up, and children's birthday gifts. She'd been extremely complimentary of the food too, and Ella had left the room smiling. With me, however, she'd barely glanced my direction, and when she had, it had been with a coolness that bordered on rude.
The moment Ella went back into the kitchen, Jenna whipped out her iPad, propping it up on the breakfast table and working as she ate. The fact that I regularly do exactly the same thing doesn't seem to make it any less annoying now she's doing it.
I won't deny it's hypocritical, but it feels deliberate. A statement. A message, written in large capital letters, that even a fool like me can read. The message states "Back off"… or words to that effect.
I decide to say nothing. If I mention it, she'll think I'm bothered by it, which of course is precisely the reaction she wants. I'm not bothered. Of course I'm not. I don't care if she doesn't talk to me. After all, I'm used to silent breakfasts by myself, so I remain silent too, right up until she asks her question.
"Been like what?" I answer, as I go through the text messages on my phone, ignoring the faint thrum of excitement her words illicit.
"Spartan," she says. "I mean, I've never seen someone so dedicated to having a lack of color in my life."
She finally looks up from her screen as she says, "Were you allergic to color as a kid?"
I smirk as I respond, "What about you? Are you always so whimsical?"
"I know you mean that as a jab, but I take it as a compliment, and the answer is yes. I've always been pretty whimsical. I was almost a fashion designer, you know."
"Really?"
"Yes. That was my plan A. My plan B was to be a model."
"What happened?"
"I got realistic," she says. "I'm barely 5'7", midwest pretty, but not stunning, and I don't have any contacts in the fashion world, so the modelling was pretty much a pipe dream. Then, after spending a year or two in clothes design, I stumbled into set design, and I quickly found that I preferred designing sets and experiences to designing clothes. Bigger stages, more to interest me. So here I am, and now you know."
"Hmm," I say. "I could imagine you as a fashion designer, but as a model? No way."
Her eyes flash as she narrows them at me, menacingly. "What's that supposed to mean?"
I chuckle. "Don't take it the wrong way. But I find most of the models I've met aren't as opinionated and hot-tempered as you. They can't afford to be, given their line of work, unless they've been in the game for years and built enough of a reputation to push back. Most of the ones I've met are painfully insecure about their looks, and especially their weight. One thought her collarbones were too straight, and the other felt like her arms weren't long enough. They both looked fine to me, but they wanted surgery to fix it."
"You can't really blame them for their insecurity," she says. "Given that their entire livelihood comes from their appearance."
"True, but they were truly beautiful women. The last thing they needed to do was screw it all up with cosmetic alterations."
"It's difficult when you're in that kind of industry. I mean, I only consume fashion recreationally, and even I get influenced to see things a certain way. When it's all you've known, sometimes you start to believe things you didn't believe before. You start to buy the hype. I can't tell you how many purchasesI made and regretted later, after I realized that I didn't even actually want the damned thing, I just thought I did at the time."
"Oh? Tell me."
