"Why?" I ask, whispering, because reverence feels natural in this context, as if to speak too loudly might disturb the dormant monster of his grief.
"Because my mother died. To this day, I do not know exactly what…what happened. What she had. One day she was fine, the next she was in hospital. She was dead a week later. My fatherbecame mad with grief. It shattered him." He swallows hard, audibly. "The day she died, my father left the hospital, walked home, went into his office, shut the door, and shot himself. I never went into the office. I never saw…" he shakes his head. "I have seen violence. I have killed before. But seeing that man like that, something about it made me think of my father. How it must have looked like that. I keep—I keep seeing—“ he shakes his head, cutting himself off.
My heart breaks a little, especially when his features shut down again, closing up the momentary glimpse of the man beneath the calcified armor.
"I'm so, so sorry, Jakob. To lose both parents in one day?" There's no hiding the tenderness in my voice. "I know what it is to lose your parents. But like that?God, Jakob."
He glances at me, and he appears almost…confused. He doesn't reply, but shakes his head and grits his jaw.
That's all the emotional vulnerability I'm going to get out of him for now, I think.
I let it go; if I know anything about men, it's that if they don't want to talk about something, they're not going to.
I doze off, eventually.
When I wake up, Jakob is still driving, still pensive. He glances at me as I stir upright. More silence.
The silence and the lulling hum of the tires turn my mind inward, and I can no longer keep my thoughts away from what happened in that hotel room this morning.
It just sort of…happened. I don't remember how it began. I know I'm attracted to Jakob, because who wouldn’t be? The man is objectively gorgeous. But mere attraction can't explain…all of that. I barely know him. It's been less than twenty-four hours.
And I deep-throated him.
That's not that big of a deal, not in comparison to my behavior. My instant submission to his commands. Mydesireto obey him. I barely recognize myself; Idon'trecognize that woman. Obeying his commands,Yes, Jakobthis andYes, Jakobthat. The begging. The wild desperation.
I all but worshipped his cock. And, to be fair, itisa cock very much worth worshipping, it must be said. But I don't worship anyone or anything. I don't giveanyoneauthority over me. I don't even allow myself to be in personal financial debt. I own my Manhattan penthouse outright. I own my condo in St. Pete outright. I have zero credit cards. No student debt. Nothing. Mainly because I refuse to allow anyone to have any kind of hold over me.
There are reasons for that.
But my good lord in heaven, the orgasm he gave me? My face gets hot just thinking about it. And the squirting? Jesus. I thought that was a porn thing. Fake. Or maybe not fake but…a specialty thing specifically for neckbeards jerking off in their mom's basement. Sorry, that's judgmental. I just didn't think it was a real thing.
Apparently, it very much is real, and it is the most intense physical sensation I've ever experienced. Like a regular orgasm, but on PEDs. It felt like something inside me just…broke. Shattered. And to be totally honest, I'm not sure I'll ever be the same.
I think back to sex with Charles. Even the most intense and passionate sex was…staid and demure and quiet. He came with a shudder and a grunt, went still above me, tensed, and then collapsed onto me for a moment or two, and then set about attending to my needs—he always came before me, but it never bothered me because he always made sure I finished. He was good with me using toys, too, which helped.
But the more I think back with brutal honesty, the more I realize how unsatisfied I was, deep down. I mean, I knew I didn't love him. I cared about him deeply and still do, but I wasn'tinlove. Not the point. The point is that I let the fact that I cared about him and wanted the relationship to work cloud my true feelings.
I was unsatisfied, sexually. Emotionally too, yes. We were intellectually matched, it is true, but that's not enough for a relationship.
He never instigated sex. He hinted, broadly. He'd plan elaborate dates—helicopter rides, hot air balloon rides, sailing trips, candlelit dinners on multimillion-dollar yachts, things of that nature. Which was wonderful, please do not misunderstand. It was romantic, exciting, thrilling. But when the end of the evening arrived, it was always up to me to get things going in bed. He was an eager participant, but I was in charge.
And that's the problem I have always had in any romantic relationship: I end up with men who are either content to let me be in charge, or who are arrogant, narcissistic, chauvinistic fuckboys with high testosterone, low IQ, and zero interest in me as a person.
Neither works for me.
I glance at Jakob, and I can't help but wonder if he's the exception.
I felt safe with him. I mean in bed—metaphorically speaking, since none of the fun stuff this morning happened in a bed at all. He saw me. Instinctively seemed to understand my limits and carefully pushed me past them.
I never felt degraded or used—involuntarily, at least. He was firmly in charge, yet at the end, I was taken care of.
Jakob glances at me. "Do I have any credit left?"
I frown at him. "Pardon?"
"When I gave you $160 for your thoughts. Do I have any credit left from that transaction?"
I feel amusement tugging at my features. "Meaning you want to know what I'm thinking about."
