Still, as amazing as that was, there’s still a craving deep inside me—and I know just what it needs. That gorgeous hard cock, buried deep inside me. Damn, always wanting what I can’t have.
But you can have it. Just say the word—and maybe wait five minutes—and Jake could be fucking you just the way you need . . .
I’m torn. That orgasm was just an appetizer, and I want the main course. “Everything but” is fine when you’re a teenager dry-humping in your parents’ basement, but as a grown woman? I like a three-course meal with all the trimmings.
And by trimmings, I mean his dick.
My phone buzzes just as I’m about to jump in the shower. It’s Della, and I can hear Jake ordering room service, so I pick up.
“I’m a bad girl,” I greet her. “But damn, it feels good.”
“Tell me you didn’t fuck him!” Della sounds panicked. I stop.
“No . . .” I answer slowly. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Dapper magazine put a fucking bounty on you,” Della exclaims. “Fifty thousand dollars to whoever makes you break the strike.”
“What?” I sit down on the edge of the tub. “No, you must have it wrong.”
“It’s right there on their website, in the VIP section.” Della is spitting mad. “Zach found it, I had him give me his login info. I’m sorry babe, those fuckers are like teenagers in heat. It’s all about the glory to them.”
“Send me the link,” I say, still not believing it. Dapper is Miles’ magazine, right? Jake’s friend.
Jake’s best friend.
“Here you go.” A text comes through. “I’m sorry, what a fucking asshole,” Della continues. “Are you OK? When do you get back?”
“Tomorrow,” I say numbly. “Look, I can’t . . . I have to go.”
In a daze, I hang up and click the link Della sent. And there it is, right in front of me. The bounty, along with a photo of me, too.
No wonder guys have been after me! They want to be the one to scale Mount Everest, and stick a fucking flag in my pussy.
But Jake . . . ?
I can’t believe it. There’s no way he doesn’t know about this, so is this what tonight was all about? The dinner, the flirting, the amazing orgasms? He was just greasing the wheel for the main event.
And I nearly fell for it.
Fuck!
The disappointment sinks through me like lead. And the betrayal. To think, I actually thought I’d gotten him wrong. That there was someone decent lurking under his designer suits. I guess I wanted to believe in the fantasy of it all, the wounded guy hiding a heart of gold. But sometimes, if he walks like an asshole, and talks like an asshole . . .
He’s a fucking asshole.
And his cum is still all over my naked chest. Ugh. I jump in the shower and scrub myself clean hard enough to take off a layer of skin.
There’s a knock at the door. “Food’s on it’s way up,” Jake calls. “How about I join you in there?”
“Too late. All done.” I quickly towel myself off and open the door, avoiding looking at him as I hunt for my dress.
“What do you need that for?” Jake’s voice is lazy and thick with sex. “Come back to bed, I’m not finished with you.”
“Oh, we’re finished, alright.” When I’m clothed, I finally let myself look at him. He’s sprawled on the bed again, so hot it splits my chest in two. “But don’t worry, if you get lonely, you can just read the latest issue of Dapper. Or better yet, the online edition.”
His face changes.
“Yup,” I spit. “I know. So fuck you, fuck your stupid bet, and fuck the fifty grand you won’t be making tonight. Because I’m done.”
I walk out the door, slamming it behind me.
And my heart breaks in two.
24
Lizzie
What do you do when you find out the guy you maybe, sort of, kind of, completely have been falling for is nothing but a lying, pussy-chasing douchebag?
In my case, you drink all the minibar vodka and pass out crying over an old screening of Titanic on the hotel TV. I wake up with a killer hangover, with barely enough time to throw myself—and my baggage—into the cab and make it to the airport in time for our early flight.
Ours. Because despite wanting him to disappear off the face of the earth, I’m still stuck on this trip with the super rat himself. He tried to talk to me in the car, but I just put my sunglasses on, plugged my earbuds in, and blasted Beyoncé all the way back to New York City.
When life gives you lemons, put Lemonade on repeat play.
By the time we get off the plane from LA and walk into the terminal, I’m just about ready to explode, or break down in messy sobs, and I know, neither will be pretty. I’ve never been so happy to set foot back in New York, with its noisy, chaotic airport, and even noisier citizens screaming at baggage claim, not to mention the hordes of children running around like deranged, dirty savages. The flight itself was the very definition of miserable—until I got some older businessman type to switch seats with me so I didn’t have to be anywhere near the Bounty Hunter himself.
And let’s be honest—the three bourbon and Cokes I threw back on the flight didn’t exactly hurt either. Hair of the dog, and all that.
I stride as far away from Jake as I can get and keep my eyes glued to the revolving carousel, willing my red suitcase to come out first—which would be nothing short of a total miracle, since I usually have the abysmal luck of being the last person standing there waiting for my bag—on the flights where it isn’t completely lost, that is.
I mean, why should anything actually go right on this trip?
Jake walks up beside me, his hands shoved into his pockets, his eyes searching the conveyor belt. I can feel his nervous energy, and every muscle in my body tightens up on his approach. If he even so much as tries to touch me, I might break into a million pieces. In the not-helping-things department is also the fact that I slept for about an hour on the plane—if that. I would give my left arm—not to mention my first-born child—for an Americano right now. I mean, seriously, whoever invented the concept of the air travel should be strenuously punished. No trial, no jury—just straight to execution.
“You okay?” Jake asks, interrupting my homicidal thoughts.
I paste my brightest, fakest smile on my face, which takes all the energy I have left, since I sat up most of last night crying in my hotel room. My eyes are still so swollen that I had to ice them in the morning, just so they’d open properly. Thank god for sunglasses.
“I’m great!” I chirp. “Just a little tired from the flight is all.”
I make the mistake of glancing over, and he looks so uncomfortable and guilty that for a minute I wonder if he really does care. But then I remember that nothing that happened between us was real. For him—I was just a bet.
“Are you sure?” he asks. “Because we should probably talk . . . you know, about last night. I wanted to say—”
“You don’t need to say anything!” I cut him off. “I get it. Believe me, I understand everything.”
“I don’t think you do. Look, Lizzie, if you give me a chance to explain—”