Jim's gray eyes are narrowed, and his bare, ripped chest heaves. Sweat collects on his brow and falls down his face. I suck in a deep breath and do my best to avoid thinking about how good he looks like that. Like he's run a marathon. Or fucked someone senseless. I don't have time to appreciate the view, though, because he has company, and she's damn intent on making sure I notice her.
"You need to wait your turn, sweetie." Condescension drips from every word that comes out of her swollen red lips. I'd call her on it, but I'm not convinced she's smart enough to understand it anyway.
"Maybe she wants to join us," Jim says. With a taunting smirk playing at his lips, he props himself up against the doorframe and lets his eyes roam over my body. Instinctively, my eyes fall to his chest and travel south. I don't want to look, but I do. And when my eyes find inches of skin below his navel, they keep going of their own volition. Tufts of jet-black hair protrude from between Jim's sculpted hip bones. His uncovered cock is out and proud. And pointing at me.
I gasp and snap my eyes up to his. I flush and stammer, totally failing at this whole being-unaffected thing I was going for.
"Yeah, she wants to join us." He snakes his hand out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I move to pull back, but he's faster than I am and hooks me around the back of my neck, bringing me closer to him. I stumble over my own feet and land against his totally naked body. I try to push off of him, but he's got me now with both arms wrapped around my midsection. Anger flashes through me. How dare he answer the door naked? Even worse, how dare my body respond to his nakedness? Because that's the real problem here. Jim Stone isn't the first man I've seen naked. He's not even the first one to force his nakedness on me. No, the problem is that my hands are hot and damp, and the apex of my thighs isn't much better. My entire body is buzzing at the possibility of being with him.
And I hate myself for it.
"Let me go," I hiss. I don't care how my body feels about the situation. I spent way too many years listening to my body's demands and ignoring my brain's warnings. I have a little boy who's counting on me, and I won't disappoint him again.
Jim--who shall henceforth be known as King of the Assholes--leans in and runs his sweaty nose along my jaw. He sucks in a deep breath and holds it for a long moment before exhaling. And then he does it again. When I'm forced to breathe, all I can smell is sex and sweat. And her.
I have a choice to make. I could breathe him in and let myself succumb to the nauseous feeling overtaking me at the woman's cheap perfume. I might get sick on him, but that would serve him right. Or--the more preferable option--I could force him to let me go.
As if reading my thoughts, he grins against my cheek and says, "Make me."
I could be beat for this.
I could lose my job.
I could lose everything I've fought so hard for.
But I don't give myself enough time to fully process how damaging this could be. My knee rears back as far as it can go before flying forward with as much force as I can manage. I make contact with bare flesh. Jim's response is immediate. He unhands me, and I take a few steps backward with my hands raised in front of me.
"Don't you ever touch me like that again." Something about the way he held me, and the suggestion that I'm nothing more than just a warm body for his personal pleasure, upsets me. I feel like a damn fool for ever thinking I might mean more to him than just an easy lay. I thought we were becoming friends or getting close enough that he'd see me as more than just a babysitter and a warm, wet hole. But I'm not, and once again I've just fallen for a line of bullshit, going so far as ignoring every red flag that's been waved in my face.
I've been a warm body before. I'm no better than the woman standing behind Jim, mouth agape and cussing me out. She's clutching a pillow to her front as if she's suddenly come down with a case of shyness. I've been her before. We all have to choose how to survive, and maybe being a lost girl is how she's managing to make it from sun up to sun down without throwing in the towel. I can't hate her for that, and I won't look down on her for it, either. But that doesn't mean I want to be her. It may only have been a few months ago that I was in her position, but those few months are important. They're the bridge between the woman who couldn't get anything right to the woman who's figuring out how to do right.