Jagger Read online

  My heart starts racing.

  “What was I saying?” I ask, pushing back my reaction.

  “I couldn't make out your words. You were mumbling,” she says, amused.

  And I’m pretty sure she knows why. I wasn’t in the greatest shape when I left her party. Brushing her hair away from her face, she narrows her eyes and glances at me. A ray of light threads through her irises, making them look like Forget-me-nots.

  “Where were you?” she asks, spreading cream cheese on the other half of her bagel.

  “In my driveway. I... um... I was planning to go out and get a coffee. The man is my neighbor. He was trying to help me.”

  “Hmm... Was he?” she asks, smiling like a fox. “Helping... Huh? By the way, there were quite a few men at my party interested in helping you... ”

  My cheeks warm up, flushed with blood.

  “Hmm... I’m not so sure it would’ve been a good idea. Alcohol makes sex sloppy,” I say, and she snorts out a soft chuckle.

  “Speak for yourself. Some of the best sex I’ve had was under the influence,” she says, her nose crinkling with a smile.

  Grinning, I shake my head.

  “It’s true. Sloppy sex is not that bad. It’s sex after all,” she says, shrugging. “For some people, it’s even better than the regular sex.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I say and take a sip of coffee. “A lot of planning went into mine.”

  “I can’t imagine it was that bad,” she says.

  “I don’t know if it was good or bad. It was just not important.”

  “Maybe that’s the key to making it last...” she says before she takes a bite.

  Holding her hand below her chin she catches the falling crumbles.

  “Mmm... These bagels are really fresh.”

  “Making what last?” I ask.

  “The marriages...”

  “Yeah, I guess,” I say, not sounding very convincing.

  “My parents’ marriage was a mess,” she says, and pauses to take a sip of coffee. “I can’t tell if it was love or lust or a big nothing. There were a lot of fights and cheating on both sides. They called it quits eventually. The thing is, growing up in the middle of that shit has shaped up my view on love and marriage, and one thing is for sure. I don’t want to get married and live that kind of life.”

  Tilting the cup to her lips, she takes another swig.

  “Mmm.... The coffee is good, too. So, how come you had never met anyone before you got married?”

  “Parental control.”

  A small chuckle rolls off her lips. Unfortunately, I can’t bring myself to smile. She gives me an incredulous look, her smile fading away as she takes in my expression.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It can’t be only that.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” I say, stretching my legs, brushing the crumbles off my shorts.“I didn’t know anything else, so I didn’t fight back. Frankly, all I knew was how to be a good girl. That’s all I was taught to be.”

  She smiles.

  “What’s wrong with that?” she asks, with a lighter voice, injecting a bit of irony and humor into the conversation.

  “Other than the fact that I turned out a bit screwed up, probably nothing,” I say, grinning.

  She picks up a donut and takes a good bite, the strawberry icing matching the color of her top. I opt for a chocolate glazed one.

  “Anyway, my sister was the perfect role model for me, and I followed in her steps religiously. Growing up, my mom made sure there were no temptations, no nonsense. The idea of having a boyfriend was ridiculed to no end and having sex outside of marriage was completely out of the question. It was just plain wrong. The idea of having sex for pleasure was endlessly mocked. Sex was for players and sluts, they said, and they taught me well. That’s how I ended up a virgin.”

  “And how was it?”

  “The marriage or the sex?”

  “The sex.”

  “It sucked. When you grow up with the idea that it’s bad, guess what? It is bad. That’s exactly how it was. Imagine an eighteen-year-old virgin and a thirty-five-year-old man set in his ways.”

  “What about your husband?”

  “Sex was not something to fret about. That was one of his core beliefs, and it worked out well for him. Honestly, I don’t think it matters for most people, not when it comes to marriage anyway.”

  She tears off a small bite of donut and pops it in her mouth.

  “You really believe that?”

  “Mmm-Hmm. I don’t see much passion in most marriages, and I don’t think things are much different in their bedrooms. I’m talking about the people in our circle. It may be different for others. To me, sex is not only about sex. It’s about living your life fully, ideally with someone you love. My marriage crumbled outside the bedroom as much as it did between the sheets,” I say, and silence falls between us. “Anyway, so that’s my experience,” I say after a few moments.

  “Have you talked to him about it?”

  “I’ve mentioned it a few times, and he quickly became defensive and dismissive. I wasn’t very assertive to begin with, and something in his attitude had made me stop. I felt stupid and cheap for bringing it up. And that was that. I never talked about it again. I couldn’t stomach his criticism and condescendence, so I dropped it. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about him,” I say.

  We change the topic, and for another hour or so, we talk about work and writing.

  She leaves around noon, and I spend the rest of the day unpacking boxes, organizing closets and cupboards, purging clothing I no longer wear, and packing away things I have no use for.

  By the time the sun sets, my kitchen fills with the sweet-sour aroma of freshly baked cherry pies. I love to bake them from scratch. For one, it’s a tried-and-true recipe that never fails, and secondly, the whole process relaxes me, keeping me out of my head.

  I put the mittens on and pull the tart pans out of the oven, the smell of baked fruit wafting through the air. I let the pies cool for a few moments before I cover them with powdered sugar.

  The evening creeps in, carrying in the cheerful sound of singing crickets and croaking frogs. Close to nine o’clock, I change into a short white dress, put on my flat gladiator sandals, grab one of the pies and slither out the house.

  Careful not to drop it, I stroll across Jagger’s lawn, climb the few stairs leading to his door and ring the bell.

  I wait.

  A few moments pass by, and I press the doorbell again, this time peering through the beveled glass. I catch the movement of a silhouette edging to the entrance. The door swings open, his tall frame filling the doorway. My eyes roll down on him.

  Baffled, I step back.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I can come back some other time,” I say already pulling away.

  “Wait,” he says and grabs my arm, his eyes drifting down on me as well.

  I stop and turn to him all the way.

  He must have come out of the pool or perhaps the shower. He wears a towel around his waist, loosely tucked at the front, the edge sitting low on his hips.

  His skin shimmers from the beads of water, damp bangs sliding over his eyes.

  He clasps his hip and tilts his groin forward, and my chest tightens.

  I whip my gaze up.

  “Uh... Um...” I stammer, my eyes still roaming over his body–– just not below his waist, diligently soaking in the subtle sheen of his skin, the artistic design of his tattoo, and his long, sculpted muscles.

  He examines me briefly before he moves his eyes to the pie.

  “Yes?”

  “I hope I’m not interrupting something,” I say, glancing over his shoulder, not minding my own damn business.

  “You’re not. I’m alone,” he says with the voice of someone who usually isn’t.

  “Okay then,” I say and suck in a short breath. “I want to apologize for making a fool of myself last night. And also, I want to thank you for your help
.”

  He raises his arm and braces the doorframe, his muscles shifting beneath his skin all the way up to his fingers.

  “Okay,” he says dryly as I’m struggling to disentangle my eyes from his body.

  I look up to him, a bit lost. Slowly lifting his eyebrows, he arches his lips into a soft smile.

  “Anything else?”

  “Um... yes... I brought you a pie,” I say after a moment.

  “I don’t eat pie,” he says, deadpan and my eyelashes start to bat.

  “Oh, never mind, then... I’ll take it back,” I say, apologetic, and he gives me a playful grin.

  “I’m fucking with you...” he rasps, his nasal voice licking my ears, spurring images of a bedroom in my mind as all I’m hearing is I’m fucking you.

  He pauses and waits for me to fill the blanks, his lips unhurriedly curving into an amused smile.

  “Violet,” I murmur, still gaping at his mouth.

  “Violet. I’m Jagger,” he says without offering his hand. ”You want to come in?”

  His eyes narrow, glinting with mischief, and I know better than that.

  “No... I probably shouldn’t,” I say and hand him the pie. “But you’re more than welcome to come to my place anytime you want,” I blurt out.

  Oh, fuck. Why would I say that?

  Pursing his lips, he smiles appreciatively, his eyes drifting down on me again.

  “I will,” he says and makes a step back, his hand on the doorknob.

  The door closes with a slam.

  Dazed, I walk away, my breath jammed in my throat.

  The evening breeze plays with the leaves, the soft rustle unsettling the silence. Cold, silver stars glitter all over the sky.

  It’s midnight, and most homes are sunk in darkness.

  Except for Jagger’s house.

  I light up a few candles and glance at his home.

  Tucked in a cul-de-sac, surrounded by trees and a small lake in the back, the house has ceiling high windows and an open layout, the large rooms decorated with minimalist furniture, opulent chandeliers, modern art and plenty of potted plants.

  Tall French doors face the backyard and the pool.

  The beat of electronic dance music rips into the air as a door opens somewhere inside the house.

  Within moments the door slams shut, turning the tune into a muffled hum.

  With nothing better to do, I pull out of my chair, and tiptoe behind a tree. The house is generously lit, the open doors and windows showcasing the interior.

  Several chambers line the big foyer, arched doorways making the connection to a spacious kitchen and a study room at the other side.

  Craning my neck out, I look inside. A few seconds tick by and then his bare shoulder comes into view.

  I pull back.

  Only for a moment.

  Brimming with curiosity, I stretch my neck again, and scan the place, trying to figure out what he’s doing.

  He’s standing in front of a door. Sadly, most of him is concealed by a plant. He moves a bit, and I push up on my toes, eager to get a better glimpse of him.

  Slowly, he strolls away from that door and nears the center of the house.

  Tall, shirtless, and...

  What the fuck?

  I kick off my flip flops, move a few steps closer, and squat behind a bush, clearly trespassing.

  I make another step aiming for a blooming shrub, and I trip over a root, stubbing my toe.

  Aargh!

  Fucking hell. That hurt.

  I slap a palm over my mouth, swallow my yelp and freeze. His eyes remain glued to his phone as he slowly saunters across.

  One step, and then another.

  Mouth agape, I watch him as he ambles to the French doors where he stops and slightly turns, giving me a side view of his...

  Oh my God!

  He’s butt naked.

  Oh, no...

  He spins again, turning his back to me. That’s... No, no... This is not something I should see. He’s, uh... um... my neighbor... after all.

  I wish I could compel myself to walk back in the house and forget what I just saw.

  Instead, I bend over at the waist, making sure I don’t miss an inch... I mean a bit.

  My eyes stitch to him as I breathlessly take in the line of his shoulders, his V-shaped back, and the tight curve of his ass.

  What kind of food does he eat?

  I’ve never seen a man like him before, not in real life anyway, not where I come from. The people my family call men are usually ten to fifteen years older than their women, carry a spare tire around their waist, even if it’s a small one, and don’t have much hardness in their body, except maybe their bones. Some excel at bones, my ex-husband, for instance. He’s one bony guy with no spare tire, only wisps of hair draped over his chest and legs.

  There’s not much hair on my neighbor’s body. A binocular would come in handy, to check those muscular legs and ass.

  Oh, shit. He’s moving again. Don’t turn! Please... Please! Well, he does, but only to give me a better view of his muscular butt and long, athletic legs. Hmm. The jeans he wore that day were a bit misleading, concealing how well cut he is.

  Again... I’ve never had the chance to see a man like him. Not in real life anyway. Not even at the beach.

  The whole ocean thing had skipped me as a teenager, and later on, I was too busy with other things. I’ve never learned how to swim, and going to the beach to sunbathe was out of the question.

  So here I am, gawking at him as he stretches his naked body, reaches high on a shelf and pulls out a box.

  Swallowing hard a few times, I try to moisten my throat when an influx of sudden panic jabs at me.

  I glance over my shoulder, suddenly spooked.

  What if one of my neighbors is hidden in the dark? What if they catch me ogling him?

  To my relief, the homes are dark and wrapped in perfect silence. I swing my eyes back to the man who enters my line of vision again.

  Still naked, he trains his eyes on his phone, and slowly turns.

  Oh, fuck... No, no. Don’t do that!

  I should go now before I see something I can’t un-see.

  Yet, I don’t move, my eyes smoothly floating over his taut skin and lean muscles. My mind fetches the memory of our first encounter, and I can almost feel his hard body pressed against me.

  He pivots a bit more, and my eyes dip below his waist. Smooth skin, the hair perfectly trimmed, his hand... um... cuffing? I wish for a better angle, and sure enough, he gives me one.

  His thumb moves deftly over his phone, typing, while the other hand curls around his... um… semi-hard cock, giving it a long casual tug.

  I stop breathing for a moment.

  He does it again, and I begin to doubt he’s only semi-hard. The motion is long, the subject of his affection bountifully thick and lusciously hard.

  I start fanning myself.

  He shifts again, this time offering me a frontal view and... Yeah, my assessment is spot on.

  He’s not only hard, but also well-endowed, the whole... thing making my mouth water and my chest tighten as my core tingles, tense and warm.

  This is so wrong, a nagging voice screams in my head, yet I refuse to move, my feet firmly nailed to the ground.

  I enjoy the show for a few more moments before the dryness takes over my throat, a tickling prompting me to cough, the shrilling sound shattering the silence.

  I groan and bellow like a wounded buffalo, my chest rocking, my face congested. I go at it for a few good moments, and the more I do it, the worse my chest hurts. It feels as if I just spat in my lungs.

  This is not one of those subtle coughs people use to cue you in when you stepped over the line. No. This is a full blown bout of whooping cough that drifts through the air, streams through the open doors and rolls in his ears.

  He flicks his head up, and shoots his gaze outside.

  Shit, shit, shit...

  I make a few steps backward and then sidle up to
a tree, press my hand against my chest and bend over, my body shaking.

  It takes a few good moments before I’m able to breathe properly again and by the time I raise my eyes and check his house, he’s gone.

  The lights are still on, and the doors are open, but he’s nowhere in sight. I straighten and brace my hand against the tree when a voice rings out behind me, and I almost burst a vessel.

  “Are you okay?”

  I square my shoulders and freeze, my breath folded in my throat. No, I’m not okay, but that’s the least of my problems. How am I supposed to explain to him what I was doing here?

  I mean there.

  I don’t turn.

  Gently, he touches my shoulder, his fingers smoothly brushing my skin, sneaking beneath the strap of my top, rising a wave of goosebumps on my chest.

  A big gulp of air fills my lungs.

  His breath rolls in my hair, the warmth of his body wrapped around me. He moves closer, and my body gets warmer.

  He snags my strap and slides it down, slowly peeling the top off my shoulder. He stops and pulls it up again as if he’s playing with me.

  The electricity streaming from his fingers, travels through my skin, spurring tingles between my legs.

  Holding my breath, I register the slow motion of his palm sliding beneath my hair, tracing up my neck. More goosebumps drape over my arms and chest.

  Suddenly, my shorts feel tight and damp. He walks around and stops in front of me before he hooks his finger under my chin and gently tips my face up.

  “Hey,” he says softly, his lips inches away from mine.

  Faint light spills over his face, dancing in his eyes. I look at him, mesmerized. Aware of my reaction, he smiles and splays his fingers over my neck, stroking me slowly, innocent at first as if he’s comforting me, and then sensually applying more pressure, turning me on so badly.

  His palm glides back and forth, his fingers rolling on my jawline, his thumb sweeping my lips.

  “Hi,” I say with a whispery voice I haven’t heard since I was seventeen.

  He brings the other hand to my face, and I lean back against the tree as he smoothly erases the little space between us, our bodies touching.

  His eyes glint with a secret smile as his thumb does small strokes on my cheek, tiny, loving circles... encircling, again and again... Circles I feel in places I shouldn’t as my mind goes right into the gutter. My chest rises as I take a long breath.