“Jane,” he growls after me.
His tone of voice tells me he’s going to follow. Give chase. Part of me is excited by the possibility of being caught, but mostly I dread it happening. I’ll break. I’ll tell him everything if he touches me now. So I run. I run through a side exit and out onto the street, ducking into a bookstore and hiding behind the first shelf, ignoring curious looks from the customers. Byron strides past the window with a mien of determination and I don’t waste another second calling for an Uber, my heart fluttering crazily in my chest, never to be the same.
He won’t call me.
He’ll never be okay with humiliating me. Exclusively. No chance at a relationship.
It’s not in his nature.
A few minutes later, I fall numbly into the back seat of the Uber, my body frozen with the knowledge that it’s over. I ended it. And maybe, just maybe, I’ve saved him from me. It doesn’t make up for the accident, but it’s better than letting us sink deeper. So deep we can’t come up for air ever again.
He won’t call me.
Will he?
Six
Byron
I turn over in bed again and the sheets twist around my waist.
My gaze finds the clock on the bedside table: 2:14 am.
I haven’t slept a minute. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to sleep again. Every time I close my eyes, there is Jane. Beautiful and perfect and broken Jane. What happened to her? Why won’t she tell me and let me fix it? Or if I can’t, I can at least prove to her that I’m not going anywhere. There is nothing in her past that would keep me from her. So she was wild in her teens and early twenties? Most people are. Not everyone wants to entrench themselves in academia and gets excited by a line of zeroes and ones.
She’s wonderful exactly as she is.
But she won’t let me in.
All she can offer me is sex. Dirty, no-strings fucking where I basically reduce her to an object. A willing body. She’s made her terms clear and I hate them. I hate anything that makes her feel less than goddamn royalty. I want to worship her. Spoil her. Value her.
There’s a problem, though.
My body wants Jane any way it can get her.
I roll over onto my back and toss aside the sheet, looking down at the sheen of sweat that covers my body. The thick column of my erection. I’ve made it a full day and a half without calling her, but my resolve is thin. There is a part of me that knows when I’m locked up tight inside her wet little pussy, I’ll have no problem calling her trash. Because I’ll be so desperate to make her come that I’ll sacrifice my life, let alone my respect for her. I’ll be out of my mind with the need to gratify her and I’ll say the words, wrap my hand around her throat and just let it happen. I’ll be conflicted afterwards, but at least she’ll be here. With me.
I require Jane here with me. My guilt over breaking my oath is gone. I’ve admitted to myself that my sister would want me to be happy—but I’m far from that now.
I’m ready to tear out my fucking hair.
With a vile curse at the ceiling, I sit up in bed and throw my legs over the side of the mattress, burying my head in my hands. The ceiling fan turns the sweat on my body colder, but I’m too hot, too horny to bring down my internal temperature. I’m on my feet and pacing now, my cock in my hand, stroking it angrily, knowing damn well it won’t help. Nothing helps. When I came home from our disastrous lunch, I humped a couch pillow until I came, pretending Jane was beneath me—and I was erect again in a matter of minutes. Frustrated. Aching.
She’s infiltrated me. Every pore. Every muscle.
I need her. Now.
My pulse begins to tick faster, faster, then speeding out of control when I snatch my phone up off the side table. I’m calling her. I’ve lost the fight with my self-control. With my adoration for her. And it’s a relief. I’ll do what she asks me to do. I’ll be what she needs in bed, even if I worry I’m making something inside of her worse. And I’ll work my ass off getting her to open up. I’ll be persistent. I’ll be there every time she turns around until she knows I’m standing firm. Not going anywhere, no matter what ugly truth she reveals to me.
I hit dial on Jane’s number.
It rings once and stops abruptly, her breath drifting through the connection, the proof of her presence filling my loins with pressure. “Jane,” I say hoarsely, unable to say more.