180
Bracing himself on his arms, biceps straining impressively, Jake stills over me. His naked skin has a soft sheen of moisture glistening at me from inches above my nakedness. I’m heated, tingling, and tired, yet outraged he has stopped.
“What’s wrong, Bambina?” His intense gaze dissecting my face, his breathing rapid. I wriggle impatiently, unimpressed by his sudden halt.
“Nothing. What are you doing?” I stay nestled in the pillows watching him in confusion, my heart rate still elevated, my breathing shallow.
“Baby, we have been having sex for the best part of a half hour, and I haven’t made you cum once … that’s unheard of for you. I’m starting to feel a little more than inadequate.” He pulls off me, indicating he’s not going to continue.
“Jake, don’t stop. It still feels better than good,” I pout, trying to pull him down against me, but he only resists.
“Not until you tell me what’s wrong,” he persists, his face serious.
“Nothing’s wrong.” It’s not exactly a lie, I have been more than enjoying what he was doing, but my head has been all over the place, making it impossible to succumb to the growing waves of orgasm every time they started.
“Are you still dizzy? From yesterday?” The concern etched on his face tugs at my heart, guilt rising inside me.
“No. I told you when we woke up. I’m fine today.” I bite my lip anxiously; I know he will not let this go. As sex-crazed as Jake seems, he’s always tuned in to how I respond and feel. He’s an attentive lover.
“Is this about Marissa?” He leans down so he’s closer to me, his eyes locking fully on mine for any hint of hesitation.
“No. Maybe,” I break. It’s true. All I’ve been thinking about is her and the baby since his mother brought her up, the DNA test foremost in my head. A mass of confused thoughts is eating away at my brain and driving me insane.
“In general? Or more specifically?” he questions, intuitive as always and straight to the point.
I turn to look at the bedside clock, uneasy with his intent gaze on my face. It’s after ten in the morning; most of the household will probably be up now, and I wonder if we should go downstairs instead of enduring this interrogation. He catches my chin and pulls me back to face him.
“I can stay here all day, baby, and drag this out of you one letter at a time,” he threatens, and I know he means it. No one has more stubbornness than he does.
“I think you should have the DNA test done,” I blurt out, then cringe, biting back my lip in remorse. His face tightens, but he doesn’t fully react. He narrows his eyes with a frown, and I watch as their pale hue of green changes to a darker shade with more brown flecks than normal. It has always mesmerized me how his eyes could change shades depending on his mood, a characteristic of green eyes.
“You don’t think the baby is mine?” he questions flatly, face devoid of any expression except a slight furrow. I can feel the ripple of tension, though, and my stomach lurches with the energy.
“I don’t know. What your mother said, Jake … and the fact you’ve said you don’t even remember sleeping with her. And I know you … no matter how drunk, you’ve never forgotten to use a condom.”
Didn’t I use to order your goddamn supply for you?
“You don’t think my lack of memory indicates how drunk I was? That not using a condom in that state is likely?” His voice has an edge, but he’s still not giving much away.
“If you were that drunk, how did you even … you know.” I look away awkwardly, hating this conversation, a big knot in my stomach building up. My nerves tighten, and nausea threatens to take hold. Something prickles all the way up my skin and makes me nervy.
“Get it up?” he replies sardonically, and all I can do is nod mutely with a flush of shame and warming cheeks.
“It’s never been an issue, even when drunk enough to forget what I’ve been up to,” he points out, and the hope I have been starting to cling to dies immediately. He rolls off me onto his back and stares blankly up at the ceiling. “You really want me to do this?” He sounds almost exasperated, maybe angry.
“Don’t do it if you don’t want to,” I reply numbly, this shift in his position and mood throwing me. Ten minutes ago, he was inside of me, breathing heavily in my ear as I groaned and writhed under his body, mounting again to another wave of pleasure. Maybe I wouldn’t have cum, but I was certainly enjoying it way more than this.
“You can’t just hit me with what’s bothering you and then say something like that,” he snaps. “Of course, I’ll take the fucking test.” He gets up quickly and stalks off toward the bathroom. “I would do anything you asked of me. That doesn’t mean I have to be fucking happy about it.” He slams the bathroom door, and I well up instantly, a tremor of emotion running through me painfully.
I didn’t want to fight. I roll to my side and wrap my arms around myself in an effort to push away the threatening tears. I’ve absolutely no clue what his issue with the test is.
Doesn’t he want to be sure? Why is he so against it? Why did he get so angry about it? I would want to know if it was me. It’s not like he has any reason to trust her; she proved that years ago.
He finally emerges wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. I can smell toothpaste and see he’s trimmed his stubble and styled his hair. I guess he has no intention of coming back to bed.
He walks past the bed, hauling his running shoes from the bag on the floor that holds his gym clothes, and sits down on the edge of the bed to put them on. I say nothing, watching him silently, hating the atmosphere between us. He finally gets up, stretches out his arms over his head, and flexes his large shoulders, rotating them before throwing me a look.
“I’m going for a run. Stay here or go for breakfast. Don’t wait on me. I don’t know how long I’m going to be.” There’s nothing in his tone, no anger but no love, and he doesn’t stoop to kiss me before yanking up the zip of his hoodie and walking out. No backward glance or even a smile, he stalks out, emanating all kinds of anger, and then he’s gone.
All the tension bubbles inside of me to epic proportions, and I immediately burst into tears and bury my face in the pillows of the bed to drown them out. I drag the covers around me to blot out the world, pulling my knees up to my stomach and letting the full force of the pain run through me.
He has no idea how he can make me feel and how little effort it takes to hurt me, especially about this. He has no clue what depths of insecurity it has inflicted on me.
“Don’t cry, baby, please.” His sudden voice in my ear makes me jump as his arms come around me tightly from behind. “I’m sorry, Emma. Please, Bambina.” His tone is soft and gentle as his fingers uncurl my grip on the pillows so he can pull me into his body, encircling me, his face in my hair by my cheek. “Shhhhhh, come on. Turn around,” he breathes, finally coaxing me to face him and pulling me against his chest. “I’m sorry, dolcezza. Stop. You’re making me feel even shittier than I already do.” His fingers stroke across my face, wiping away the dampness, his nose touching mine as he looks at me nestled in his arms under him. I take a breath, stilling the onslaught of tears and sniffling back any more threatening to come, confused as to why he’s back.
“I’ve stopped,” I sigh emotionally, sniffling again and suddenly embarrassed. “Why did you come back?” I look up at him with wide eyes.
“I didn’t get far. I had this overwhelming guilt that, after finally getting you to actually tell me how you’re feeling, I just acted like a prize asshole, and you would probably never open up again,” he admits. “You can’t help that you feel that way, Bambina. And being pissed at you for that is a foolproof way to make sure you never trust me and talk about it again. I can’t let that happen.” He regards me remorsefully. His brows lowered in regret. “It’s a touchy subject; do you forgive me?” As I nod, he leans down and kisses me gently on the mouth, soft and reassuring, his hand curling in my hair.
Sighing heavily, he looks away across the room over the top of my head as though trying to find a focus.
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