He's never stayed away this long. A few days, yeah… sometimes even a week if Amanda's been by the Mansion. But, never this long… he's never stayed away from me for this long. Two weeks. Two freaking weeks without even coming near me… what, had he found himself a new blonde who looked like me?
The thought sends a thrill of fury through me, and anger courses through my veins like liquid fire. But, no, that was crazy… I'm the only one he wants.
The thought of him with someone else, even Amanda, is too much and, sitting here, I find that my ability to tally my tips has been disrupted. I try again, attempting to block any images my overactive imagination is filling my head; flipping through ones and fives, I try to keep count.
One, two, three, eight, nine, ten, fifteen… what if she stole him from you?
Fuck… slamming the hand holding the cash down onto the counter, I hide my face in the other hand, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. Drawing in a breath, I hold it; hold it as long as I can in my lungs before letting it slip out with a quiet sigh of frustration. I know there are all too many women who would kill to screw him.
What if one of them finally got into his head?
I used to watch the way girls looked at him, with their perfect make-up and hungry eyes, watching him the same way a starved mutt watches an old steak bone, practically drooling over the prospect of him. Who can blame them though, really? God knows, he knows how to make a woman happy.
Disgusted, I finally roll up my tips and shove them into the back pocket of my jeans, knowing it was useless to try to count them with my head the way it is. Where the hell is he! What, is he getting off on refusing to get me off!
With one last glance at the door, I turn from the counter, heading to the back room, clicking the door closed behind me even as I reach out and switch on the light. The jarring glow of a cheap bulb sheds long shadows across the boxes and crates, and especially across the desk.
I've learned to love that desk since JR found it… it may not look like much but it makes a hell of a surface for a rough quickie in the middle of the night… or, you know, in the middle of the day, when the drunks are enjoying Happy Hour and we want to get rid of some stress.
What did I come back here for anyway?
Oh yeah, booze. We need more of that cheap Bourbon up front… big seller with, well, cheap people. Huh, cheap people like cheap Bourbon, who'd have thought that could happen? Ah, lovely, irony strikes again… it's way in the back.
Pushing my hair from my face, I crouch, trying to get a grip on the crate. The third try is the charm and, rolling my eyes, I drag it out a bit, attempting to get a better grip on it. It comes with as much difficulty as possible and, when I try too hard, I stagger in my crouch, my ankle turning badly.
Next thing I know, I'm in the painful position of my breasts mashed against the edge of the crate; needless to say, it hurts quite a bit… maybe it's good thing that JR hasn't been by in a while. More often than not, he pays so much attention to my breasts that, the morning after he visits, they're usually so sore that I have to go at least a day without a bra.
Swearing, I push away, standing slightly as I rub my arms over my now sore tits… annoyed, I bend back down and put more effort into dragging it out, and, this time, I manage to do it without hurting myself… thankfully. When it's finally out enough, I pause in my work, realizing that I'll probably break my back before I'm twenty-five.
And then, I hear the click of the door at my back; I manage to keep my attention away, knowing who it was already. Only him… and, when he stops, I can feel the heat through my clothes, that wonderful heat of a man who knows my body as well as I do. He used to worship it and, god, I remember how many hours he'd spend, teasing one spot than another, attempting to find any part that really gets my reaction.
"I hate that stuff. It's too cheap even for me."
JR's never been ashamed of enjoying cheap liquor but even he has his limits on what he'll ingest and, apparently, this is one of those limits. He can survive with the bare essentials and, I remember how impressed I was when I realized that, even with the billions he had to his name, he could survive as well as me and Mama on just a few bucks a month.
"I'll give it to you for free."
He snorts, a slightly nasty sound but I can pick up the humor beneath it and the other quality there, the quality that gives away how aware he is of the curve of my ass in my jeans. Something husky and ragged in his voice that has everything to do with sex and with what he can do to me. "You've always given it to me for free."
I want to laugh but, see, it's been two weeks since he even touched me, two weeks of having to ease myself when that ache got too bad and, even as I feel him move closer to me, ease up closer to my back, I feel anger rise up in my blood, an angry pulse within myself… and it isn't that nice pulse that he can start with just whispering in my ears and brushing fingers across my ass.
I start to turn, intending to give him a piece of my mind but, then, he takes that final step forward and he's against my back… before I can even object, not that I'd really want to, he has a calm hold on my bare arms, warm fingers against the coolness of my skin. Oh god, there's the nice pulse, right there.
He's the only one who can do this to me, the only person I've ever had who can affect me with nothing but a touch or a flush of moist heat against my neck as he whispers things that should make even me blush and feel dirty. But I can't, mainly because of how he says those things… there's always that something in there that makes me realize that he can do everything that he whispers in my ear.
His fingers, across my arms, move down, flesh against flesh and brush over my wrists and I'm already shivering at the touch… fingers race down, lace between mine and, there, he curves hands into fists, forcing mine to curve the same way. For a few minutes, he stands like that and his head tips, face burrowing into my neck, and his teeth find my collarbone.
Where has he been?
I realize when he bites that collarbone slightly that I spoke out loud… "I've been busy with work."
"Does work include secretaries bent over desks?"
My voice, wavering, is indeed pathetic and, grazing my neck again with his teeth, he murmurs, coldly, "I can fuck whoever I want… we're divorced, remember? Besides, I'm very good at the desk-fuck. You certainly always enjoyed it, didn't you?" Another bite, harder, and I groan despite myself. "In fact, you still love the desk-fuck."
He's right about that; and that's why I find myself staring at the old desk so hungrily. I've pissed him off, and he bites me again, holding on just long enough to drag a whimper from my throat before releasing the hold. He knows my body and he knows how much a bite will get me going.
As soon as he learned that tidbit, I was doomed. From that day forward, he knew how to get me off without even trying all that hard… and, boy, did I always love him being able to get me off that easily. Yeah, having a guy who can make you scream between business conferences against the desk with fingers and teeth and sending you on your merry way to bounce around in post-orgasmic bliss?
Yeah, women would kill for that.
Jeez, I'd kill for that…
His hands leave my hands, grip my wrists for a second or two before moving, settling on my stomach. They pause there, and work the muscles, and I'm left a gooey pile of Babe in his hold, actually in pain from how much I want him. And, then, when his hand finally finds my breast, I grunt in surprise, pain flaring up and he pauses in his work, murmuring against my neck, "What, still sore from last time? I thought you'd be back in prime condition by now."
"No… my… I slipped and landed wrong…"
Now he chuckles, a low laugh as he nuzzles the skin aching from his bites. "You always were clumsy as Hell… how bad did you hit?"
"Bad enough that you just actually hurt me."
"Fuck… there goes my fun, huh?"
"Doesn't have to be… there are other ways to have fun with me." Yeah, I'm desperate but I need him. I need him inside me, pushing and moving and making me whimper for more as I break… I need him inside me… desperately… I want him inside me… "JR?"
A mocking noise against my neck, a kiss against my earlobe and then a forceful bite… fingertips across my breast tighten for a split second and I gasp slightly, pressing myself back against him… "JR…"
"Jesus… you haven't been like this in months… have I really been neglecting you so badly?" When all I can manage is a very quiet sound of want, he stops that nipping and instead kisses my neck, a delicate whisper-soft touch. "What's the matter, are you feeling needy, Baby?"
My response, a low "Ugh" is a bit feeble and so I try a different approach to show him how much I'm enjoying what he's doing… I arch up, my hips pushing back against him and he laughs in amusement and there it is, that raw hunger he always has when I touch him like this.
But, damn it, his control is better than mine, even now, and, despite my best attempts, he pulls away from me. I twist halfway, grab him by his shirt and lace arms around his neck, trying to keep him close. Doesn't work, though and, chuckling, he grazes his mouth along my jawline before easily pushing me away and heading back out the door with a laugh of, "Don't forget the lime, baby."
Bastard... how the hell does he do this! Leave my knees shakey and my skin burning and my insides aching like this? Nonetheless, I carefully step around, find two limes and leave the room, hands trembling in the aftermath of his touch.
And there he is, standing behind the bar, filling shot glasses with the best stuff we have in the bar, stuff we don't even sell. He keeps a bottle of it beneath the counter for when he comes by for some fun.
Okay, my boy wants Tequila... hell, he always wants Tequila. I swear to god, no human being should be able to ingest Tequila the way he does. It's like he just inhales the stuff! It's actually kind of scray to be drunk under the table by a guy who can do the Chicken Dance buck-naked without the slightest amount of shame.
And he isn't even drunk when he does it, usually.
Even as I watch, he sets down the bottle, glances my way and holds out a hand; taking the limes, he nods to the seat on the other side of the bar and I obey the unspoken order, easing into the seat and wishing he hadn't gotten me all excited.
He immediately gets to work soothing his own hunger for extremely expensive liquor. Lick... suck... shot. He's perfected the method, especially after long nights of dealing with me and my neediness and whining and tears... god knows, I cry enough, don't I?
Grinning, he offers me a glass and raises one eyebrow in savage mockery... snorting at his boyish stupidity, I lick... and then pause, eyes falling on his hand. He holds the lime in one hand, smirking and my hands, in my lap, twist at the rush of heat that runs through me.
Still, I lean forward, clearing my throat and suck fast, leaning away quickly to throw back the first shot. Coughing, I straighten, find him peering at me with carefully emotionless blue eyes. I look away, look down, look up... look anywhere but at him. He just laughs, and I can vaguely pick up his head-shake of amusement.
"I've actually been neglecting you, haven't I?"
My look is rather nasty before I try to get a hold of the the lime; he moves away and then laughs at my swear of fury. "Aw, Babe... don't be a baby. I have business to conduct, businesses to take over and, oh, let's not forget, secretaries to bend over my desk."
I don't even try to hide my hatred of that thought, and, spotting my positively lethal look, he laughs even louder than before, a warm sound that runs up my spine like liquid heat... it's wonderful, even if he is laughing at me and my stupidity.
And that's what it is, stupidity. I have no right to insist that he saves himself for his weekly visits to the bar. This? This is just our twisted, fucked-up way to keep our hands on each other. But just the thought of him with someone else? No... it makes me ill, makes me want to scream and break everything in the room.
I look back up from my silent appraisal of the scarred wood of the bar and find him holding the lime with that smirk on his face... I lean forward and pause, meeting his eyes with mine for a heartbeat before, with a sigh, I suck and my teeth catch the tips of his fingers, earning a smirk from him.
What do I say to him in moment like this? Do I look him in the eye and tell him that, these days, I'm only alive when he's inside me? That the moments that we spend like this are the only moments in my life that I don't regret? That the three hours I spend with him and our son are the only times I'm truly happy?
I would say it... but he already knows.
AN: Simple angsty JR/Babe... is there anything better? Anyway, I'd feel forever thankful if you dropped a review. Only takes a second and it shows that you actually enjoy my stuff... do a gal a favor, huh? Give me a review, tell me if you liked it.