Sweat Equity (2 page)

"Fuck." He sucked back about a gallon of water and leaned against the cold granite counter top. "No, seriously. Fuck." He yanked his phone out of his pocket and squinted at the missed calls from nearly an hour before. It was Saturday but, for a change, he didn't have any serious work to do until nearly four. A few fumbling minutes later the comforting sounds and aroma of a coffee-fix floated around him. He looked up when the shower noises from the master bathroom stopped.

Oh hell.

Sara.

It came rushing back in bursts of idiocy and epic drunkenness. They'd both been that way after a friend's party, but once home she'd started in on the wedding plans again, and he'd lost it. He stared at his blood-red eyes in the downstairs bathroom mirror. In the way of most disagreements fueled by stress and alcohol, he barely remembered how it started. But he had full knowledge of how it ended. He groaned. He had been a colossal prick. That much he remembered with crystal clarity. He'd been tired, not wanting to go out after a week of unbelievable frustration at City Hall.

Maybe he wasn't cut out for this total commitment thing. He'd been zoning out every time she brought up any detail of the "classy" event she wanted to pull off in about six months. "Classy" seemed to mean "horrifically expensive" if his newly minted Wedding Decoder Ring worked right. Not that they weren't more than capable of paying for all the "delicate white lilies" on all the country club tables and top of the line videographer themselves, but last night she'd informed Jack that her father, the estimable Doctor Matthew Clay Thornton, wanted to pay for his only daughter's nuptial ceremony. He had flown in from Florida with Sara's mother for a nice, intimate dinner with Sara and her fiancé.

After the week he'd spent in the city planning offices trying to convince a bunch of pinheaded politicians that the massive renovation of a long-abandoned office building on a busy downtown corner would actually be good for their city, he had not a single ounce of patience left. Those assholes had hemmed and hawed him into nearly fifty grand more in architect's fees. Yet, he still had no approval. And he'd agreed to walk down the proverbial aisle a mere week after the scheduled building opening and gala party he wanted to throw – an opening that now looked jeopardized if not decimated by pin-headed bureaucrats.

"Ah, hell." He pushed himself away from the sink, the need to hurl the three bottles of red wine and two ill-considered bourbons from last night out of his system. He had to face this. He'd said some colossally stupid things. He'd been avoiding the wedding talk like a trooper, saying stupid shit like, "Just tell me when and where and I'll be there in the dark suit," long enough. He'd sprung the proposal on her. It had been, no, it
was
, what he wanted: Sara, in his life, forever and ever, until death, or whatever.

If only she'd just agreed to marry him at the resort, the arguments would be a nonissue.  They'd had such a great time learning their way around the milder elements of the BDSM fun while they were there. It had been perfect. Eloping would have kept all this stress out of his life.

But she was being so bloody stubborn on this thing. He knew it has to be tough for her, submitting to him on any level, and he admired her for it. But he felt his control slipping and that pissed him off too. He couldn't, or wouldn't, exert the full force of his naturally dominating nature on her. She wasn't ready for that. Maybe he wasn't either.

Jack squinted at himself once more. Lines covered his face from lying pressed against the couch arm all night. Jaw covered in rough stubble, thick hair, still black as night, having been blessed by some gene which avoided the salt-and-pepper look. He ran a hand over his dry lips and squared his shoulders. Apologies for bullshit behavior usually came pretty easy. Still, something kept him downstairs, unable to form the right words. He made his way back to the kitchen, poured some coffee into a heavy stoneware mug and sighed.

Sara toweled off, her mind focusing on the long list of houses she had to show a new client in a couple of hours, her heart still clenched in anger. She'd passed out, alone, in Jack's huge bed. The sunlight caught the diamond on her left hand, throwing prisms of light around the large bathroom. She'd never put much stock in jewelry, or flowers, or any of the usual shit women seemed to get off on. So, when Jack Gordon, the man she'd been literally fucking around with for months, had sprung a marriage proposal on her in front of their entire company last fall she'd been shocked, to say the least. She stared at the four-carat rock on her finger. It was a work of art-deco beauty. The best that money could buy.

Typical Jack.

Jack's handsome face, strong body, snapping blue eyes, incredible sales skills–and masterful talent with his lips, hands, tongue, everything about him had compelled her for months; driving her, making her work harder, turning into a newer, better version of herself. But every day brought more doubt about her decision to marry him. She wrapped her body in the large white towel and brushed her teeth, listening for sounds of life downstairs. He had even made her more organized, tidier. Something about him made her want to push herself harder, be better. It made her completely insane with a combination of frustration and something resembling jealousy.

Damn they'd said some ugly stuff to each other. She shuddered, remembering calling him "no better than a man-shaped dildo" at one point. Accusing him of things just short of the Kennedy assassination and global warming. He'd been such a gigantic prick about meeting her parents and spent the evening sulky and uncommunicative with their friends. She'd simply exploded when they got home. He had met her halfway no doubt about it.

What was his problem? He'd made it this "wedding crap" was hers to manage. He'd said he needed to pay for it and would write checks for whatever she wanted. But when it came time to start doing so he'd balked, questioning everything she'd arranged, making her doubt herself. The doubt about her ability to plan a simple wedding had leached over into a lot of worry about the whole situation. She sighed, listening again for noise from downstairs.

When her mother called last week and informed her that they wanted to spend the weekend in Ann Arbor so her father could give her the money for the wedding, she'd been relieved. No more answering to Jack. Something in her knew that wasn't right. They were supposed to be husband and wife and learning to communicate about shit like this. Sara took another sip from her water bottle, wincing at the queasy feeling in her gut from previous night's combination of over indulgence and anger. It felt impossible now. The magic date they'd set: November eighth. One week after the new downtown project opened. The project she'd gotten as deeply into as he had, with many late nights spent poring over drawings, contemplating possibilities of retail versus residential versus rentals.

Maybe her brother was right. Blake had given a whole new meaning to "hate," specifically as it related to Jack Gordon. Claimed Jack would be nothing but a serial cheater; couldn't resist women and would never settle for just one. After she'd agreed to marry him, Blake had backed off from the vitriol, but had once suggested that two people as alike as she and Jack would have nothing but misery ahead of them. That comment stuck with her for weeks. The very concept seemed ludicrous, even insulting. She was not like Jack. No way. But the more they clashed, the more she wondered.

Tears threatened at the thought of calling it off, but the last week or so she'd been questioning her sanity. The office gossip about Jack had ramped up and even taken on a bitter tone as all the women, who'd hoped to be in her four-carat-wearing shoes, started griping, most of it reaching her ears. The man obviously had not been able to keep that impressive cock in his pants much; that had become crystal .

He'd taught her so much about how relinquishing her tight control to him was a pure turn on, fueling her libido in ways she had no idea were possible. It also terrified her at the same time. Ceding control like that, to a man like Jack, inevitably left her feeling cold, scared and vulnerable. He'd made a promise to her. She would never, ever be left unsatisfied or made to feel humiliated by anything they did. He'd kept his promise. However, at times, she felt herself shut down afterwards, as if that sort of trust was something she had no idea how to give, or get.

The niggling words "you two are too much alike to work" kept coming back, tickling her brain, making her antsy.

Damn Blake

After rubbing her hair with styling gel, she blinked the tears back and tried to focus on the day ahead. Saturdays were notoriously long days for realtors, and today promised to be a doozy. To top it off, she had the pleasure of dinner with her parents, Blake and his partner Rob, and her fiancé to look forward to. That was, if Jack decided to attend. After last night's blow out, she wasn't so sure.

Fuck him.

She grabbed the hair dryer and ignored the growing ache in her chest–the spot she'd come to call Jack's place. He alone had the ability to fill it with joy and ecstasy one moment, fury and frustration the next. He remained a cipher to her. She still knew very little about his family, about which he seemed disinclined to share. He preferred keeping them both "in the here-and-now," which usually meant in bed, on the floor, or back in his office, with his talented body teasing orgasms out of her at his will.

How in the hell could a relationship like that possibly work?

Fortified by caffeine, Jack made his quiet way upstairs. The hair dryer fired up as he entered the bedroom suite. His head still pounded but he knew part of it was from dread. Failure threatened large on his horizon. He knew it and didn't want to subject her to the messiness. The "down the aisle" thing made him numb with terror. The thought of Sara not in his world made him want to lose his lunch. He leaned on the doorjamb, watching her. She'd given him her trust. He'd wanted it–demanded it even. But did he deserve it? Sometimes he wondered.

Christ, what a mess.

Only he had the power to fix it. That kind of responsibility for another person's emotional well-being had been easy for him once, and something he thought he knew how to handle. Lately, with the woman he loved, he had serious doubts.

Her light brown hair formed a curtain over her face as she worked the hair dryer under its many layers. Jack's hands clenched into fists, resisting the urge to bury them in it, drag her to the bed; apologize with his body and not his words.

She'd called him on that too, hadn't she? Yes. She had.

He groaned and looked up at the ceiling, sitting on the edge of the large bed, which was only messed on the side she'd slept in alone.

His "natural prick" had emerged when she'd given him the "dinner-with-the-parents" news after the insufferable party they'd attended at her insistence. He had no desire to meet them, but knew it had to be done. He'd sloshed bourbon into a crystal glass and knocked it back before turning to her and accusing her of ambushing him with that little tidbit. He'd reminded her that he was perfectly capable of paying for their wedding, even if she wanted to ship all two-hundred invitees to fucking St. Bart's on private planes. She had no business involving her father.

She did, didn't she?

The guy had every right to be involved in his only daughter's wedding plans. Even though Jack knew damn good and well,thanks to a conversation with Rob over a few beers, Sara's father was a class-A prick who had been a shitty role model relationship-wise.
Jesus.
He ran a hand over his face again.

Things had quickly devolved from there. She'd had her own shot of brown liquor and accused him of being a man-whore, expressed her unhappiness with the constant stream of gossip about all his escapades from their real estate colleagues. Jack didn't regret much in life, but at that moment, he had nothing but remorse for the women he'd pissed off if their animosity had caused the kind of pain he'd seen in Sara's eyes.

Of course, he couldn't have just said that, could he? Oh no. He'd laughed, like an asshole. Told her to get over it. He was what he was and she damn good and well had partaken of the "Jack fun" herself, hadn't she?

He looked up in time to see her bend over to give her hair a final heat treatment. The sight of her ass up in the air, barely covered by one of his thick towels brought his cock to strict attention. He sucked in a breath, staying out of her line of sight. When she finished with the dryer, and ran a brush through her hair he narrowed his eyes.

Tears.

Great
.

She dropped the towel, making Jack's body tingle in anticipation. Lotion next, smoothed over her long, strong legs, across her luscious ass, around her firm breasts. His breath got short, ragged in his ears.

He had to talk, communicate better. His head kept buzzing as he stood, walked into the cavernous bathroom, stood behind her, and put his hands on her smooth shoulders. She looked up into his eyes, gaze flat and noncommittal.

Jack ran both hands down her arms, letting the essence of her infuse his senses. He wanted this, more than he wanted to draw a breath. He wanted her, there, every morning. The concept of screwing it up with his usual bullshit made him nearly blind with fury at himself. But, right then, he wanted nothing more than to touch, to caress, to soothe and kiss.

She didn't respond, just stood stock still as he kept touching, down to her hips and thighs. He moved to her side and put a hand to her cheek, making her turn to face him. Unshed tears glinted in her deep green eyes. He swallowed but words wouldn't form. His lips found hers, his tongue tasted her, and she moaned and molded herself against him, wrapped her arms around his neck as he picked her up and carried her to the bed.