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But that would be too far. Something within told me that.
So I asked another question.
“Have you done that?” I asked. “Gone home with someone you shouldn’t?”
“No,” Jay answered immediately. “Not yet. But I will tonight.”
My stomach plummeted to my feet. Did he mean me? He had to have meant me, right? I’d agreed to not let another man touch me, couldn’t even imagine it. But he hadn’t made any such promise. He hadn’t made any promises.
“Go,” Jay commanded. “Dance. Drink. Don’t get too drunk. Two more drinks then water.”
I pursed my lips. I should’ve said that I could have as many or as little drinks as I wanted, and he did not control me.
But he’d just fucked my ass against a window while I’d watched hundreds of people dance.
He owned me.
So I went back down to the VIP section, weathered the knowing glances and teasing from my friends, had two drinks then switched to water.
And waited.
Jay had not meant he was planning on going home with someone else tonight. He went home with me. I was the person he shouldn’t be going home with. Everything about that filled me with wicked satisfaction.
My martini buzz wore off as we ascended the steps to my apartment. The fact that I was letting Jay in to the last remaining piece of my life that wasn’t saturated by his presence was sobering. Terrifying.
A smarter woman would’ve made sure this didn’t happen. Would’ve made sure her space remained hers. Would’ve kept one thing in her control. One thing that Jay couldn’t have.
But when it came to Jay, I was not a smart woman.
My hand shook as I put the key in the lock, Jay’s body was close to mine. His breath was at my neck. He followed me inside, my shadow as I turned on the lights then threw my purse and keys on the credenza.
“Do you want a drink?” I asked, stepping farther into my apartment, nodding my head at the small bar cart that was nestled between my sofa and the wall.
Various bottles were arranged artfully on top, but my vodka and tequila lived in the freezer. Champagne and mixers in the fridge. I might not ever have anything edible in my fridge, but I made sure there were ingredients for at least three kinds of cocktails.
Jay didn’t answer me, his eyes were too busy moving around my apartment.
We had walked through the short and narrow hallway that led into my living room. To the right was my kitchen—the whole space was open plan—surfaces sparkling clean but reasonably bare apart from a fancy coffee maker, artfully stacked cheeseboards and trendy recipe books I never used.
There was a small nook off the kitchen where I’d created a dining area nestled in my bay window. It was my favorite place to hang out, on the odd occasion I was alone in my apartment with time to spare.
To the right of us was another hall leading to my bedroom, bathroom and second bedroom turned closet.
“I know it’s small,” I mentioned awkwardly, suddenly ashamed of my tiny apartment.
When had that happened?
Wasn’t I full of elation and pride when I’d scrambled together enough money for this? An apartment in my favorite area of L.A., one that was all mine?
Even when I went to Wren’s mansion or Zoe’s penthouse or even Yasmin’s trendy townhouse, I’d never felt ashamed of what I had. What I’d given myself. What was it about Jay that made me inspect my life without any form of rose-tinted glasses?
Jay didn’t say anything, his dark eyes were still cataloguing every square inch. And due to the size of my living room, you’d think that wouldn’t take long. But not with Jay.
“It’s just, when I first came here with nothing but a few hundred bucks and a tattered suitcase, I had to live in shitty apartments with a variety of roommates,” I added, hating that I was explaining myself, my living situation, but unable to stop it.
“Some as shitty as the apartments themselves, some perfectly fine,” I continued, awkwardly fluffing pillows on the sofa. “Some turned in to friends. But it didn’t really matter. I always felt ... confined. Suffocated in a space that was full of other people’s things, thoughts, personalities, messes. I had this vision for myself here. In a huge, airy apartment. All white. Windows. Hardwood floors that had seen better days. Mismatched rugs. Pottery. Pictures on the walls. Souvenirs from wherever I’d travelled. Where I could stumble out of bed in my underwear, open all the blinds, make myself coffee and just breathe in ... me. My own space.”
I glanced around. My apart wasn’t huge. But the living room didn’t feel cramped, or it hadn’t until about two minutes ago. There was space for my white slipcovered, L-shaped sofa from Ikea. For the marble topped coffee table that had scented candles and a stack of books scattered artfully atop of it. Bookshelves—also from Ikea—stuffed with books and knickknacks.
