Page 47 of Jerk

“That sounds like a you-problem.” Crossing my arms, I lean against the counter. “Cleaning’s not my thing.”

Her hands come to her hips, that shirt sinking into her curves. “It is your problem if you want to keep your little party pad alive.”

“You keep talking to me like you’re in charge, Alfonso.”

She crosses her arms, mimicking my stance. “Get to work. Or get out and never come back.” Her glare lingers on my face.

“Stay away from Hannah.”

I know I should leave. Things could get weird. I should walk away.

So why am I reaching for a cloth?

“Keep it up, Hannah.” I toss the cloth into the air, catching it with one hand. "And you’ll need that safe word after all.”

SEVENTEEN

HANNAH

If someone toldme I’d spend my morning with Ryung Rowen, I'd call them delusional.

If someone told me that morning would include Rye’s face in my ass, I'd call them insane.

I especially wouldn't think his touch would be so soft and tender, so caring and warm. So…weird.

“Missed a spot.” Rye walks by with a box of empty bottles and cans, still in that robe. His eyes move to the spot of wax near my foot as I stand in the living room with a mop.

“What’s with these parties anyway?” I ask. “Are you that much of a pervert?”

“Do you want me answering your stupid questions, or would you rather I help you clean before your folks get here?” He knows the answer because he doesn’t even wait before he continues taking the box outside.

The place isn’t spotless, but the work we do in thirty minutes isn't horrible. We work together, hiding leftover items that my parents would lose their shit if they saw. Whips. Paddles. Feather scarves. Returning furniture to its original position is easy. Hiding the spanking bench is harder, but we figure it out,using the gardening shed as our holding space. We’re pretty efficient as a team. He even lets me play my girly-pop anthems. At a reasonable volume.

It doesn’t drown out my thoughts though. His comments about a safe word swirl in my head the entire time.

Dowe need a safe word? Shouldn’t we admit what this is first?

What even is it? He’s the enemy. I should tear him down for what he’s done. Instead, I let him bend me over the kitchen counter and place his soft lips all over me.

It’s hard to remember where everything goes, his kisses still clinging to my skin, his words still in my head. I want to ask him more questions, but as we put the sofa back in its place, the front door swings open.

“Hannah!” My father barks. “We’re here.” My parents wheel in their luggage, my father in his favourite custom suit. “How lucky you are to have two places to call home.”

“So? What are you guys doing here?” I ask the question I didn’t have a chance to over the phone.

My father turns to me, dropping his keys on the glass console table as he looks around the space. My throat goes dry, hoping he doesn’t see anything out of place. Does he know about the party? Is that why they’re here? “I pay the bills here, don’t I?”

“It’s just that?—”

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t be here?” My father’s eyes sharpen, narrowing.

“Nice to see you, Carlos,” Rye greets my father, cutting the tension between us. My parents’ eyes drop to his robe. But Rye stays calm, collected, greeting my mother instead. “Elena.”

My mother wears her thick shades. The massive ones that cover most of her face. My fists clench knowing what that means. Especially when it’s overcast. The pashmina wrapped around therest of her face gives me more ammo to force the question out of my mouth. “Ma, are you okay?”

She doesn’t remove her glasses when she turns to me. Instead, she eyes me in my state, and I know what’s coming next. “What on earth are you wearing? And what’s happened to your hair?”

“Young Rowen.” My father shakes Rye’s hand. “To what do we owe this pleasure?” My father’s eyes bounce between us, and I know how it looks. “Has my daughter kept you captive?”