Page 11 of Popular (Private: The Extended Edition #5)

“ Can you do that for me? ” The feeling of his hot breath against my lips sends shivers down my spine.

“ Can you call out my name? ” A tiny nip is attached to a rapacious yank forward.

“ Can you call me by the title that only I’m worthy of?

” And another. “ Can you scream it while I make you mine all over again? ”

The promise of what’s to come from him effortlessly breaks whatever resolve was left in me. “ Imzadi! ” White-hot quivers overwhelming his dick from root to tip are swiftly followed by my head lolling backwards on an even louder screech. “ Imzadi! ”

“ FuckBeloved ,” gruffly grumbles the man winding his arms tightly around me. “ Tell me I’m yours. ”

“ All mine, ” I echo at the same time I buck forward. “ All mine, J.T. ”

Torrid surges meld with those fading from me to ignite a phantom orgasm that’s worthy of additional panting.

Warm puffs of air are trickled along the length of my neck to the same leisurely speed his hips are continuing to rock despite having completely emptied his load.

We stay tangled together in a mess of extended limbs and uneven breaths and loose strands of hair until proof of our latest morning session slowly starts seeping onto our inner thighs.

“I should get us a towel,” J.T. sheepishly suggests.

“Or…” my face tilts back up to offer him a sweet stare, “we could just shower together again.”

“I mean I do like seeing you soaking wet…”

“And we should probably shower before meeting our vacation partners for breakfast.”

“ Brunch ,” corrects the male I’m carefully climbing off. “We missed breakfast by at least an hour.”

Guilty snickers flood the room prior to us slinking over to the ensuite bathroom.

“You can still get us fresh towels,” I instruct during my small trek to start the shower, “and I’ll get things steaming.”

“Things are always steamy when I’m with you,” flirts the man I honestly wouldn’t mind spending more than a week with.

Like…maybe… forever with?

Is that weird?

That feels weird.

Seriously, who falls for some dude they started fake dating on vacation?

Water begins cascading from the showerhead prompting me to turn back around, but unfortunately for me, upon doing so, I’m met by a look of bewilderment.

Shit.

He wasn’t supposed to find that!

He wasn’t ever supposed to know it existed!

“Why are there teeth marks in this bar of soap?” J.T. cautiously questions, bare ass bracing against the edge of the sink.

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

I physically can’t.

And sadly, him having discovered it just makes me want the object he’s clutching in my mouth even more.

“Did you…” his face twitches in continued disbelief, “nibble on this?”

My mouth cracks open, only to snap closed again.

No.

This isn’t happening.

This isn’t something we’re doing.

This isn’t a situation I’ve rehearsed or studied or even considered getting into.

“Let’s just shower,” I uncomfortably brush off. “You know before we’re even later to lunch.”

“Brunch,” he corrects without missing a beat, “and no.” J.T.

carefully places the white item down on the counter as well as the towels and reaches out for my hand.

Despite my flinching away, he manages to capture my fingers and pull me closer.

Wrap the other set around my free hand to lovingly grip them too.

“Talk to me.” The warm squeeze given threatens to bring tears to my eyes. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“ I… ” is accompanied by a shameful headshake. “ I can’t. ”

“ You can ,” my fake – now feeling too real – boyfriend encourages.

“ Talk to me, Beloved. ” His face moves to maintain the eye contact I’m trying to break.

“ You can trust me. ” He lifts one hand to drop a kiss on the back of it.

“ You can trust me with anything. You don’t have to carry your burdens alone. ”

Resolve begins to waver.

“ Please, talk to me ,” J.T. begs once more. “ I promise I won’t judge. ”

Oddly enough…I believe him.

“I have an eating disorder,” escapes past my parted lips barely above a whisper.

He simply stares.

Waits.

Strokes my fingers to encourage me to say more.

“I compulsively consume…a non-food item as a coping mechanism to deal with stress, anxiety, and sometimes bits of depression.”

Disgust doesn’t appear in his expression.

Just additional befuddlement.

“It started when I was a kid. I honestly didn’t even realize it was happening at first. I’d be in the shower, thinking about school or practice or competition and next thing I know I’ve munched away an entire corner of a bar of soap.

I – of course – tried to hide it or play it off as if it broke during use, but eventually, Gammie caught on.

Thought it would be enough to just swap out bar soap for liquid. ”

“It wasn’t.”

Another headshake is given. “I’d just buy a bar at the corner store.

Keep it in my backpack or cheer bag.” Desire to end the conversation tumbles through my veins; however, another reassuring squeeze convinces me to push forward.

“During one of my routine dental checkups, the dentist noticed. There was damage to my teeth from the amount of vomiting eating too much soap caused as well as from the gnawing itself. That revelation led Gammie to take me to the doctor where I was diagnosed with Pica.” His eyes keep mine from bolting under the confession.

“I went to counseling and worked with a nutritionist to get the condition under control, but I was never ‘cured’. I simply got better about noticing the signs and triggers and countering them. And I rarely do it anymore,” I hastily spew alongside a third headshake, “it’s just that…

with retirement…and not knowing where I’m gonna work next…

and wanting to hear from my dream job while accepting I’m likely going to have to settle for less…

and then having my ex invading my vacation…

I found myself relying on old habits.” An uncomfortably long lull passes prior to me whispering out, “ I’ve never told anyone about my condition. ”

“Not even Jer?”

Once more, I shake my head. “He knows something is off. Assumes I’m just like every other dancer that suffers from anorexia or bulimia or drugs to maintain my size and status, so he keeps an eye on me at meals.

Reminds me to eat. Shoves a burger or taco at me if he thinks I’m having some sort of food episode, unaware of the real problem. ”

“Why haven’t you told him?”

My shoulders bounce on their own accord. “Shame?”

Silence begins stretching between us sending his stare away from mine.

Of course, he said he wouldn’t judge.

That was before he had the information.

The truth.

And people are always quick to think they can accept something unbecoming until they actually hear it.

Steady churning in my stomach combines with the steam filling the space increasing my inability to breathe.

Speak.

“I suffer from panic attacks,” J.T. quietly confesses, gaze drifting back to mine.

“But it’s not from the stress or strain of the job.

” Hesitation reveals itself pushing me to be the one to squeeze his fingers in unspoken support.

“My mom died of Huntington’s Disease and because she had it there was a fifty, fifty shot that I did.

I got genetic testing done – more than once to be sure – and don’t technically carry the mutation, but my mind does. ”

It’s my turn for befuddlement to bloom in my expression.

“I was there for the whole thing. I was there when the involuntary jerking started and clumsiness began. I was there when her mood would lead her to throwing dishes against the wall and me wearing the wrong color socks or shirt for the day – anything that wasn’t blue – would send her into a spell of depression that would leave her in bed for days.

I was there when the hallucinations began.

I was there when her speech started to slur and she struggled to swallow.

” Strain in his voice mimics that in his figure.

“Those things…aren’t things you ever forget.

And sometimes…when I trip over my own two feet or swallow something wrong, panic kicks in.

Fear that the tests were wrong, that I do have HD, that I’m showing early signs that people are ignoring, that I’m ignoring, cause me to hyperventilate.

Feel like I can’t breathe. Like I’ll never be able to breathe again.

” His lips briefly press together as if contemplating to continue.

“Sometimes I have to clear a room or ditch a conference call or find the nearest unoccupied space just so no one sees me falling apart.”

“Your best friends don’t know?”

“No.” The corner of his lip twitches upward. “They know something is off, though. Likely assume it’s just typical high stress job bullshit.”

“Why haven’t you told them?”

“Shame.”

Our shared answer successfully sinks my shoulders.

“I don’t want them to see me like that. I don’t want them to think I don’t have all my shit together.

I’m the literal face of a multibillion-dollar company, a company that was once run by the family that helped take care of my mom, that helped take care of me when she died, that I cannot and will not let down.

I have to live up to the legacy of the man who built it.

One of the only men in my life who stuck around and gave a shit about me.

I have to be the best of the best at all times. I can’t ever be less than…less than…”

“Perfect?” I understandingly interject.

“Yeah.”

“As an elite dancer and cheerleader and celebrity and twin to one of the most beloved and well-known NBA players currently out there, let’s just say I fucking get it.

I realllllyyyyy get it.” His mouth opts out of smiling again, an action that spurs me to whisper out, “ You can always be imperfect with me, J.T. ”

Feathery kisses to my knuckles precede him sweetly cooing back, “ And you can always be imperfect with me, Janae. ”