Mr. Grumpy

Jake

Her gaze drags from my face to my groin and back again, her green eyes widening like it’s the first time I’m presenting her with this sight.

I snap the fingers that are not wound around a whisky tumbler in her direction. “Eyes are up here, Miss Wells.”

She swallows and reluctantly drags her gaze back to my face. “Huh?”

I gesture at the bed. “Do your thing. That’s why you’re here.” Not to ogle at my fucking dick.

She blinks and for the first time she notices the whimpering girl on the bed and her eyes narrows as she looks back at me. “Oh come on, Mr. Keaton not again.”

I shrug.

Whenever a girl proves too difficult for me to get rid of, I call my assistant to handle the situation for me. Not because I’m a man to hide behind a woman’s skirts, no, trust me, if I’m doing anything with a woman’s skirts, it is definitely not hiding behind them but because any act on my part to forcefully eject these women from my household will only be classified as manhandling and I am a lot of things, but being an abuser is not one of them.

Anastasia produces a grunting sound as she moves to the kingsize bed and begin her coercive but kind baby talks, patting the lady’s back with an affection I can't fathom.

I catch glimpses of words like … you should know he is not worth any single tear and it’s his loss, not yours… before I block it all out and turn my back on them, turning my gaze out the French windows.

She is a daughter of one of the business tycoons I do business with although I can’t seem to remember which one. And even though she probably told me her name while we made out at the party her father threw yesterday, it flew out of my head the moment I kissed her and now her face is quickly blurring in my mind’s eye, merging with the faces of all the others.

I blow a breath out in frustration and tilt my head back. Why the hell is it so difficult for me to satisfy my raging sexual urge lately? All the women that fills up my bed don’t seem to be doing it for me and no matter how much they wail and moan in my ears, my body seems to be sporting a void no orgasm from the opposite sex can give me.

I feel Anastasia trudge up to my side, her head barely coming up to my shoulders and her face in a frown.

It’s probably not best for her to be my side while I’m having a mental battle with my sexual urges.

“She is proving more difficult than the rest,” she declares.

“I know,” I chug down half of the whisky in the glass, loving the feel of the burning sensation in my throat, “that’s why I called you.”

“You call me every time this happens.”

Smartpants. “Okay, that’s why I called you earlier than usual.”

Like others, this particular lady hadn’t wanted to leave when I told her I didn’t particularly like having ladies do the whole ‘morning after’ thing. I hate it when they want to stay and all the clingy attachment that comes with it.

I hate clingy even more than I hate having to repeat an order. And that says a lot.

Unlike the others, she hasn’t budged even when Anastasia tried to work her magic.

“Okay sir,” Anastasia blows out a breath and shakes her head, “This is where my power ends. I mean, I can't possibly haul her out of here.”

“Haul her out if you have to.”

She gives a short disbelieving laugh. “Great. Have you seen me?”

I turn around to stare at her. Her eyes are forcefully glued to my face, like she is willing herself not to let her gaze explore the rest of my body and her face is flushed a bright red, making the freckles on her face look like they’re glowing. But apart from that, my personal assistant is slender, on the short side and as clumsy as a winter bear from Thailand so hauling the curvy lady on my bed is basically impossible.

“Do you know how long it took me to get your attention?” the lady from the bed yells too loudly. If I had known how loud she is, I’d never have kissed her in the first place. I hate loud people.

“I’m guessing a really long time?” I remark drily, without turning around.

“Three fucking years. You wouldn’t even look my way. Wouldn’t even honor my father’s invitations. I waited for three years before you finally notice me.”

I take a sip of whisky.

“Don’t make me leave,” she pleads, “please. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll give you everything you ever want in bed. I’ll take you whole in my mouth and –”

Anastasia clears her throat loudly, her lids blinking furiously and the redness on her face deepening. “I really don’t need to hear the gory det—”

A sharp sob cuts her off. “Let me make it up to you, please.”

“You can do that by leaving.” My voice is cold, detached.

She sucks in a sharp breath. “I’ll make Daddy retract every contract he has with you.”

Her words are so funny, I’m tempted to smile at them. “I’m a multimillionaire baby, you think your father’s money is capable of making a dent in my account?”

“Then I – I’ll tell the press about the kind of person you really are—”

“Frankly not the first time that happened either.”

“Miss,” Anastasia speaks up, “maybe you should—”

“Who the fuck are you anyway, you measly thing,” I hear her spring from the bed, her feet landing with a thud on the floor before crossing to us, “tell me, is she your fucking whore?”

“I’m sorry what?”

Okay, I know I said I’m not an abuser and I’ve never been, neither will I ever be, but sometimes the temptation is just too…

“Don’t call her that.” I warn.

“Why?” she says, anger ringing in her voice, “is it because it is close to the truth? Why does she get to stay and I don’t?”

“Keep me out of this,” Anastasia shoots back.

“Oh give me a fucking break you pathetic, undeserving who—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” I drop the tumbler on a table and turn to face her, “this is the last time I’m gonna say this. Leave.”

She throws her head back, “Or what? You’re gonna throw me out?”

“No,” I step aside and grab a large towel, wrapping it around my waist with just the right amount of pressure, “but your father would be getting a little memo as to how his favorite daughter spent her night. With proof.”

I’m bluffing of course. I can’t even remember who the fuck her father is much less proof of what we did but it doesn’t seem to matter anyway because my words seems to be as effective as planned.

Her eyes widen and her resolve shatters to the floor like cheap china ceramic. “Fine,” she mutters, “will you call me?” her eyes are pleading.

I don’t wait a beat. “No.”

With another sob, she grabs her clothing from the bed and shoots Anastasia one last hateful look before stomping angrily out of my bedroom, not failing to bang the door loudly behind her.

Spoilt brat.

Anastasia slumps on the bed, a look of relief washing all over her face, “Well that was intense. Don’t think I’ve ever been called a whore before.”

For the first time, I realize how tired she looks. Her eyes are drawn and the bun on her head looks like it was tied by a ten-year old instead of a twenty-two year grown woman and even though the redness on her face tries to conceal it, I can see the dark circles forming relentlessly under her eyes.

Good.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

She blinks. “I uh –”

“Tell me why exactly you’re on my bed.”

Her cheeks flare up once again and she springs up quickly from the bed. “I just thought – you know you said –”

“We’ve got a meeting with the board by seven. Beat it.”

She deflates. “Fine. Can I use your bathroom?”

“Absolutely not.”

“But why?”

I stare her down. “How daft can you be Anastasia? How am I supposed to get ready if you are in my bathroom?”

She nods. “Okay. The one downstairs then?”

“No.”

“But –”

“Use the one here,” I trudge to the door, “I’ll use the one downstairs.”

And it is NOT because I want to have the scent of my soap on her skin, I tell myself before banging the door in her face and marching downstairs.