She's Too Young
Jessa Kane
Copyright © 2016 Jessa Kane
Kindle Edition
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B
efore you judge
me, please understand something. I didn’t go looking for her.
She found me.
After that, there was no letting go.
Is it loneliness that had me standing on the ledge of a one hundred and twenty-story building? Potentially. Or was it simply needing to feel life flow through my veins in a way I hadn’t in years? I can’t even recall the last time I felt anything other than cold detachment from my surroundings. And with that same horrifying numbness, I looked down at New York City racing below and realized I didn’t give a fuck if I lived or died. My time here would be swept away in a tide of paperwork and money changing bank accounts.
Perhaps a new name plastered atop the very building on which I stood.
Inside the ballroom one floor down, a party raged in my honor, but I’d yet to make an official appearance. Honestly, I just couldn’t find it in myself to interrupt and make them applaud or produce half-hearted toasts when they’re enjoying themselves. It’s all a sham, anyway, isn’t it? Smile for the boss. Clap for the boss and pretend he’s not an expressionless prick who hasn’t taken the time to learn any of their names.
I hadn’t planned on jumping, if that’s what you’re wondering. Not when I have an eight a.m. meeting with my company’s Singapore division. I was only curious if death staring me in the face might prompt some kind of revelation. Or just give me a goddamn
feeling.
Those pesky hot and cold sensations that used to signal a change in mental disposition. I used to hate feeling
anything
. Just then, however, I was desperate. So I’d climbed up on the ledge in my tuxedo, waiting for the rush that wouldn’t come…
But it did.
Ironically, the soft, feminine strains of singing almost caused me to slip, which would have been the pity of a lifetime because when I turned around, a girl stood there. And my cold, underutilized, thirty-year-old heart barely withstood the onslaught of feeling.
She is way, way too young. Her age is there in the way she wobbles in her high heels, the cheap, sparkly disaster of a dress that whips around her legs, the fresh quality of her singing voice. And before you judge me, understand that she’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever encountered. Not just in blonde good looks, but in…energy. Yes, I realize that is ridiculous coming from someone who forgot how to feel, but it’s as though the clouds parted and dropped an angel onto the roof of my building. That’s how she moves, how she smiles softly at the city lights. She doesn’t see me; thinks she’s alone. Needing to watch her move and listen to her sing a little longer, I use the concrete piling for balance, attempting to maintain my even breathing, difficult though it is when my heart is blocking attempts to get a good breath.
As I watch, she turns in a slow pirouette, hands in a loose oval above her head, like a ballerina. She spins in graceful circles across the roof, fluid as water, humming in her throat. No hint of self-consciousness or reservations. And I wonder if maybe I jumped, after all. Maybe this is what the other side looks like. Heaven is real.
Even as the idea occurs, I know it’s impossible. I don’t deserve heaven.
She begins to hold a conversation with an imaginary person—or so it seems from this distance—nodding when the invisible human asks her to dance, and then she’s waltzing toward me, arms extended as if being led by a man.
I am jealous of the imaginary dance partner. Irrationally, blindingly jealous. Knowing the gut-churning reaction is ridiculous doesn’t stop me from embracing it, though, because finally,
finally,
I’m feeling something. And it’s because of her.
Wide-eyed fear transforms her gorgeous face when she sees me on the ledge.
“Oh, please don’t.” Dance forgotten, her hands fly up to cover her eyes, but she spreads her fingers after a moment and peaks through, increasing the weight of my heart to anvil-status. “Please, please, come down. I’m so sorry for whatever happened, but you can’t. You just can’t.”
“Why?”
My curiosity is genuine. I want to know what this creature deems worthy of living. I
need
to know. “Because there’s still time.” Her hands are pressed to her cheeks now and I’m experiencing guilt over not immediately explaining I don’t plan to off myself. I’ve put my impending salvation or doom on her slight shoulders and that’s not fair. But I’m not a fair man. It’s the reason I own this building, the one next door and dozens more throughout the world. Fairness is a direct contradiction of survival of the fittest. That is what I was taught from a young age and I’ve never experienced a different method. “There’s still time to fix everything,” she breathes, her sweet voice carried to me on the wind. “Time goes on and on.”
My throat is dry, but I can’t swallow. “Time is only as important as the day you’re living in.”
Her forehead wrinkles as she ponders my words. “So live for tomorrow.”
I’m suddenly so anxious to get off the ledge, I can’t stand that I’ve put myself up there in the first place. When I jump back down onto the roof, I land in a pool of white light and the girl backs up, away from me. Behind her, reflected back in the glass doors leading into the building, I glimpse my appearance. To myself, I resemble a wolf approaching prey, but thankfully, I look quite different to her.
Regal
is the word most often used to describe me in publications.
Striking, yet remote.
I can read between the lines, though. They think I’m an asshole.
Fair enough.
“Oh,” the girl breathes. “The way you spoke…I thought you were older.”
“Really.” I’m wondering just how ancient I sounded and that train of thought distracts me, allowing a dose of honesty to slip free. “I wouldn’t mind
you
being older, too.” I can’t stop myself from devouring the length of her long legs, the turn of her hips and slim waist. She’s not dressed appropriately for a girl her age—she can’t even be eighteen yet—and I want to whip off my coat, hide her away in its folds. Who let her walk out of the house with so much leg showing? “What are you doing out here alone? I could have been anyone.”
“You aren’t, though. You’re someone,” she whispers. “Thank you for not killing yourself. I probably never would have danced again.”
“That would have been a damn shame.”
Her tongue slides out, wetting the seam of her lips and my cock grows, stretching the cotton of my briefs. “I don’t know why I said that. I didn’t mean it to sound as if my never dancing again would have been the real tragedy.”
“I promise you, angel, it would have.” I mean every word of that, too. My father passed on his legacy to me, his portrait hangs in the lobby, and the people who pass it every day don’t give a shit about his investment strategies. But if they had an ounce of blood running through their veins, they would stop and watch this girl dance in awe.
I go toward her, because she’s fucking magnetic and I want to know her scent. Everything about my behavior makes me unrecognizable to myself. People come to
me
. Furthermore, I’ve never given a thought to what someone else smells like. Not in my entire damn life. “Did you come from the party?”
She nods and a lock of long, blonde hair trails over her shoulder, disappearing into the neckline of her dress, where a simple gold locket lays just above her cleavage. We both watch it happen, but she has no idea the effect the mere
existence
of her breasts are having on my cock. “Yes, I’m here with my dad.” The girl moves past me to rest her arms on the very ledge where I’d been standing. “He works on the forty-third floor.”
It takes me no time at all to remember what takes place on forty-three. I know every nook and cranny of my business—my teeth were mercilessly cut within its walls—and everything that makes it tick. This girl’s father is a member of my accounting department—probably in his mid-forties, based on his daughter’s age—and likely earns a decent salary, if not an exorbitant one.
Filing that information away, I move up behind the girl and following impulse, lean in and take a deep inhale near the crown of her head. When the unmistakable scent of bubble gum hits me, I actually laugh out loud. The only way she could be more innocent is if she had a mouth full of braces, for chrissake.
That’s definitely not the case, though, I see, as she turns to me, a little startled. No, she’s nothing but pure perfection, with translucent skin and a full, almost puffy, mouth. Big, sky-blue eyes. She must drive boys out of their damn minds. Hell, she’s got me wrapped around her little finger and I’ve only spent a handful of minutes in her company.
“Were you really going to jump, sir? I need to know.” She faces me and leans back against the wall, tilting her chin up. Defiant and sweet, all at once. “I wouldn’t judge or anything, but I couldn’t spend another minute with you, either. It’s nothing personal, but if we have a conversation, it’ll hurt more when you’re gone.”
“I wasn’t going to jump.” I say it fast, because there’s a serious rebellion in my stomach at the idea of her leaving. “Although, a man ought to be able to jump off his own building without being interrupted. Technically you’re trespassing.”
Worrying her lip between two rows of white teeth, she gives me a once over, looking completely unimpressed that I own jack shit. “Are you going to take me prisoner?”
Unbelievable.
She’s flirting with me. When was the last time I allowed a woman to flirt with me, instead of treating any physical situation like a business transaction? Maybe never. I have a feeling I would have loathed such behavior coming from anyone but this girl. Why? “I could call the police,” I say, propping my hand on the ledge behind her, getting another whiff of bubble gum. “A minor wouldn’t be judged too harshly.”
Her brave smile wavers. “I thought I looked older in this dress.” She runs a hand down the sparkly discount garment that isn’t worthy of her body. “They served me a glass of wine at the open bar inside.”
“Then they’re fired.”
She flinches at my hard tone, straightening a little against the wall.
There we go.
She has finally realized I’m not one of her schoolyard admirers. “I’m seventeen,” she whispers. “But that wasn’t my first glass of wine.”
Seventeen.
Fuck.
I thought I was prepared for the confirmation that I’m in all-out lust with a high school student, but I was wrong. Because I thought knowing her age might force me—through my conscience—to pat her on the head and walk away. Only, our faces are still mere inches apart and my dick is still hard.
Hard
. And I’m counting the ways I’d like to introduce myself to her angelic mouth.
“Not your first glass of wine,” I say, echoing her words. “How about a different kind of first?” Unable to stop myself, I lift a hand, settling it on her hip. Not exactly her hip, though. More like the area where her hip turns into her high, taut bottom. And her glossy, doll lips pop open, like she’s never been touched by someone who knows what they’re doing.
“I’ve…I’ve had my first kiss already,” she says, staring at my throat, then up at my eyes, then back to my throat.
There’s the jealousy again, bubbling up like boiled poison. “With a man or a boy?”