۫ p۫ ׅɑrɑ 𓈒۠d۫ιse ۫ ׅ

for the next week, jobe dedicated himself to making your life hell on earth. 

he spent every suffocating minute reminding that you would be eating your words by the end of this week, and you were slowly and painfully beginning to regret ever challenging him to this bet. between jobe, a professional athlete who was trained to endure the most grueling training regimens, and you, spoiled princess since birth, it should have been immediately apparent to you who would come out on top by the end of this challenge.

he would firmly press his shirtless chest against your back in the kitchen, leaning deeply into you so you could inhale the bergamot and smoky vanilla emanating from his freshly washed skin, only to reach forward to grab an apple from the bowl of fruit and walk away innocently.

once, he intentionally left his airpods on your bedside table and texted you to bring it to him at the home gym so that you could drop by and hear all the shallow cursing and grunting that went on as he lifted heavy dumbbells. he smiled knowingly at you from the bench, back glistening with sweat and veins prominent on his tense muscles. ‘thank you, baby,’ he said, voice dripping with insincerity.

fed up with his antics, you decided to give him a taste of his own medicine. you were sipping red wine in the kitchen when he approached you, white crisp shirt half-buttoned and black tie in his hand. you set the wine glass down on the counter, slung the tie around his broad shoulders before taking another long sip. your eyes never left his, even as you tilted the wine glass downward and spilled it all over his nice white shirt. ‘oh,’ you frowned, ‘sorry.’ jobe let out a small unbothered laugh and began unbuttoning his shirt while his dark eyes bore into yours, shrugging it off and throwing it into the sink. ‘it’s okay, my love.’

at a dinner hosted by adidas germany, jobe was innocently conversing with a close friend from birmingham. ordinarily, you wouldn’t think much of it, but he was noticeably giving her more attention than he gave you this entire week. whenever he leaned forward to hear her better or laugh at her comment with his arm around her waist, you would grasp the stem of the wine glass like a weapon. and when his playful gaze met your withering stare, he winked and returned to whatever he was doing.

tonight, you were in paris celebrating denise and mark’s anniversary.

you did everything you could do distance yourself from jobe: sat all the way on the other end of the car, stood on opposite ends of the elevator, hell, even booked a separate room from him — everything short of putting an ocean between you two. 

in the elevator going down from his suite you glared at the door, hands crossed over your chest. jobe was in your peripheral, leaning against the mirror with an amused look on his face. 

“you ought to relax, you know,” he remarked casually, chuckling at your discomfort.

you gritted your teeth, nails biting painfully into the flesh of your skin. “thanks for the advice.”

jobe grinned, relishing in your downfall. “don’t forget to smile later. gotta keep the act up.”

you ignored him and walked out of the elevator the moment the doors pulled apart. the both of you acted like it was business as usual, conversing casually to denise and mark about football, the financial markets, politics. you momentarily forgot that this week had been especially hellish due to your cold war with jobe, but you refused to back down. can’t take it back when it’s been set in motion.

while his parents were looking at the menu, jobe turned his head to yours, pretending to talk about the menu, when he was actually whispering the most obscene things in your ear. everything from ‘you look so pretty, baby’ to ‘can’t wait to get you alone’ and ‘it’s taking everything in me not to drag you back to my room and have my way with you.’

all while you sat in front of his parents, smiling politely with your arms crossed on your lap.

in the midst of a conversation about the mid-year market outlook, a hand began lightly caressing your thigh. your breath hitched in your throat as you nodded thoughtfully at denise’s story about her shopping experience at the la vallée village. jobe laughed, pretending that it was at his mom’s story and not at you, absolutely unbothered by whatever he was doing to you underneath the table.

once his hand reached your mid-thigh, your hand shot down and clamped it over his hand, preventing him from moving upward. you crushed his hand, warning him to stop, but your boyfriend was way stronger than you and broke free from your grip.

“my dear,” denise said concernedly, noticing your face lose color. “are you alright?”

“yes, i’m fine,” you breathed out, hurriedly rising to your feet. “i-i just need to use the powder room.”

denise accepted your excuse and continued her conversation with her boys. jobe smirked to himself as he took another sip of his wine. the rest of your company might not have noticed the tremor in your voice, but he certainly did.  

your head was spinning. all the staring, touching, and unholy murmurs in your ear were all tightening the figurative noose around your neck and you were on the verge of gasping and begging for forgiveness. jobe, on the other hand, was prepared to kick the stool underneath you just to see how far your pride and dignity would take you.

you stumbled into the powder room and headed straight to the sink.  

you grasped either side of it, steadying yourself as the white straight-edge porcelain dug into the palms of your hands. the deserted restroom was still and silent, save for the whir of the air conditioner. the dim, red backlit mirror reflected your breathless and frustrated expression, and the wallpaper, an aztec-inspired tribal pattern in warm red, yellow, and brown, seemed to grow redder with each passing minute.

jobe — the thorn on your side, the bane of your existence, the fire that consumed everything in its wake and razed all your defenses to the ground. he’s been pressing your buttons the whole week, never once letting up on your overstimulated nerves.

you inhaled and exhaled deeply, attempting to regain your composure. you pumped the ceramic soap dispenser and washed your hands slowly and deliberately, as if the vetiver and bergamot could cleanse your soul of the impure thoughts that clung like rust on iron.

this desperate need to exorcise your mind of jobe consumed you, and your distractedness made it all that easier for satan himself to slip into the powder room undetected.

after washing and drying your hands you looked up at the mirror and found him leaning against the wall behind you, his expression mischievous. 

“been here quite a while,” he remarked lowly. “almost thought you were secretly touching yourself to the thought of me for the last ten minutes.”

you scoffed at his filthy insinuation, anger bubbling deep within you. “the only time i would touch myself and think of you is when i’m dragging a knife across my throat wishing it were yours instead.” 

jobe let out a small laugh. “ouch,” he cooed, feigning hurt. 

you glared at his reflection in the mirror, hands anchored to the edge of the sink. 

“what do you want?” you gritted out, your body practically vibrating with rage. 

he pushed himself off the wall, positioning himself behind you. he was close enough for you to feel his presence but distant enough that your bodies weren’t touching each other.

“give it up,” he whispered, the teasing lilt of his voice had a sharp edge to it, as if he were sick and tired of the mind games. “apologize and i’ll consider taking it easy on you.”

you scoffed, the frayed threads of your patience slowly unraveling. “i hate you,” you seethed, punctuating each word. “i would rather burn in hell than apologize to you.”

he stepped forward, his toned body pinning you to the sink as he wordlessly tucked a strand of hair behind your ears, leaving the right side of your neck exposed. 

“from the looks of it, you’re already in hell,” he whispered into your bared neck, his warm breath tickling your oversensitive skin. desire pooled deep in your stomach as you fought to remain still. “think i don’t notice the longing stares? all the times you stare into space, dreaming of the time i finally have my way with you and fulfill every sick fantasy that no doubt plays in your head.” 

he slid his fingers up your waist slowly, each touch painfully igniting your raw nerves. “you’re frustrated, aren’t you,” he pointed out, his voice low and husky. “that as smart and as level as you are, you can’t seem to climb yourself out of this grave that i’ve dug for you.”

“you can do it, baby,” he murmured into your ear, his eyes never leaving yours. “apologize.”

the emotions inside you — passion, anger, frustration, lust — had reached a boiling point. you let out an almost animalistic noise and whirled around, pressing your chest to his.

surprise flickered briefly in his eyes. he grinned in a way that only victors could after witnessing the pain and the trail of destruction that followed him after each conquest.

you leaned closer to him, lips mere centimeters away from touching. the pulsing and flowing of blood pounded in your ear as desire clawed its way over the battered and bruised reason.

jobe let out a small laugh, appearing satisfied with himself. he leaned into you, prepared to close the gap after your desperation had brought you to him.

you gathered the shattered pieces of your self-control, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, and shoved him forward, the force startling him as he stumbled against the wall. 

jobe let out a small laugh, almost proud that you still had some fight left in you. 

“i’ll apologize to you over my dead body,” you whispered menacingly, bunching up the lapels of his jacket up in your first, debating whether to push him further up against the wall or to pull him close to you and end your suffering immediately. 

a sly grin slowly formed on his lips. “how about over your naked one instead?”

“fuck you,” you snapped.

he reached into his pocket, pulling out his room access card and placing it in between your fingers. “promise?” he teased lowly, eyes flickering to your parted lips.

“you’ll come tonight, won’t you?” he whispered against your lips, his words meaning two things at once. “be a good girl and come see me.”