Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
JACKSON
The following morning I wake to Preston’s arm around me and his dick pressed against my ass.
“Mmmm,” he hums as I shove my ass back against his hard on. “Don’t tease me. I’m so fucking horny.”
I chuckle and roll over. His eyes aren’t even open before I’m kissing him languidly and sliding my hand down his pajama pants at the same time. He gives me one of those sexy as fuck whimpers as soon as my hand comes in contact with his length, his precum already leaking onto my hand, and his neediness goes straight to my cock. I’m hard in seconds as I stroke him and he whimpers and whines into my mouth, thrusting into my hand as he kisses me back.
He moans and then he’s sliding his hand inside my panties and stroking me fast and hard.
There’s no words, just noises. Beautiful, sinful, amazing noises as we pleasure each other in the safety and comfort of his bed, all warm and sleep rumpled. His dick is hard and smooth except for the prominent vein running up the center. God, I love the feel of his cock in my hand, the weight familiar and fucking perfect. When his grip on my dick tightens and his kisses grow more intense, his whimpers becoming more desperate, I know he’s about to come. I stroke faster and harder and he does the same.
We both moan into each other’s mouths as our dicks pulse our releases, our cum soaking the other’s hand.
“Good morning,” Preston says with a chuckle and I laugh, still gripping him, him still gripping me.
“Morning,” I reply and we kiss again before we release each other.
“I have wipes in my bag,” he says, and climbs out of bed. He digs with his clean hand for a second and then tosses me the package. I use a couple to clean myself off and then so does he.
“You wanna shower first?” he asks.
I nod and head to the bathroom with a change of clothes. I shower quickly and dress, then head back into the bedroom to put my earrings in and my rings on. When Preston is done showering I return to the bathroom to apply my makeup, and he stands near the door, watching me.
“What?” I say, flushing a bit.
“I like watching you do that,” he says. “It’s kinda cool.”
I grin like an idiot and we head downstairs. It smells amazing, and when we reach the kitchen, Pam and Phil are cooking breakfast. Phil is at the waffle iron and Pam is at the stove making bacon and eggs. Paris bounces down the stairs a moment later, still in his pjs — a cropped camisole and care bear pants, and proceeds to the fireplace where he pets Ginger, before sashaying into the kitchen.
“Good morning,” I say when he grins at me.
“I bet it is,” he replies, then winks. Preston gives him the finger and Paris sticks his tongue out at his brother. If Paris is aware of our jack off session he doesn’t come out and say it, which I’m thankful for, but if Pam and Phil know about us I’m sure he does, too, and there’s not much I can do about that. And honestly there’s no way I can go an entire week without touching Preston either, especially when we’re sleeping in the same bed.
“Good morning boys,” Pam croons. She steps aways from the stove for a moment to give each of her boys a kiss on the cheek, and then she plants a kiss on my cheek as well, making me flush. “Help yourselves to breakfast. Waffle fixings are on the table. Eggs and bacon are coming soon.”
We each grab a plate and head to the table. There’s half a dozen waffles stacked high and we take one before sitting down and passing the different toppings around. There’s strawberries, blueberries, peaches, whipped cream, nuts, chocolate chips and more. My mouth is watering and my stomach growls.
“These are amazing,” I tell Preston’s parents after swallowing my first bite.
Phil beams at me. “Thank you. They’re my specialty.”
“He’s won contests,” Pam chirps, clearly proud of her husband.
“I can believe it,” I say.
“You’re so sweet, Jackson,” Pam brings plates of fresh eggs and bacon over and sets them down in front of us, and then pats my cheek. I flush again before inhaling more food.
I feel bloated when I’m done but I don’t regret a single bite.
“You boys better get ready to go sledding,” Pam tells us as we’re picking up our dirty dishes and setting them in the dishwasher. “Jackson, you can borrow some of our things so you don’t get your nice coat all dirty.”
“Come on,” Preston says. “I’ll show you where everything is.”
He leads me to the mudroom by the back door where the washer and dryer also sit. There’s a wall hook with several winter jackets hanging on it, snow pants, and baskets with hats, scarves, and gloves. On the floor is a pile of snow boots.
“What size are you?” Preston asks.
“Ten.”
“Dad’s an eleven so you can borrow his. Mine would be too big and Mom’s and Paris’s would be way too small.”
“You talking shit about my feet?” Paris pipes up as he enters the mud room, wiggling his socked foot.
“Just that I’ve seen toddlers with bigger feet,” Preston teases.
“Well, we can’t all be behemoths,” Paris retorts.
“I think you mean average,” Preston says, tossing me a pair of worn but comfortable looking boots.
They keep ribbing each other as we dress. I am definitely taking the longest since I’ve never done this before. The pants are so puffy I feel like a balloon, and the boots, while warm, are clunky, and the gloves are so thick it looks like my hand is twice its actual size.
“Jesus, this is ridiculous,” I grumble. “How do you actually move around in all this stuff?”
They both start laughing at me and I glare at them, which just makes them laugh harder.
“Not nice,” I huff, as I pull a hat over my hair, trying not to think about the mess it will make of it. Preston grins at me and winks.
When Paris is ready he scampers off to find his parents, and Preston takes the opportunity to pull me close and kiss me. “I think you look adorable.”
“I look like the Michelin Man,” I grumble, but can’t help the grin that spreads across my face when he nuzzles my nose with his, laughing.
We kiss once more and then head to the kitchen to wait for Phil and Pam. Ten minutes later we’re on our way to the sledding hill at a nearby park, crammed into their SUV, the sleds in the back.
When we arrive, we grab the sleds out of the car and make our way through the snow to the large hill where other families are gathered, going down on both sleds and innertubes. It’s a huge hill and dozens of people can go down at once.
Paris plunks down his bright pink saucer sled and shrieks as he flies down the hill, hitting bumps along the way that have him cackling even more. It’s quite a ways down, probably a twenty foot drop, and plenty of room at the bottom to stop safely, nothing but more snow for several feet.
Preston sets down one of the two seater sleds and climbs into the front, shoving his feet into the ground to keep it from moving before he’s looking back at me.
“You coming?”
“If I don’t go I put this ridiculous get up on for nothing,” I reply, and everyone laughs. I climb on behind him and wrap my legs around his waist, holding on for dear life.
Phil gives us a push and we’re flying a second later. I find myself laughing the entire way down, and when we reach the bottom I feel exhilarated.
“So?” Preston says, climbing off and then holding his hand out to me. I take it and he pulls me to my feet, grinning.
“Pretty damn fun,” I admit, and he chuckles.
Phil and Paris are going down as we’re going up, and then we’re all trying to convince Pam to go like Preston said they do every year. She gives in when Paris says he'll go with her, and she’s shrieking and laughing the entire way.
I’m attempting to go down alone, sitting on a larger sized saucer sled, when Paris flings himself onto my lap, his momentum making us fly down the hill as he cackles the entire way, barely hanging on, and then proceeds to faceplant at the bottom, making everyone laugh.
It’s a couple of hours later when we’re exhausted and cold and ready to leave, all of us with our cheeks flushed and smiles on our faces.
We pack up and head back to the house where we drink hot chocolate and eat tomato soup and grilled cheese for lunch, then proceed to pass out in bed or on the living room sofas for a while.
After a lazy afternoon and a delicious dinner, Preston tells me he wants to take me somewhere, and gives me that sexy grin, so I change into something a bit nicer. Black pants, a gray long-sleeved shirt and a blazer, and say goodbye to his parents and Paris as we head out the door.
He’s dressed in chinos, a button up shirt and a blazer, and looks amazing.
A few minutes later we’re arriving, and he grins as I look out the window. “A jazz lounge?” I say, excited. “Really?”
“Yeah, come on.” We get out of the car and he’s beaming as he grips my hand and pulls me with him.
The music is incredible, the atmosphere amazing, the drinks refreshing, and the experience altogether wonderful.
At one point Preston leans in as we’re watching the couples on the dance floor, moving to a slower number, and asks if I want to dance with him.
“Only if you’re comfortable with it,” he says. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”
I swallow, because I want to so fucking much. I want to have this memory with him before our time is over. So even though I know I shouldn’t, for the same reason I shouldn’t even fucking be here, I nod and take his hand. He smiles widely and pulls me with him, taking me in his arms as we sway to the music. I look into those cornflower blue eyes and say, “thank you,” in barely a whisper. Then I rest my head on his shoulder, breathing in that scent. Peaches and musk, and him.
When we leave the lounge a couple of hours later, it’s still bustling outside as people stroll along, enjoying the nightlife and the holiday lights downtown. Preston takes my hand again and tugs me until we’ve reached a corner where there’s a man sitting with a horse-drawn carriage on the cobblestone street.
“You want to?” he asks, his eyes twinkling, and I nod. He pays the man and we climb in, and the two gorgeous clydesdales take us on a ride, passing shops, boutiques, restaurants, pubs and more.
Preston slides his hand in mine again as we press close to each other, the winter night chilly, and my heart rate spikes as his cold fingers lace with mine. I swallow, because I’ve never done this before. Holding hands briefly while being tugged along somewhere is different. This is longer, more purposeful, more… intimate. How is hand holding more intimate than sex?
Goddamn him. Everything in me is telling me to pull away, but I don’t. Even though I know I should, even if I know it will hurt that much more the longer I keep this up, I don’t. Because his hand feels so good in mine, and because even if I never get the life I so desperately want, at least he’ll have given me a glimpse of it.
Monday, we all go to the winter farmer’s market, and spend time during the day playing board games and baking cookies. I’ve never baked cookies with anyone before, so when Pam asks if any of us want to join, I eagerly volunteer. Preston joins in, too, and Pam gives us directions on how to make her famous almond spritz cookies. Since they’re made almost entirely from butter and sugar they’re absolutely addictive and I shovel half a dozen of the tiny cookies away before the second batch is even in the oven.
Preston grins at me and Pam giggles. “You like them?”
“Oh my god, they’re amazing,” I tell her. She gives me a pat on the cheek and tells me to eat as many as I want.
After that we make fudge and it’s equally as delicious, and I’m realizing that I maybe should have brought my fat pants with me because there’s no way I’m not gaining weight on this trip.
Tuesday, we take a trip to the Museum of Art.
Wednesday, Pam convinces Phil that the tree should go up, so we spend our afternoon decorating it with funky ornaments and garland, and listening to Christmas music while the wood burning stove warms the house and Ginger snores nearby. I don’t remember ever putting a Christmas tree up with my parents since they were always too busy and would hire someone to do it, and I can’t stop smiling while we work, feeling so blessed that they're letting me share in this special event with them.
Pam smiles and hands me an ornament with a little boy on it, probably seven or eight, with wild blond hair and a big toothless grin. “That’s Preston in second grade,” she says.
Then she turns and grabs a bag of what looks like new ornaments off the floor and pulls them out. “And these are our new ornaments for this year.”
“We each get a new one every year and that way Mom says we’ll have them when we move out and get a place of our own. It also means we have way too many to fit every year,” Paris explains.
“You love it and you know it,” Pam tells him. “Now get over here and take yours.” He steps over to her and she hands him a bright pink high heeled shoe ornament and he grins as he takes it.
“Preston, this is yours,” she says, holding out the volleyball, of course.
She hands a Pepsi can ornament to Phil, which makes me smile and then holds one out to me. I blink.
“Who’s this for?” I say, taking it.
“It’s yours,” she tells me. “Everyone gets one. That includes you. Now go on.” My throat closes up and I have to keep my eyes from watering as I look at the ornament a little closer. It’s round and flat and on it are the words, “Nobody puts baby in a corner.” And then Dirty Dancing written underneath. I can’t help it. I have tears sliding down my cheeks and she stands, taking me in her arms.
“Thank you,” I manage.
“Oh, honey,” she croons. “You’re very welcome. Preston told me what you like so he gets some credit.”
I chuckle, and holy hell, he’s going to get one amazing blow job later tonight.
We finish hanging up ornaments and then turn on The Santa Clause , which they say they watch every year after putting up the tree. And I may or may not eat another half dozen cookies along with a rather large piece of fudge.