Chapter Twenty-one – Jack
Chapter Twenty-one
Jack
I pushed the lid back, slowly, relieved to see my own bedroom outside—and the door, closed. How had I gotten here? What had Zach seen? I was still wearing the clothes I’d had on yesterday, down to my boots, he hadn’t tried to undress me for bed in the least.
I opened the door and walked out into my living room—and found Zach, snoring on my couch, with Sugar snuggled into a furball on the center of his chest. She lifted her head, gave me a baleful glare, and then returned to ignoring me.
I could see a full bowl of food for her on the floor of my kitchen, and the signs that Zach’d made himself a PB&J on the countertop.
I shook my head to all of that, and went into the bathroom to hop in the shower.
Surely Zach would wake up while I was in here, and realize his nurse duty was done and leave.
Surely. I didn’t want to have to roust him, and I certainly didn’t want to answer any questions—but I listened for the sound of the front door and didn’t hear it my entire shower.
I got out, kicked my old clothes aside, tied a towel around my waist and braced.
Zach was sitting on my couch, petting Sugar with one hand while he ate a fresh sandwich with the other. He looked me up and down, and then made an effort to keep his eyes on my face. “Hey,” he said, companionably, like he hadn’t seen me die.
“Hey,” I said back. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He took another bite of his sandwich and chewed, contemplatively. “Are you…better?”
I tilted my head like that was a strange question. “Yeah. Why do you ask?”
His expression clouded. “So you probably don’t remember.”
Oh God. “Nope.”
“You made me bring you into here, and then take you into your bedroom, and then you tried to pull me into that box after you and then you passed out. Hard.”
I laughed it off, hoping he would too, trying not to think about what my hunger might’ve done to him unguarded. “Yeah? I’m sorry. Some nights are like that, you know?”
He gave Sugar a final pat, finished his sandwich and stood. “So…are you some kind of magician?”
I winced. “Why do you ask?”
“You sleep in a box. That’s sort of quirky. And you have a white cat, maybe instead of a white rabbit? And—you have a lot of tattoos.” His eyes flickered over my arms and chest. “Now that I can see them all, that is.”
“If having tattoos was the only requirement for magician-hood, I know a ton of bikers who can float cars.” I snorted. “Look, Zach, I appreciate you taking care of me this morning, but I’m fine now, so you can go home.”
“Are you sure you’re fine? Because you sleep like the dead.”
I weighed that phrase for all its possible shades of meaning.
If he’d been being literal, I would’ve whammied him to forget he’d ever known me, right then and there.
But the goofy, slightly hopeful expression that followed it made it clear that he was trying to make a joke—and find a way to spend more time with me. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
I took a few steps back so that he’d have a clear path through my living room to the front door, while he seemed to hesitate.
His hair was tousled from sleeping on my couch, and his uniform was as rumpled as my own clothes had been, and he radiated a kind of pleasant disarray—the kind that you wanted to join and get in trouble with.
“You know, I still owe you,” he said.
“This morning probably makes us even.”
“I don’t know. I did eat two of your sandwiches.”
What was that Greek myth, about Hades and Persephone and pomegranates? Was this like that, where the peanut butter was the fruit, me the king of hell, and him a gender flipped personification of the spring?
“That is a lot of sandwiches,” I heard myself say, without thinking.
I could see him fighting not to smile, desperately trying to play it cool. “Yeah, you know. I mean, that’s the kind of thing it could take days of intense physical labor to work off. Months, even.”
“Mmm,” I agreed. “What kind of labor?”
“I could explain,” he said, taking a step toward me. His blood started coursing through him, hoping—preparing—for where this was sure to lead.
“I don’t know about that,” I said, resting a hand on the knot of my towel. All of me wanted to be hard, but it’d be too easy for him to see right now, so I fought it.
“Then maybe I could just show you?” he asked, grinning shamelessly.
I laughed. “All right. But—I have to tell you what I tell everyone.”
“What’s that?” His brows rose, worried I was going to disclose some STD.
“I don’t get attached. Ever. No matter how good this is—and I have a feeling it’s going to be spectacular—I promise you nothing will change.
You won’t be the magical prince who cures me of my tomcat ways.
There is literally no way you can be. So if you’re looking for something real, you should go back to your place already. ”
He looked taken aback, and frowned slightly. “Who said I wanted anything more than a good time?”
Oh, just everything about him, the way he’d been interested in me since that fateful laundry night, the way he’d taken care of me this morning, and the spent the day here in the hopes of giving me head.
I swallowed dryly. I could send him away for his own good—he was younger than me, even though we appeared the same age.
But he was also a grown man, fully capable of making his own decisions—and if you had to learn a painful lesson about truth and the nature of upfront honesty in relationships, wouldn’t you rather learn from someone who was fantastic in bed?
“I can show you a good time, all right,” I said, my voice low, giving him a knowing smile. “Sit back down on the couch, Zach.”
He considered his options for an instant, running away to shield his heart versus letting me have my way with him—and he retreated to the couch as if pulled there by a magnet.
“Good boy,” I said, walking up. I hadn’t dried myself off after my shower, I’d just wanted to deal with this situation—and now here I was, standing in front of him half-wet, water dripping from my hair down my chest toward the V of my hips, hidden by my orange towel.
He looked up at me, eyes full of expectation, wondering where this would lead, what I’d let him do. And I was cruel, I didn’t give him any cues, I only waited for him to act.
Hesitantly, he reached his hands up and placed them on my stomach, feeling my skin at long last. He rocked forward and stroked them up the lean muscle of my abs and chest, kneading me with a slightly dropped jaw.
After that, there was no use in pretending. The hunger roared through me, searching for release, and I felt my cock grow hard. He was so close to it, stretched out catlike against me—and at seeing my towel rise one of his hands fell to its knot.
“Do it,” I whispered, as he unwound the folds and it fell to the ground. One of his hands reached to hold me, as the other went and started at the buttons on his shirt, and he looked up.
“Are you clean?”
Of everything but vampirism. “Probably—but yeah,” I had condoms in my bedroom—but in an instant I was released and he was fumbling behind him for his wallet.
He pulled out a condom and pushed it on, following it immediately with his mouth, his green eyes staring up at me for approval.
It was impossible not to give—I ran a hand through his hair and leaned forward with a groan.
His mouth started working my cock over, holding the condom down with one hand wrapped around my base as he rocked back and forth, letting the pressure of his tongue and lips roll back and forth against my shaft, sucking on my head.
Every time he went in, he took me deep, I could feel my cock bending down his throat, and every time he pulled back he pressed his tongue against the sensitive skin of my tip.
It was a technique clearly honed with time—and on another person, probably somewhere in Florida.
Their loss was my gain—I curled my hand into his hair and pulled him closer, I had a feeling he wanted to gag on me and—his throat closed as his eyes did, and I watched his blood sink down.
I rocked his head on and off of me, feeling his throat grab against my head, as his saliva rained down on my balls.
I physically pulled him off my cock after that, holding him at arm’s length by his hair, while he panted. He had a submissive streak and I’d tapped into it, he had that helplessly lost look of nearing sub-space.
“Stay with me, cowboy.” I demanded, tilting his head up to see me. “How many guys have you fucked, Zach?”
“Four?” he answered, like he was unsure.
“And how many guys have fucked you?”
“Ten,” he said, much more confident.
“Good. Take off your clothing.” I released him and stepped back to give him room to do so.
He stood up, a little shaky, reaching for the button he’d stopped at earlier. He unbuttoned the rest, tossed it aside, and then peeled his undershirt off. I’d been right. He hadn’t been in Vegas long enough to lose his tan. I wanted to lick all his warm skin, and inside my mouth my fangs throbbed.
Zach missed all that, hurrying to unfasten his belt and push his slacks and boxers down. He stood up in just his socks shortly, as if presenting himself to me. He had a light tan line where his swim trunks had lived, and his cock was just as I remembered it, straight and firm.
“What do you want me to do next?” he inquired earnestly.
“Turn around.”
He did as he was told, facing the couch. I brought my hands up to his shoulders, kneading them, bringing my body behind his, unafraid to touch skin to skin, letting him feel my hard on nudging at his waist. He smelled good—I kissed his neck where his shoulder met it—and he tasted even better.