Now #2
Noticing my stirring, he tugs me closer, and I arch my behind right on the hard length between us.
“’Morning, princess,” his low, raspy voice murmurs.
“Hmm …”
“Did you sleep well?”
“I didn’t sleep enough, but you know that because you’re to blame.”
He chuckles and gives my shoulder a soft peck, his tongue grazing the skin, as if to buy my forgiveness. He then resumes his exploration, leisurely seeking every available inch.
A little more awake, I ask, “Why are you still here?”
“Ouch …”
“I mean, I thought you’d disappear in the middle of the night, like last time. Aren’t you supposed to be in Austria? For media day?”
“It’s for the drivers who race.”
That finishes waking me up, but when I try to sit up, his hold tightens to keep me lying down against him. “Jax, you can’t skip the whole weekend.”
“Oh, but I can,” he counters, hand slithering down my front.
“You’ll get in serious tr—” My protest dies as his fingers find their target between my legs. I shiver against him, releasing a shaky breath.
“It’s already arranged,” he explains. “I’m skipping this race to help with the muscle fatigue in my left leg. Mark, my physiotherapist, and the committee all agreed.”
“How much of that is a lie?”
“To you? None of it. To them? Maybe half. My leg hasn’t gotten so bad that I can’t race. But the rest, along with a good plan to recuperate and be ready for the next Grand Prix, will do me good. It might prevent things from getting worse later in the season.”
It sounds like he’s weighed everything already, but I still feel bad about it.
“Your placement. You’ll lose it,” I protest again.
His fingers lower, grazing the seam that’s been growing wetter since I started waking up.
“Actually, I’m so far ahead of everyone that no matter who wins, I’ll still have the most points,” he counters.
A trembling moan pours out of me as one of his thick fingers dips in. I lift my knee a little, allowing his hand more access, and it sinks deeper.
“Is this—is this how you plan on making this work? Skipping entire Grand Prix weekends?” I struggle to ask, my voice distorted by pleasure as he pumps his fingers in and out.
“If I have to, yes.”
He must consider the debate over because he lifts himself and claims my lips, his hand still working its magic between my legs. Ugh, he’s always been so good at distracting me.
He keeps going until I’m drenched enough for his fingers to make a wet, rhythmic sound, and for my moans to come in the way of our kiss. Then, he adjusts himself behind me, pulls his hand away, and uses it to align himself with my needy entrance.
My body still faces away from his, but the upper part of it is twisted. It allows us to keep our eyes locked as he slowly enters me, his hot, steely length stretching me until I’m filled to the brim. When his hips meet my behind, I push back for more, desperate to have all of him.
“So greedy,” he appreciatively rasps. When he slowly pulls out before thrusting back in, my lips part with a sigh, shivers coursing all over me.
I’ve been trying to figure out why intimacy with him is always such an incredible experience.
But somehow, the answer has eluded me. He knows my body more than I know it myself, and he is clearly well-endowed.
However, I know in my heart that with any other man, those things wouldn’t be enough to conjure the fireworks of sensation he so effortlessly subjects me to every time.
It’s because it’s him, my Jackson, the man I’ve been in love with for half of my life. I will never find this level of perfect harmony with anyone else ever again. And now that I have been reacquainted with it, I don’t think I could ever go back.
He’d better make this work, or I’ll spend the rest of my life missing him, this, and us.
I’m not sure if it’s because it’s the morning or because this is what he wants for now, but his pace is gentle, lazy, and tender. We aren’t just having sex. We’re making love. And despite the unhurried motions, I find it utterly overwhelming.
When we get too heated under the covers, he flings them open, revealing our joined bodies.
We’ve always looked so good together, with his golden-brown skin against my pale complexion.
And the way he’s all carved shapes and hard lines, while my body is smooth and soft all over.
The contrast between us is a magnificent sight, and I can never get bored with it.
I follow his lead, returning each of his thrusts with a push of my own.
His leg holds mine open, and my hand goes to his thigh, nails digging into the taut muscle to tug him in a little harder every time.
Loud breaths and soft moans fill the space, along with the rustling of sheets under and around us.
And when the pace picks up a little, the slow smack of our skin joins it all, but our increasing moans almost cover it.
My breasts jiggling with every motion is too much temptation for him, so he leans to wrap his eager lips around a pink tip.
He sucks, and nibbles, and teases, never halting his momentum.
The combined sensation of it, along with his hand still flicking between my legs, and his impressive girth pumping inside me, are rapidly working me toward an earth-shattering orgasm.
My hand on his thigh is so tightly clamped that I’m sure it has to hurt.
But he doesn’t let it distract him, his precise motions unwavering.
When he bites down on my nipple a little too hard, I cry out as my walls pulse fervently around him. He licks the taut tip to soothe the pain away until I beg him to kiss me.
He immediately complies, starved for my lips. We’re not in the best position for this, especially since neither of us is willing to compromise and slow our climb to the heavens. It’s more tongue and teeth than lips, but I don’t care, and I don’t think he does either.
“Jax,” I moan into his mouth.
“Are you almost there, princess?” he grunts, giving me a deeper, more precise thrust.
“Yes … I need—I need—”
As if he were waiting for this moment, his fingers do something different between my legs, ripping a guttural cry out of me.
His thrusts double in vigor, and the lethal precision of his fingertips leaves absolutely no room for anything other than a bone-melting orgasm.
He rises to his elbow just in time to see me shatter around him in the morning light.
It’s so intense and profound that it almost feels like torture, so devastatingly good it shouldn’t be enjoyable. My vision is blurred with tears of overwhelming pleasure, but I try to keep my eyes on him the whole time. I scream his name as my walls flutter around him over and over.
I’m lost in the midst of it when I feel the first spurt of his climax inside me. The pulses of his length match the raw, divine moans he lets out, as overtaken by pleasure as I am.
Along with the uncontrollable pulses, I clamp my walls to make it as good as possible for him. It must work because he curses, his hips hectically driving into me as he continues orgasming.
Entire minutes seemed to pass by the time we both come down from it.
Once he has regained control of himself, he leans in again to lay an adoring kiss on my lips.
And when he pulls away, his hand cradles the side of my face while his eyes linger on mine.
What I see in them makes my heart flutter even harder than the orgasm did.
We haven’t said the word again, or whenever we did, it was in the past tense. But it’s right there, in the way he looks at me.
Love.
Has it returned, or did it never leave? On my end, I know I always held him in my heart, despite leaving him all those years ago.
I learned to live with the gaping hole his absence left behind.
But now that he has found his way back into my life, it has been filled again.
In fact, I fear he takes even more space now than he did then.
What about him? Has he loved me this whole time? Could he, with the way I abandoned him? I know he hasn’t had any sort of significant relationship since I left. But I still broke his heart, and I’d understand if he had cast me out of it at some point.
After one last, satisfied kiss, he lets himself fall back a little and breathes out, “Fucking hell …”
I concur with a feeble nod, as stunned as he is.
“This never gets old.”
Again, I agree.
When he moves to pull out, I hold him there, my slack hand gripping his thigh again. “Not yet,” I whisper.
He pushes back in, forcing some of his cum out. As we wait for me to be ready to let go, he gently pecks my skin, which is now veiled with a sheen of sweat.
After a moment of this, I breathily say, “Can we circle back to you skipping the Austrian Grand Prix?”
“Hm?”
“It’s not reasonable, Jax.”
“I haven’t missed a race since I started,” he explains. “I even raced when I had COVID.”
“Exactly.”
“I meant they can cut me some slack.”
“Jackson …”
“Come on, it’s Spielberg. Who gives a fuck?”
“Austrians?”
“I’m not even sure they care.”
“Isn’t it supposedly a nice track? Intense laps, nice elevations, lots of overtaking opportunities …”
“You know your shit,” he mumbles approvingly, kissing the slope of my neck. “But this is nicer than any track I’ve ever raced, princess.” He nudges me with his hips, making me feel his softening length.
I pull away, dislodging us, and turn around to face him. “I’d love for you to stay,” I explain. “But I have to go to work tomorrow. I have a meeting with potential clients, and then I have to be on a construction site in the afternoon.”
“I’ll go spend the day with my parents then. They’ll be thrilled to see me.”
“On Saturday, I have errands to run. And on Sunday, there’s my friend’s birthday in Denver, remember? The one that’s been in the works for months.”
“Didn’t you say it was kind of a joint birthday?”
“It is.”
“Then you’re allowed to invite whoever you want. You can bring me along.”
The suggestion causes my jaw to drop with surprise. “You want to meet my friends?”