Chapter 17
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
“I told you.” I don’t need to physically be with Leah to know she’s gloating, with a huge smirk on her face and her feet stacked on her desk.
“I don’t even think you did him justice,” I breathe, recalling every single detail of the last few weeks to her over the phone. After Jake left, I took a cold shower and it had nothing to do with the six miles I ran before he showed up. It also had nothing to do with Michael, and wanting to wash every molecule of his scent off my skin. “He’s…” I go speechless when I reflect on Jake Turner, because that’s what he does to me. Scrambles my brain, reprograms my thoughts, and makes me chase my body’s most carnal urges.
“Exactly,” Leah sighs. “He’s….” and she trails off, too. “Okay, so then what happened?”
I’m grateful she got us back on track, otherwise I’d be happy to sit in a silent dreamy state thinking about Jake. “Oh yeah,” I straighten my spine against the couch, reaching for the remote to mute When Harry Met Sally . It’s not like I need the volume or the closed captioning–I’ve seen it so many times, I know every word by heart. “So,” I refocus, remembering the exact place I left off. It was a crucial place, and some of the details are just for me. “He asked a lot of questions about Michael. You know, who he is, why he is here, all that. Then I reminded him that he showed up to yell at me and at that point, Leah, I just wanted to get it over with, you know? I wanted to just… get yelled at so I could take a shower and eat two thousand calories in my bed in peace.”
“Understandable. So, did he? Yell at you?”
I pluck at a loose thread on my college throw blanket. “He firmly told me that, in the future, if I want to take Jo Jo to do something that requires a parent’s signature, that I need to call or text him first.”
Leah sighs. “Oh Jesus, who cares about the belly button—did you guys kiss?”
“What?” I rear back, my voice climbing to a pitch I’ve never reached. “No! Why would we kiss?”
“Uh, gee, Riley, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re absolutely gorgeous, he makes primetime Pitt look like a catcher’s mitt and he showed up at your house asking about your ex.” She sighs. “He likes you, Riley. So, do what the kids do and… tap that ass . ”
This, among many reasons, is why I love Leah. “Tap that ass? The kids,” I say, “do not say that. I’m pretty sure no one has said that since 1999.”
“You get my point, wise ass. He likes you.”
While Leah knows about the splinter, and knows that I dropped Jo Jo off and met Jake for the first time, she has no idea about his pendulum, beer can-sized dick—nor does she know that he kind of grinded that thing against me in my kitchen this morning. Or that I basically forced him to touch my boob. Oh god.
Those little bits are just for me.
Because when Jake Turner ends up not asking me out and never looking at me again, I’ll still have those little moments, just for me. In my brain. Privately. For safekeeping.
Part of me wonders if Jake does like me, but what kind of absolute psychopath grinds his big dick against someone if they don’t like them? I mean, I know total womanizing scumbags exist, but I highly doubt Jake is one of those. Especially since Jo Jo has told me that her father doesn’t date.
“No,” I answer flatly as my lips tingle. “We did not kiss. In fact, he just kind of left and I’m not sure what to do next.”
Leah sighs. She’s good at that. “Well first and foremost, for the love of everything holy, please don’t take any more students to tattoo shops and give your consent on behalf of their parents.”
“Noted.”
“Now. I say… sit back. He likes you. You also have a bond with his daughter and if that isn’t the most Hallmark thing I’ve heard, I don’t know what is.”
On screen, Harry and Sally run into Harry’s ex-wife in a department store, shattering Harry’s heart. “Can you believe Michael?” I say, hating that he’s in my mind again. I worked hard to get him out of my mind. In fact, I was just starting to feel like–even though stuff with my parents is complicated–I could move on. It’s like he can read my mind and isn’t happy that he fucked me up once but needs to weasel his way back in and fuck me up again.
Not happening.
“Fuck Michael. Back to what I was saying,” she says, “because you deserve to talk about and be excited about Jake. You do not deserve one more toilet-circling Michael conversation. Seriously.”
She’s not wrong, and I don’t care about Michael. But now that he showed up, I can’t shake the discomfort of his visit, the emotional cramp in my guts reminding me that he hurt me and my parents took his side.
I chew at the sore spot inside my cheek for a minute before deciding she’s right. Even venting about Michael pays him more than he deserves. “Back to what you were saying,” I agree, relaxing into my couch a bit now that I’ve mentally committed to not discussing the Michael portion of this morning.
“I think you sit tight and watch him come to you,” she says.
“If I take your advice and sit tight and I see him at a football game dating Cadence Caine, you realize I’m going to kill you, right?”
She laughs. “Cadence is not his type. Cadence is no one’s type. No, correction, she is someone’s type but he’s already married.”
“Who?” I ask, because I cannot imagine anyone wanting to put up with a teenager in a grown woman’s body, no matter how good that body is. And, of course, like every archenemy since the dawn of time, she’s got a good one.
“Hades,” she answers. “But unless Cadence can overthrow Persephone, she’s shit outta luck. ”
I can’t help but laugh at that, but it fades quickly when I think about Jake Turner pursuing me. “You really think letting him pursue me is the way?” It’s not like I’d really know how to pursue him, anyway. Maybe take Jo Jo to get a tattoo so he has to come see me again? Kidding.
“I do. I absolutely do. Oh shit, I gotta go, my soup is boiling over.” In the background, her gas burner clicks off.
“Big Saturday night, huh? Soup,” I tease.
“Hey,” she scolds. “Soup is underrated.”
“Right,” I tell her, and we swap goodbyes, leaving me with an 80s movie on a Saturday night. And truthfully? Soup doesn’t sound half bad. But after a day like today, the only thing I can do to ease the edge in my nerves is take a run.
When I lived in Willowdale, I took night runs all the time. It was peaceful, but Bluebell is even less populated, with more mature trees and lush vegetation all around. Evening and night running is so peaceful here, it’s almost zen.
That’s how I feel turning the corner on mile three, zen; my mind clear and my chest light. The creamsicle sky bleeds into the dark horizon, blending fading day with emerging evening. The temperature is just right, and the air smells so good, like pinecones and traces of rain.
My pace is good when all of a sudden, there’s a truck on the road behind me. I make sure to lean heavily into the shoulder as it approaches, but when it doesn’t pass, I stop and look back. Idling in my footsteps is Jake Turner behind the wheel of his pickup truck. His eyes pierce me and steal my breath, and he drives around, pulling up to drive right by me with his passenger window down. I resume jogging but he catches up, riding his brake in pace with me.
“You shouldn’t be running alone at night,” he hollers across the cab, out the window.
I glance at my watch, bypassing the run information blinking on the screen to find the time in the top right corner. “It’s 7:32, is that late to you?” I ask, picking up my pace, only to have him increase his speed, too.
“It’s not safe,” he hollers again.
“Bluebell is safe,” I counter, the end of my ponytail giving me a shudder as it sweeps over my bare back.
“Get in the truck,” he says, only, it feels like a command. Bumps rise up on my arms, and beneath my damp old sports bra, my nipples harden.
“No.” I face forward, continuing my seven minute per mile pace, refusing to give in to him even though all I want to do is crawl into his lap and devour his mouth. Something tells me that Jake Turner might like a little challenge.
A beat passes and I realize the truck isn’t there anymore. My legs slow and I come to a stop just as I hear boots crunching in the gravel. Turning, Jake stands behind me, nostrils flared, intense eyes pinned to mine. “Get in the truck. I’m taking you home. It’s not safe runnin’ on the side of the road at dusk alone. C’mon,” he says, hooking his head toward the truck. The setting sun casts a glow along his face, highlighting the day’s worth of growth along his jaw. His jeans are filthy, his boots worn, and the top two buttons on his plaid shirt have given up. He looks like he’s hot and tired from working all day, and it turns me on like crazy.
“No.” I fold my arms over my chest.
“Get. In. The. Truck.” He takes a step with each word, and it leaves us nearly toe to toe.
The edge of my mouth curls into a lazy grin. “Make me. ”
Lightning flashes, illuminating the sky as the Earth rumbles around us. The first few drops of rain thud against the ground. My heart is beating so fast that my eardrums ache, and for some reason, the urge to cry burns in the base of my throat. I hold it down with a harsh swallow. The energy shifts from playful to desperate in a handful of seconds, and I chase the desperation.
“Please, sir,” I breathe, praying my words get lost in the patter of soft rain. Equally praying he heard. “ Make me .”
At this precise moment, it’s like a dream state; I know I’m short-circuiting, but I can’t stop it. I want him. I deserve to have what I want.
Just once.
It won’t have to mean anything. I’m letting loose to this feral desire clawing me. I’m pining to willingly fall subservient to this god of a man and give myself over to him as his to use.
I’m terrified of how unashamed I am to say it, too.
He charges me, a thick noise breaking loose from his chest as his boots shift in the gravel. I’m gasping for air, my insides quivering with shock, as he slings me over his glorious, heaving shoulder. Heavy with power, his hand slides over my ass, holding me in place.
There’s a heated burn between my legs that makes my pulse skip.
He smells a bit tangy, but it sets a warmth across my skin and puts a heaviness between my hips. My body radiates desire–one singular desire to feel this man push inside me, hurt me, burn me, stretch me so wide that I gasp to breathe and tears leak from my eyes. I want to absorb whatever pain he needs to rid himself of. I want to alter my body to fit his every carnal need, to show him that when he is between my thighs there is no place he will feel better, safer, more desired or more loved. I am his to take, to rebuild himself, to fill the needs left broken from his jagged past. I want to open my legs and replenish this beautiful, broken man.
“Are you smellin’ me?” He gruffs just as he approaches the passenger door of his truck.
I cannot feel all those things from smelling him. No.
It’s one time. Giving into my deepest desire and getting what I want just this once .
“Yes,” I reply, shamelessly honest before I can stop myself.
He pops open the door, and holds me firmly against him with a strong hand on my ass, rustling around a moment. Jake stretches me out along the bench seat, ducking to fit his frame inside the cab. My legs curl around his waist instinctively and the fiery warmth of his body heat makes my pussy tender and achy.
“Why,” he starts, letting his sentence intentionally hang as he props one of my heels against his shoulder. Jake runs a rugged palm down my leg, from ankle to thigh, heat surged through my belly in reaction. “...do you keep calling me sir?” he asks, his words powerful and potent, like amber whiskey, strong and heady.
He curls his fingers around the waistband of my running pants, and the rough graze of his fingers–the gentle scrape of his neatly trimmed nails, so soft yet utterly electrifying. My pussy swells, stickiness coating my panties, my clit pulsing. His eyes crawl over every inch of me like a man in the desert finding water. The way he wants me dances in his eyes, promising every perfect inch of him is going to be mine. At least for tonight.
He tugs them down, but leaves my panties on.
My cotton panties. Plain and unexciting, because it’s been so long since I’ve had the desire to look beautiful in underwear. I’d want to die a little inside if it had changed the way Jake looked at me at all, but it doesn’t. His eyes hover at the apex of my legs, no doubt eyeing the dark spot. I’m dripping. I’ve been wet so long, I’m starting to grow cold and desperate. My body wants him. I’ve never so unexplainably known something. And despite how foreign the overwhelming desire is, I don’t even struggle with it.
I don’t answer his question, which earns me a frustrated growl, which never makes it to his lips. “Why, Miss Riley?”
I let my legs drop from his waist and press my knees apart, begging without words. But he’s not going to let me choose. If he wants me to speak, I will, and his eyes tell me we both know it.
Curving up off the seats, I balance on one elbow as I tug his zipper down, one short pull at a time. His hard cock falls out once there’s just enough room, the weight and length of him making it impossible to stay tucked away. Reaching down, he wraps his hand around himself just below the head, and my stomach quivers when I notice his fingers don’t quite come together.
And his hands are huge.
I look up, my eyes searching his, looking to see what he needs, what I can give him back tonight. Right now, he wants an answer, and if that’s what it takes to get him inside me, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything he wants; I’m throbbing to feel his skin slippery and hot against mine. My clit is literally thrumming.
“I just, I don’t know,” I breathe, trying to put words to all the irrationality that comes over me when I’m in his presence. My eyes move between his beautiful dark ones and the way his rough, filthy hand holds himself over the apex of my thighs. “When I’m around you, I just, I feel like I belong to you in some strange way and… all I want to do is honor that ownership.” Flames lick at my cheeks from humiliation, but also, pride that I managed to speak such a vulnerable truth. If he isn’t riding the same wavelength, if he doesn’t understand how I feel—such a truth could be strange, weird, off-putting.
His eyes search mine as a rogue grumble rattles around his chest. He moves the cap of his cock against the wet spot on my panties, making my toes curl. I almost can’t believe that Jake Turner has me laid out in his truck, and a small laugh escapes me when I think about the craziness of this moment.
“What?” he questions, eyes on me as he moves his cock over my clit. How can he stand there with a casual expression when he’s edging me to the brink of explosion? Restraint keeps his features locked in, his eyes unmoving as they hold mine.
His expression alone pulls a response from me, as if not answering a direct question posed by Jake Turner is a crime, a punishable offense.
“I can’t believe you want me,” I breathe, hating how insecure those words sound. But hating more that they’re true. Michael left me feeling so many things I hate feeling, and one of those things is insecure. “You’re the hottest cowboy in Bluebell,” I tell him, reciting Leah’s title.
He says nothing, and his stoicism while teasing me drives me wild.
“I need to feel you,” I tell him, the admission coming from my lips without hesitation. “Please, sir,” I moan.
“There you go again,” he says, and finally, his eyes lower to my panties. His chest inflates as he pulls in a deep breath, using his thumb to tug the damp fabric aside.
Still propped on one elbow, I look down at my body to see exactly what he is seeing. Blonde curls, cropped short, shaped just above my lips. He runs his fingers through it, a groan rolling through his muscled chest.
My eyes lift to the triangle of exposed skin beneath his flannel work shirt, and suddenly, I can’t go another second without seeing his body again.
“Take off your shirt,” I tell him as he continues to stroke his fingers over my pubic hair, his thumb falling onto my swollen clit. He strokes slow circles, and eyes me.
“You gonna run at dusk alone anymore?” he barters, his voice rough and husky, making my insides clench. His voice, his hands, his cock–I’m almost drunk and dizzy with need.
I shake my head, willing to say anything to get more of him right now. “No. No, I won’t,” I breathe, a whimper creeping into my tone. “I need more of you.”
Rain plunks down on the windshield and hood, thudding heavily against the bed liner. Jake’s breaths are weighted and slow, and between the sound of his breathing and the sudden rainstorm all around us, this is officially the hottest, most perfect moment of my entire life.
“Please,” I beg again, almost surprised by how desperate I’m coming off. I’ve never begged for anyone or anything, and yet lying in his truck, I would do anything to have him. Even just for today.
“I don’t have a condom,” he says before he lifts my panties and slides his cock through them, his dick slippery against my pussy. He reaches for me, and I lie back again to give him my hand. He places it over his cock, and despite the thin panties that keep my hand from his bare flesh, I can still feel his warmth, the way his cock throbs, the steely hardness he holds for me.
“We can’t,” he says, starting to move his hips while he brings his hands to his shirt, working the buttons, giving me what I asked for. A moment later, the flannel hangs open, exposing his strong, muscled core to me. “ This is the only way you can feel me.” His hips rove, and his cock slides against me over and over, my fingers desperately searching out every veiny inch through my panties.
“I want you so bad,” I admit, lifting my head off the seat to peer down. The sight of his cock in my panties, the fabric translucent from how turned on we are, I know my orgasm is right around the corner, but I don’t want this to end.
He continues edging me, dragging his cock against my pussy under my panties until I can’t take it anymore. “Jake, please, I need more, please,” I beg, adding, “please, sir.”
The ripping of my panties makes my pulse skip.
Jake presses the head of his cock to my open, wet pussy, and teases me, plunging in up to the crown, taking it out just as fast. It’s torture, the in and out, the hollow and empty. I want nothing more than to gasp as he shoves every inch of that monster deep inside me.
My hips grow restless and I can’t help but push to my elbows, looking down at the erotic scene.
Shirt open, rain against his back, rivulets of water hanging from the ends of his hair and hat, his cock nearly purple with restraint– I can’t hold back a second longer.
And when his eyes come to mine, he knows what I need.
Panties torn off, he places his thumbs over his shaft, which is placed in the split of my pussy, his head nudging my clit. Holding himself against my cunt, he drives his hips forward, the sound of my arousal echoing through the cab.
“Oh my god,” I breathe, already curling my toes and closing my eyes. He’s kept me suspended on the edge for so long, I can’t hold on much more. If at all. “Jake, Jake, Jake,” I moan, the sound of his name making him groan.
“You gonna come for me, Riley Rivers?” he asks, making my eyes pop open. He’s watching me, studying my face as he thrusts his hard cock against me, over and over, giving my swollen little clit everything she wants .
I nod.
“Say it, Riley. Tell me who you’re coming for. Tell me who this pussy needs. ”
Fireworks erupt in my brain, explosions of colors and noises, and I can hardly keep my eyes open as my pussy convulses in one of my most intense orgasms ever. My toes curl. My words slur. I claw in the general direction of his chest without contact, as my groin thrusts toward his cock, a horny slut for more of him.
“You, Jake, I need you, sir,” I manage to whimper as my orgasm steals the last bit of thought I have. “My pussy needs you, sir,” I murmur, as the world slowly begins to settle down around me.
When I open my eyes, I’m panting, a thin glaze of sweat leaving my midriff and thighs shiny. Jake’s cock rests on my belly, pink and purple, the tip beaded with opaque liquid that makes my insides clench and my mouth water.
Outside, the rain intensifies. I scramble to my hands and knees on the seat of the truck, and open my mouth. He drags his cock along my lips, leaving his precum along them without ever giving me a real taste of himself. It’s torturous, and as much as I want to suck him down, I love the way he draws it all out, too.
“Get out of the truck,” he says, releasing me long enough to shirk out of his flannel. He tosses it to the ground, at his boots, then points. “Get on your knees.”
I don’t care about the rain. I don’t care about someone driving up and seeing us. I don’t care that he worked all day without a shower. I slide out of the cab, tear off my shirt and sports bra, and drop to my knees, sucking in a sharp breath as rain laps at my bare back.
He reaches up, taking his hat from his head, placing it on mine. Some of the rain is diverted away from my face, but when I look up into his dark eyes, there’s so much desire in them I forget all about his hat on my head. He needs to come, I see it in the taut set of his abs, the flex of his chest, the swell of his biceps and firm set of his jaw. He needs release and he needs me for it.
“Use me,” I breathe. “Please, all I want is for you to feel good.” I lick my lips and take a chance, bringing my tits together with my hands.
The edge of his mouth lifts a little, and my insides warm at the thought of pleasing Jake Turner. He bends slightly, hard cock in one hand, and spits. His saliva is warm against my chest, and the feel of it slipping down between my bare breasts is so fucking sexy I could come again, without a single touch.
Reaching back in the bed of the truck, he grabs a leather tool bag, and calls me to my feet. He places the bag on the ground, and his shirt over the bag before I reposition myself on my knees.
He spits on my tits again, and it arouses me that he put effort into making sure I’m the right height. That he’s thinking about making this moment as pleasurable and memorable as it can be, not just as quick as it can.
I stroke my fingers through his saliva, my mouth burning to taste it. My lips actually tingle, and when I look up at him, his dark eyes are locked onto me and my every movement. “I want to taste your spit,” I admit, having a total out of body experience. “Please, sir,” I beg.
I lift my finger to my mouth but he grabs my wrist and tugs it back before I can take a taste. With his other hand, he grips my jaw, his hard cock abandoned and angry against his belly. “Open,” he commands, and I open my mouth in time to receive his spit, warm and sweet. Arousal slips out of me, curving around my cunt, running down my inner thigh .
“Hold those gorgeous tits together,” he commands, his voice quiet against the rising roar of the rainstorm. I press my breasts together and tip my face up to watch him, my head kept warm from his hat.
He slips his cock between my breasts. “Hold ‘em,” he warns, bracing his hands around my throat as he begins thrusting, fucking my tits while rain wets my backside. I hold my mouth open, my tongue darting out to swipe over his head when he nears my lips.
The first groan he lets me hear out loud is so sexy. A knot of emotion clogs my throat. Making him feel good is a high, lifting stress from the top of my head and unburdening the tightness in my chest.
He fucks my tits as I watch his face, his dark gaze flickering between my eyes and my breasts.
His groans deepen, gaining frequency, and the desire burning between my legs reaches an all time high. “Open your mouth,” he grits out, nostrils flared as he grips his cock at the head, aiming the wide, dark slit at my mouth.
My lips part and my tongue juts out just in time to catch the first ribbon of cum. Warm and thick, his cum is both tart and mild, and makes my cheeks burn with how eager I am to swallow.
I’ve never swallowed before.
“Fuuck,” he groans, stroking his cum out on my tits and face, the feel of him sliding down my skin pushing me over the edge.
My body clenches, and the tight coil of desire in my belly unspools, making my thighs tremble and shake as I come. My belly goes rigid, trying to stay still for him, to be the canvas he needs me to be.
His thumb curves over his head before he steps back, shoving his still hard cock into his boxers. He looks at me, covered in his cum with his hat on my head, and there’s a sated stillness in his expression I’ve never seen.
My chest practically explodes at the idea that I pleased him, that I made him feel good and happy. I gave him that, I pleasured him. And today, I gave him something special.
He extends a hand to me, and pulls me to my feet. Swiping his shirt from the ground, he shakes it out, sending bits of gravel and dust everywhere. Around us, the rain slows to a trickle, and he uses his shirt to wipe his cum from my chin and neck, off my breasts and belly. He moves slowly, and our eyes come together every few seconds, filling the moment with a quiet intimacy. I reach out, stroking my fingers through the ends of his hair as he wipes the last of his orgasm off my skin.
“I’m sorry about your panties,” he says, scooping them off the floorboard of the truck.
I hold out my palm to collect them, even though they’re torn in half and can’t be worn again. But Jake Turner’s lips quirk at the sides, and his eyes flash with something sinister.
He stuffs my torn, wet panties into his pocket, and says, “These are mine.”