3. JAMIE #2
He pulls back to look at me, and his eyes are so dark they're almost black. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
"You've never?—"
"I know what I've never done." The words come out sharper than I intended, but not because I'm angry. Because I'm desperate. "I know what I want."
He studies my face for a long moment, and I can see him weighing everything — my age, my inexperience, the fact that we met exactly once before today, the fact that we're technically family even though we're not. All the reasons this is complicated and messy and probably a terrible idea.
Then he kisses me again, slow and deep, and I know he's made his decision.
The air between us is thick with heat and the scent of him—leather and soap and something darker, muskier, that makes my head spin. His hands are everywhere—not just touching, but claiming, like he’s mapping me with his fingertips.
The callouses on his palms catch against the soft skin of my thighs as he drags my pants and underwear down, the fabric pooling at my ankles before he kicks them aside.
His touch isn’t just hungry; it’s reverent, like he’s handling something fragile, something he’s afraid might shatter if he’s not careful. And that carefulness, that control, when I can feel how much he wants me—how much he’s holding back—it makes me ache.
When his fingers finally slide between my legs, I gasp so sharply, my nails digging into his shoulders. He swallows the sound with his mouth, his tongue sweeping against mine while his fingers explore, slow and deliberate.
"Christ, you're wet," he murmurs, and the rough edge in his voice, the way his breath hitches like he’s surprised by it, sends a fresh wave of heat through me. My body clenches around nothing, desperate for more, and he groans against my lips like he can feel it too.
He doesn’t rush. One finger first, sinking into me with agonizing slowness, stretching me just enough to make me whimper. Then a second, the burn of it sharp but good, his thumb circling in tight, maddening loops that have my hips jerking against his hand.
The counter mirror digs into my back, the edge biting into my skin, but I barely notice. All I can focus on is the way his fingers move inside me, the way his breath comes faster against my neck, the way his free hand grips my hip like he’s afraid I’ll slip away.
"Jackson, please," I beg, my voice breaking. I’m so close, so full, and if he doesn’t?—
His hand disappears.
The loss is so sudden I let out a broken sound, my body protesting, but then he’s shifting between my legs, the sound of his belt unbuckling, the rasp of his zipper, and my pulse spikes.
This is it. This is real. The weight of him presses against me, the broad head of his cock nudging at my entrance, and for the first time, a flicker of nerves cuts through the haze of need.
He’s big. So much bigger than his fingers, and I’ve never?—
"This might hurt," he says, his voice strained, his forehead pressed to mine. His hands brace on either side of me, caging me in, but not in a way that makes me feel trapped. In a way that makes me feel safe.
"I don’t care." And I don’t. Not about the pain, not about the stretch, not about any of it. I just need him.
"I do." His thumb brushes my cheekbone, his touch so gentle it’s almost at odds with the raw hunger in his eyes. "I care about every second of this. About how it feels for you. Tell me if it’s too much."
I nod, my throat too tight to speak, and then he’s pushing inside.
The stretch is immediate, intense—a deep, burning pressure that steals my breath. My fingers dig into his biceps, my nails biting into the thick muscle as my body resists, then gives, then takes.
He goes slow, so slow it’s almost torture, letting me adjust inch by inch, his jaw clenched like he’s fighting himself. Every time I tense, he stills, his breath ragged against my temple, his voice a low rumble.
"Easy, little one. Just like that. Fuck, you’re perfect."
When he’s finally seated all the way inside me, the sensation is overwhelming—not just the physical fullness, but the weight of it. Of him. Of being connected to someone like this for the first time.
My vision blurs, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes, and I don’t even know why I’m crying, only that it feels like too much and not enough all at once.
"Okay?" he asks, his voice tight, like he’s barely holding on.
"Okay," I whisper. More than okay. I’ve never been anything like this.
He starts to move.
The first thrust is shallow, testing, and the friction sends a jolt through me that makes my toes curl. The angle is perfect, hitting somewhere deep inside that makes my breath stutter.
He picks up speed gradually, his hips rolling in a rhythm that’s somehow both controlled and desperate, like he’s fighting to keep from losing himself.
Every time he bottoms out, a low sound rumbles in his chest, and his hands tighten on my hips, his fingers pressing bruises into my skin.
"You feel like heaven," he growls, his lips against my ear. "So tight. So mine."
The words should terrify me. The possessiveness, the raw claim in his voice—it’s too much, too fast, too everything. But instead of fear, all I feel is a deep, aching rightness. Like this was always supposed to happen. Like I was always supposed to be his.
His pace quickens, his thrusts growing harder, deeper, the counter creaking under us.
The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the bathroom, mixed with our ragged breaths, the wet sounds of my body taking him.
I can feel the orgasm building again, coiling tighter and tighter, and this time it’s different—bigger, sharper, like it’s going to ruin me.
"I’m going to fill you up," he rasps, his voice rough and dark with promise. "Going to watch your belly swell with my child. Keep you full of me until there’s no question who you belong to."
The words hit me like a spark to kindling. The idea of it—of being marked by him, owned by him, changed by him—should be absurd. Should make me laugh, or panic, or at least pause. But instead, it sends me crashing over the edge.
The orgasm tears through me, a violent, shuddering release that steals my breath and turns my vision white.
I cry out, my back arching, my body clamping down around him so hard he groans, his rhythm faltering.
Then he’s coming too, his entire body locking up as he buries himself deep and spills inside me, the heat of his release flooding me in a way that’s so intimate, so primal, that fresh tears spill down my cheeks.
For a long moment, we stay like that—him still buried inside me, his forehead pressed to mine, our breaths ragged and syncing. His hands stroke up and down my back, grounding me, like he’s trying to put me back together piece by piece.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t just feel like I belong to someone.
I want to.
"You okay, little one?"
The nickname makes something warm unfurl in my chest. "Better than okay."
He helps me down from the counter on legs that barely cooperate, his hands steady at my waist until he's sure I'm not going to fold. Then he turns to the cabinet and pulls out a washcloth.
The water runs warm — I hear it, feel the small cloud of steam rising — and then his hands are on me again.
Gentle now. Slow and deliberate, like he's thought about every movement before making it.
He cleans between my thighs with a care so quiet it aches, then crouches to find my underwear and pants from the floor, working them back up over my hips without a word.
My throat tightens. I don't trust myself to speak.
This is the same man who made Greg go small and silent with nothing but his presence.
The same man whose hands are so large they span the entire width of my back.
He could pick me up and not notice the weight.
And here he is, on the bathroom floor for the second time today, putting me back together.
He stands, presses his lips to my forehead — warm and unhurried — and murmurs, "Go settle in. I'll clean up in here."
He's already turning toward the tile, already crouching to gather the scattered pieces of my pump, and only then does it hit me: I'd forgotten all of it.
The pump. Greg. The whole grinding, awful, humiliating day that sent me to his door with nowhere else to go.
It feels distant now, like something that happened to a different girl in a different life.
I pad down the hallway, one hand trailing the wall. Every step reminds me of him — a deep, warm ache that makes my cheeks flush even now. My bag is sitting on the made bed in the guest room, right where he must have put it earlier, the door open and waiting.
I'm almost through it when his voice finds me from the bathroom doorway.
"Not there, little one. We share a bed from now on."