4. JACKSON #3
I reach around, palming one full, aching mound, feeling the liquid heat of it seep against my palm as her body reacts to the rough handling. The scent of her milk—sweet and faintly vanilla—blends with the sharp tang of sex in the air.
“Jackson—” Her voice cracks. She pushes back against me, stubborn even now, demanding more. “Harder.”
My hips snap forward harder, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the tile walls. Each thrust punches a soft, needy gasp from her throat.
The filthy sounds of my thick cock plunging into her drenched cunt mix with the wet squelch of her cream coating me, dripping down over my balls. My free hand stays anchored on her hip, careful not to bruise even while I drive into her with enough force to rock her up onto her toes.
A sharp knock rattles the door.
I don’t break rhythm. Don’t even slow. Just lean over her smaller frame, chest to her back, and growl. “Find another bathroom.”
The knocking cuts off mid-beat.
In the mirror her reflection has gone feral—lips puffy and red from where she’s been biting them, eyes heavy-lidded and glazed, hair sticking to her damp temples.
The realization that I ignored an intruder, that I kept fucking her straight through the interruption, seems to ignite something filthy inside her. Her pussy flutters and squeezes tighter around me.
“You like that?” The words scrape out of me. “Like knowing someone heard us?”
“Yes.”
“Like knowing they know exactly what your stepdad is doing to you in here? That I'm about to fill you with my come so I can get you pregnant?”
“God, yes.”
The admission sends a fresh surge of heat through my veins. I slide my hand down her belly, fingers finding her swollen clit.
I circle the slick, throbbing little bud with firm strokes while I pound into her from behind, the heavy drag of my cock stretching her wide. Her thighs start to shake. I can feel her walls begin to pulse, milking me in rhythmic waves.
“Come for me, little one.”
The command tips her over. Her back bows, spine curving like a drawn bow as the orgasm rips through her.
A high, keening cry escapes her swollen lips. Her cunt locks down around my cock in powerful spasms, fluttering and gushing slick heat that coats my shaft and runs down both our thighs.
The rhythmic squeeze is too much. My own release barrels up my spine like lightning. I bury myself to the hilt, hips grinding deep as I spill inside her in heavy, pulsing jets, flooding her with every drop until it leaks out around my cock and trickles down her trembling legs.
For a long moment we stay locked together, chests heaving, sweat cooling. The mirror has fogged at the edges from our ragged breathing.
Her green eyes are soft now, dazed with satisfaction.
I ease out of her slowly, careful of how sensitive she must be, and turn her to face me. Her knees wobble; I steady her with one arm banded around her waist, the other brushing damp strands of hair off her flushed cheek.
Her hair is completely wrecked, strands clinging to her forehead and neck. Her lips are swollen from being bitten raw.
She looks thoroughly fucked, and a deep, possessive satisfaction curls low in my chest at the sight. I reach for a paper towel, wet it under the tap, and clean between her thighs with slow, gentle strokes, catching every trace of my come and her cream.
She watches me in the mirror the whole time, something tender and wondering in her eyes while I tug her dress back into place and drag the zipper up her spine.
“Ready?”
She gives a small nod, still catching her breath. I unlock the door.
The hallway beyond is blessedly empty. Whoever had knocked had given up and gone elsewhere.
We walk back through the restaurant like nothing happened, my palm resting warm and steady at the small of her back, guiding her past the clink of silverware and murmur of other diners.
At our booth I drop another twenty on the table. The hostess offers a polite smile and a “good evening” as we pass.
Jamie returns it, bright and unruffled, as though she hadn’t just been bent over a bathroom counter with her stepfather’s cock buried inside her five minutes earlier.
Outside, the night air is cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of distant rain. Jamie slips her small hand into mine without hesitation.
She leans into my side as we cross the lot toward the truck, her body still soft and pliant from what we just did. I feel the residual tremor in her fingers, the way her thighs must still be slick beneath that dress.
“Good dinner,” she says as I open the passenger door.
"The risotto was that good?"
She looks up at me, eyes sparkling with private knowledge. "The risotto was perfect."
I help her up into the truck, my hand lingering on her waist longer than necessary. When I close the door and walk around to the driver's side, I can see her through the windshield, smoothing her hair and adjusting her dress.
My woman.
The words feel as right now as they did when I said them to that woman in the restaurant. Maybe more right.
I start the engine and pull out of the parking lot, Jamie's hand finding mine across the center console. Her fingers are smaller than mine, but they fit perfectly in the spaces between.