CHAPTER 1 #3
Underneath the table, hidden from the rest of the patio by the heavy overhang of the dark tablecloth, Jayla slid her left hand down between their chairs. She reached across the small gap and rested her palm directly against his lap.
Her breath hitched sharply in her throat.
Even through the thick, stiff fabric of his dark jeans, what she felt made her core throb with a fierce, hot ache.
He was already hard. Beneath her palm lay a long, remarkably thick, heavy ridge that stretched down toward his inseam.
It felt broad, dense, and unyielding against the pressing weight of her hand.
Drew let out a slow, heavy exhalation through his nose. He didn't move away; instead, he subtly parted his knees a fraction of an inch, allowing her full access to his lap.
"It’s going to feel a whole lot better when it’s shoved deep inside you," he whispered, his voice dropping so low it was almost a rumble, ghosting over the sensitive shell of her ear.
Jayla’s fingers squeezed him through the denim, mapping the impressive length of him, her thumb sliding over the rounded head straining against the fabric. She felt him pulse against her palm—a strong, heavy beat that matched her own racing heart.
"I like the sound of that," she breathed, her cheeks flushing dark red, her thighs squeezing tightly together beneath her chair as a sudden rush of warmth slicked her smooth core. "I like the sound of that very much."
She kept her hand resting heavily on his hard length for another five seconds, feeling the solid weight of him, before she reluctantly pulled her hand back and placed it on top of the table. She reached into her leather camera bag, pulled out her phone, and tapped the screen open.
"Put your number in," she commanded softly, sliding the device across the small table toward him.
Drew let out a low chuckle, picking up the phone with his thick fingers. "Straight to the point, huh? You don't like playing around."
"I don't like wasting time," Jayla said, watching his long thumbs move over her screen. "When I see something I need, I like to get moving."
"I can respect that," Drew said. He finished typing, saved the contact under a single, bold capital D, and slid the phone back to her.
Jayla picked it up, set it face down on the table, and leaned in closer, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper. "So when?"
Drew leaned forward, resting his heavy forearms on the table again, bringing his broad face within inches of hers. His dark eyes were filled with absolute certainty, his voice dropping into a deep, commanding tone that sent a shiver straight down her neck.
"Tonight," he said simply. "Meet me at the Red Motel downtown. Room sixty-three. Seven o'clock sharp. I’ll be inside waiting for you."
Jayla’s eyes widened slightly, her pulse hammering against her ribs. "Tonight?"
"Tonight," Drew repeated. He didn't blink.
"And listen to me carefully, Jayla. Before you walk through that door, you make sure you can take three fingers deep inside that tight little cunt of yours.
Because if you can't open up for three fingers, you sure as hell aren't going to take this dick without crying. "
A sharp, audible gasp escaped Jayla’s lips. Her hand flew to her throat, her chest heaving as a wave of intense thrill washed over her entire body. The sheer boldness of his words—the absolute, unfiltered filth of it—made her head spin.
"Fuck," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly as her hand dropped back beneath the table for one quick, hard stroke over the massive bulge in his jeans. "You really are carrying a monster down there, aren't you?"
"You'll find out at seven," Drew said, his smile returning, slow and immensely confident. "So what about the husband? How are you going to clear your evening?"
"I'll figure it out," Jayla said, her mind already racing through a dozen potential excuses. "I'll tell him the zoo shoot ran late into the night. I'll tell him the lighting conditions required an evening session. I'll make up whatever I need to make up. I am not missing this."
"Good," Drew said smoothly. He sat back, taking a slow breath as the heavy tension in his lap slowly began to settle back down into a manageable profile beneath his jeans.
He stood up from the table. Towering over her, he looked even larger than he had before—a tall, broad-shouldered mountain of a man who smelled faintly of sandalwood, clean iron, and expensive cologne.
He leaned down, placing one large hand gently on her shoulder, his heavy fingers squeezing her skin through the silk of her blouse.
He bent his head down and pressed a light, warm kiss against her olive cheek, just below her eye.
His stubble rasped softly against her skin, leaving behind a warm, tingling heat.
"Seven o'clock, Jayla," he murmured near her ear. "Room sixty-three. Don't keep me waiting."
She didn't speak. She simply nodded, her eyes wide as she watched him turn and walk away. He moved with a long, effortless stride, his broad back swinging rhythmically, his hands tucked loosely into his pockets as he disappeared around the brick corner of the coffee shop.
***
The city zoo in the late afternoon was a maze of golden sunlight, dust, and the heavy, earthy scents of tropical foliage and wild animals.
Jayla stood near the wide, stone enclosure of the giraffe exhibit, her heavy DSLR camera pressed against her cheekbone. The shutter clicked with a sharp, mechanical precision—click-clack, click-clack—as she framed a mother giraffe leaning her long, patterned neck down toward her calf.
"That's beautiful, Jayla! Get one more of the kid looking up!"
The voice belonged to Sarah, the marketing director for the city parks department, who was trailing behind her with a clipboard. Jayla lowered the camera, offered a quick, practiced smile, and nodded.
"Got it," Jayla said, her voice sounding smooth, professional, and entirely detached from the storm raging inside her head. "The light hitting the trees behind them is perfect right now. I’ll make sure these are cleaned up and uploaded to the gallery by Thursday."
"You're a lifesaver," Sarah said, tapping her pen against her clipboard. "Honestly, the last photographer we hired made the animals look like they were in a prison. You make it look like a safari."
Jayla smiled again, adjusted the focal ring on her heavy 70-200mm lens, and turned toward the next exhibit.
On the outside, she was the picture of quiet professional focus—a talented, ink-covered woman doing her job with effortless grace.
But beneath her silk blouse, her skin was burning.
Every movement of her body, every shift of her hips as she adjusted her weight to take a shot, reminded her of the empty, aching space between her legs.
Her mind was completely trapped in what was coming.
Three fingers.