Chapter 13 Sustained
SUSTAINED
Audrey
It’s hot.
Not the usual I-slept-under-too-many-blankets kind, but the solid, steady warmth of a man stretched out beside me, his arm heavy around my waist like he’s holding me in place. Which—let’s be real—he kind of is.
Normally on a Monday morning I’d already be in my kitchen, elbows deep in batter, juggling invoices with one hand and a whisk with the other, wondering when I’ll have time to get groceries. Even on my “day off,” there’s dough to test, emails to answer, a spreadsheet whispering my name.
But not today.
Today, I’m tucked against Jack Lourd, Hollywood shark turned unexpected bed-warmer, and I’m staying put.
I don’t spring out of bed. I don’t even check the time.
I just breathe in the faint scent of my rosemary mint shampoo clinging to his hair from yesterday’s much-needed shower after our rampant kitchen sex and let myself have the novelty of lying still.
Jack’s hand shifts against my stomach, fingers curling with sleepy instinct. The move sends a slow ripple of awareness through me. My heart stutters, my body already remembering every place his mouth lingered last night.
“Morning.” His breath tickles my ear, his voice rough with sleep.
“Morning.” My whisper comes out more like a sigh than a greeting. I’m exhausted—happily so—and content to let go of my plans for laundry, bookkeeping, maybe finally facing the disaster that is my spice cupboard.
For a long, perfect stretch of minutes, neither of us moves. And when we finally do, it’s not to get out of bed. It’s to tangle closer, to kiss slowly and lazily, to remind ourselves that frosting isn’t the only thing worth licking off skin.
The soft pads of his fingertips circle my breasts before gliding down my stomach, goosebumps chasing after them. And when they dip between my thighs, I arch into them.
His laugh rumbles against my mouth, low and wicked. “That’s a yes, then?”
“Yes.” My nails scrape lightly down his back, and he shudders. “But quiet.” I don’t want anything to break this moment, not even our voices. I just want to feel.
Jack must agree with my plan because without another word, he rolls me beneath him with an ease that makes me immediately forget how to breathe. His weight pins me in the best way, heat seeping through every place our bodies touch.
I expect urgency, another round of last night’s desperate hunger. But this is slower, indulgent. Jack kisses me like he’s memorizing the taste, like he can’t quite believe I’m here, letting him in again.
My hands trail lower, deliberate now that I’m not as ravenous or rushed, mapping the strong lines of his back, squeezing the firm curve of his ass.
Jack groans at my shameless exploration, hips flexing toward me, his cock pressing hard against my stomach.
Set on testing every reaction, I slide my hand between us, finding him thick and already straining. Wrapping my fingers around him, I stroke once, then again, teasing.
“Audrey…” It’s a plea and a warning.
One I take no heed of as I circle the tip with my index finger, smearing precum around the ridge, savoring the way his eyes darken.
The blanket slips as he rises up, bracing on his knees.
I don’t have time to be embarrassed by my vulnerable sprawl or to worry about what I look like in the morning light streaming through my bedroom window.
Because I see him. And Jack Lourd has never looked better than when the only thing grazing his body is sunlight.
His shoulders are broad, his chest lightly dusted with hair that matches his dark-chocolate eyes.
His biceps flex as he grabs my legs, pulling them toward him until my ass slides up his thighs.
My stomach, soft as it curls in this new position, feels exposed—until I notice the ridges of his impossibly defined abs and think how unfair it is that a man who eats at least one whoopie pie a day looks carved from stone.
And then thought vanishes, because he’s pushing into me.
The pressure. The stretch. The heat. All of it burns away any lingering thought.
Jack’s head falls back, exposing the sinewed tendons of his throat. “Fuck.”
My legs tighten around him automatically, pulling him deeper.
“Audrey.” Large hands grip my hips, and he thrusts once—twice, his breath ragged. “You feel…” He groans, moving again, first shallow, then deep, then shallow, dragging me to the edge with each deliberate rhythm.
“So good.” The words spill out before I can stop them, half plea, half dare.
His eyes burn, his pace quickens as his mouth crashes back to mine, and the world narrows to heat and rhythm and the dizzying ache of wanting.
Wanting him.
Maybe wanting too much.
But the thought is gone as his cock finds that perfect spot inside me, setting me free of every second-guess as I ride the wave of release. My cry echoes in the room, my hands grasping at his wrists, nails biting into his skin as pleasure rips through me.
Jack curses, low and rough, as my body clenches around him. His rhythm stutters, then drives harder, faster, until with one final thrust he spills into me with a guttural groan that vibrates through my bones.
My bed frame creaks in protest as Jack lowers himself over me, his weight delicious and grounding, his chest heaving against mine.
I smooth a hand down his back, feeling the tremors still shivering through him. He nips at my jaw, then presses his forehead to mine, laughter ghosting over my lips.
“I’m pretty sure that counts as my cardio for the day.” He places my hand on his chest, the feel of his heartbeat pounding wild against my palm.
I smile, breathless, and don’t move my hand. I just keep it there, memorizing the rhythm that proves I’m not the only one who’s undone.
Jack
“Let’s just head to the market.” Audrey yawns the words as she steps out onto Main Street and turns to lock the door behind her.
The woman’s running on sugar, orgasms, and sheer stubbornness, and I know burnout when I see it.
“Coffee first,” I declare, steering her toward the café before she can argue. “Non-negotiable.”
She shoots me a look, like I just suggested she frost a cake before it cooled.
I loop my fingers through hers and keep walking. “You’re half-asleep and look like you’re about to face-plant into a snowbank.”
Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t push. Which is how I know she’s really exhausted.
The bell over the door jingles as we step inside Love at First Sip, the smell of nutmeg and espresso wrapping around us as every person inside turns to look.
Audrey tugs me toward the counter, rattling off her order at the young barista like muscle memory. “Dirty chair latte. Extra shot.”
“Black coffee,” I add, ignoring the way Eileen Burrows pauses mid-step with the espresso beans when she spots us.
It’s an awkward few minutes as we wait for our drinks, her hawk eyes never leaving us. Then, in a voice meant to carry, she says, “Well, don’t you look merry and bright.”
Her gaze doesn’t stop at my face. It drops lower—to the icing smears still ghosting across my Henley from yesterday’s gingerbread fiasco.
Audrey groans into her latte.
Oops.
But before I can brush it off with a joke, Eileen vanishes into the back, reemerging seconds later wielding a long-sleeve tee with a glittery café logo like she’s about to knight me into her secret order.
“Off with that mess.” She holds up the shirt like a mother dressing a toddler. “On with this.”
Audrey mutters something about divine intervention and closes her eyes as if in prayer before grabbing our drinks from the counter.
Her unusual reluctance for caffeine makes sense as I remember Hideaway’s small-town status—where nothing goes unnoticed.
Eileen arches one imperious brow. “Arms up.” She shakes the shirt impatiently while Audrey burrows her face deeper into her scarf, mortified.
Which is all the encouragement I need.
Grinning, I peel off my jacket, grab the hem of my Henley, and tug it over my head in one motion. The corner table of silver-haired ladies audibly gasps. If my career ever tanks, it seems I’ve got a fallback as a coffee shop calendar pin-up boy.
Eileen assesses me rather like a cowboy judging a horse at auction. “And you’ll need cream for those claw marks on your back.”
Audrey chokes on her latte.
I grin, slide the tee over my head, and spread my arms like I’m auditioning for a holiday latte ad. “How do I look?”
Eileen winks. “Like caffeine and gossip.”
Which, judging by how Audrey nibbles her lower lip, is apparently not a bad look on me.
“There now.” Eileen dismisses me like she’s just stamped my passport into the land of small-town gossip. “You two go enjoy yourselves.”
Honestly? I’ve closed tougher rooms.
But none of them made me feel this accomplished.
Or this proud.
Audrey
“Larry the Lobstah loves you.”
That’s the message painted on the six-inch plastic lobster ornament Jack just purchased from a stall in Hideaway Harbor’s Winter Market and is now holding up like a proud papa.
“Wow.” I nod, wide-eyed over the steam curling off my hard-earned latte. “I never knew plastic to glow such a vibrant orangey-red.”
Jack drops it into my hand with a grin, like he’s daring me not to love it.
I tuck my newly gifted ornament into a rapidly filling shopping bag as Jack and I wander down Lobster Avenue with insulated cups warming our palms, the market alive with smells that make my stomach growl.
Sugared almonds, fried dough, and hot cider steeped with cinnamon sticks. If joy had a flavor, it would taste like this street. And while it’s unusual to find me out and about like this even on my day off, the real part I didn’t see coming by taking a chance on slowing down?—Jack by my side.
Of course, leave it to Eileen Burrows to make sure my slowing-down epiphany came with a side of humiliation.