Chapter 6 Pressure Points #5
“You’re… staring.”
“I’m memorizing,” I whisper, the words torn from me. “You’re stunning.” The words feel inadequate. Reverent.
A small, shaky smile touches her lips. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Prescott.”
I kiss her again, deeper this time, pouring everything I can’t say into it—the awe, the desire, the fierce protectiveness.
When I pull back, my eyes travel down once more.
That’s when I register it.
The mismatch. Dark up top—her hair, the brunette. And below, the hair there is light. Golden. Blonde.
Not brunette.
Not even close.
The detail lands like a blindside body check—sharp, sudden, rearranging everything after it.
She dyed her hair. The whole week. Every time I've looked at her, touched her, wanted her—the brunette was the costume, the part she played. The rest of her—the part that keeps undoing me—was never an act.
Her eyes track mine. She follows my gaze down, and then I watch it happen—the exact moment she realizes what I'm seeing. Her body doesn't flinch. Doesn't tense. It does something quieter than that. It goes still.
The way a person stops when they've been caught in something they can't take back and they know the only move left is to let it sit there.
Her eyes come back up to my face.
Not shy. Not apologetic. Just... watching. Steady and open and braced for whatever comes next, the way someone watches a referee make a call they can't argue.
She's waiting to find out if I still want her.
Not the brunette. Not the version she built for Blake. The blonde underneath.
The silence stretches.
I can feel her scanning my expression—looking for the flicker, the shift, the thing that tells her this changes how I see her.
And I know if I say something now—anything too careful, too measured, too much like I'm choosing my words—she'll hear it as a line. And she'll shut down.
So I don't say anything.
Instead, I move my thumb. The one that's been resting on her hip. I drag it slow and deliberate across the skin there—not away from it. Not past it. Across it. Like it's nothing. Like it's just her.
Because it is.
Something shifts in her face. Not relief—not yet.
Her breath comes out. Slow. The kind of exhale that's been sitting in someone's chest for longer than this moment.
"For the job," she says. Quiet. Not defensive. Just placing it on the table so we don't have to pretend it isn't there.
I look at her. Really look. At the dark hair piled on top of her head and the blonde underneath and the face that's been the most honest thing I've seen in three years.
"I know," I say.
And then, because it's the only thing that matters and I mean it down to the bone:
"Blonde suits you."
Her mouth does the thing it does when she's trying not to let something land too hard—pulls to one side, just barely, the ghost of a smile she hasn't decided to give yet.
But her hand finds mine. And holds.
Her thumb moves across my knuckles. Slow. Deliberate.
I press my lips to her palm.
My lips trail down her wrist, her inner arm. “You’re perfect.” I lean down, my mouth finding the curve of her breast. She moans softly as I take a tight nipple into my mouth, sucking gently, swirling my tongue. She arches off the counter with a gasp, her fingers tightening in my hair.
My hands explore the smooth skin of her back, the delicious curve of her ass, the dip of her waist. She shivers under my touch, her hands sliding up my chest, mapping the planes of muscle, her nails scraping lightly over my nipples. I groan into her hair.
Then I guide her backward gently and place both her feet on the counter. I drink in the sight of her, fully exposed, fully trusting.
My hand slides down her stomach, through the soft curls, finding the warm, wet heat between her legs. She’s already slick, ready. My fingers glide through her folds, finding her clit. I circle it lightly.
Her hips jerk. “West!”
“I’ve got you,” I murmur against her skin.
“Just feel. Let me make you feel good.” I continue the slow circles with my thumb while my mouth moves lower, kissing a path from her breast down to her stomach.
Her skin trembles under my lips. Her breathing is ragged, punctuated by little gasps and whimpers.
I reach her inner thighs. Kiss. Nip gently. She spreads her legs wider, an open invitation. I look up her body. Her eyes are locked on mine, dark and wanting.
“Okay?” I ask.
“More than okay,” she breathes. “Please.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I lower my head, my tongue finding her core. Her taste explodes on my senses—musky, sweet, uniquely Jane. She cries out, her hands flying back to my hair, holding me there.
I lick her slowly, thoroughly, drunk on the taste of her. She's so wet, so ready, and I want to spend hours here, learning every sound she makes, every way to make her shake.
Her back arches off the counter. A high, keening cry tears from her throat as her body convulses.
Her thighs clamp around my head, holding me in place as wave after wave of pleasure rocks through her. I love her taste. I ride it out with her, my tongue persistent, drawing out every last shudder, every gasp.
When she finally collapses back, boneless and trembling, I kiss my way back up her body. Her skin is flushed, dewy with sweat. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted. She looks utterly beautiful.
I kiss her softly. She tastes herself on my lips. Her eyes flutter open, dazed and sated. “That was… instructional.”
I chuckle, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead. “Just the warm-up, Cooper.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “There’s more?”
“Oh yeah.” I toss the Costco box to her and then princess carry her into the bedroom.
She sinks down onto the bed, looking up at me with those wide, trusting eyes. I shed the rest of my clothes quickly, my own hands not quite steady. The need to be skin-to-skin with her is overwhelming.
I kneel on the bed before her, bracketing her hips with my knees. Her gaze drops, taking in my erection, thick and heavy and straining. Her eyes widen slightly, but there’s no fear, only fascination. My cock twitches under her scrutiny.
“Okay?” I ask, brushing a strand of hair back from her face.
She nods, swallowing hard. “Okay.”
Ripping open the foil packet feels like breaking a seal. Not just on the condom, but on this new, terrifying, exhilarating chapter. I roll it on, the latex cool against my overheated skin.
“Okay, big guy. Show me what the Kirkland Signature experience is all about.”
I laugh again, shaking my head. Only Jane.
Then I lean over her, bracing my weight on one forearm beside her head. My other hand slides down her body, over her ribs, her belly, lower.
She tenses slightly as my fingers brush the soft curls between her thighs. “Easy,” I murmur against her lips.
My fingers glide through her folds, finding her wet, slick, and incredibly hot. Ready. A soft gasp escapes her as my fingertips circle her clit again, feather-light.
“Oh—” Her hips lift off the mattress, seeking more pressure.
“That’s it,” I encourage, my voice rough with need. “You feel so good, Jane. So ready.” I slide a finger inside her, slowly, carefully.
She’s tight. Unbelievably tight. Her inner muscles clench around my finger, drawing a low groan from me.
“Okay?” I grit out.
Her head thrashes on the pillow. “More,” she breathes. “Please, West.”
I add a second finger, stretching her gently. Her hands clutch at my shoulders, fingers digging in. “Yes! Like that… Oh…”
“Yes! Oh, yes, right there!” Her eyes fly open, locking onto mine. They’re dark, glazed, completely lost in the sensation. “Don’t stop. Please.”
I don’t. I keep up the rhythm, my thumb circling her clit in time with the thrust of my fingers. Her hips move with me, finding a rhythm, chasing her pleasure. Her gasps turn to whimpers, higher, more desperate. I can feel her body tightening, coiling, the tension building toward a breaking point.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” I murmur, leaning down to kiss the frantic pulse at her throat. “Let go. Come for me again. I’ve got you.”
Her back arches sharply off the bed. A broken cry echoes in the quiet room as she shatters, her inner muscles clamping down hard on my fingers, her body trembling violently through the waves of her climax. I hold her through it, whispering praise against her skin.
“Beautiful. So beautiful, Jane. You’re doing so well. Perfect.”
I withdraw my fingers slowly, earning a soft whimper. My own need is a living thing, clawing at my insides. I’m aching, throbbing. But I wait. Letting her come down. Letting her body adjust.
She reaches down, her hand wrapping tentatively around my shaft—tentative, exploratory. She strokes once, experimentally, and I have to lock every muscle to keep from losing it.
"Like this?" she whispers.
"Any more 'like this' and this'll be over embarrassingly fast."
Her eyes light up. "Really?"
"Jane. You're holding my self-control by a thread."
She strokes again, deliberately. Testing her power.
I catch her wrist. "Menace."
“So… now?” she asks, her thumb brushing over the slick head.
“Now,” I confirm, my voice strained. I shift, positioning myself between her thighs. The head of my cock nudges against her entrance. She’s still slick from my fingers, but I know this will be tight. I meet her gaze, holding it. “Slow, remember? Deep breath.”
She nods, sucking in a shaky breath. I push forward, just the tip, watching her face for any sign of discomfort. Her brow furrows slightly. She bites her lower lip.
“Okay?” I ask, pausing.
She shifts her hips slightly. “Okay. Keep going. Full speed ahead.”
A choked laugh escapes me. Even now, she’s trying to be brave. Trying to be funny. My chaotic, perfect Jane.
I push deeper, inch by excruciating inch, giving her body time to adjust. The sensation is overwhelming. Heat. Pressure. An almost unbearable tightness. Her face is a mask of concentration, her brow furrowed, her lips pressed together. I kiss her forehead, her temple, murmuring reassurances.