Chapter Ten
Abigail
My hands went to the hem of my cardigan, and I tugged it, along with the matching camisole, over my head. My breasts grew heavy. Heat bloomed between my thighs. I'd been a little wet all day.
Just being in Jacob's house seem to do that to me. But this—stripping my clothes off for him, knowing he was going to touch me—that was all it took.
Moisture gathered in my pussy. Feeling it as I shifted my weight to take off the clingy lounging pants only made me hotter.
I tossed my clothes on the end of the kitchen island and waited for my next order. Jacob didn't disappoint me.
"Turn around." I did, facing away from the stove. "Bend over."
I bent over the island, not exactly sure what he wanted. I leaned over the granite countertop on the island, bracing myself on my elbows.
Jacob corrected me, not with words but with light touches. He ran his fingertips down the outsides of my arms, gently lifting them from beneath me, raising me up and bringing them together behind my back, pressing my hands together until I caught the hint and locked my hands around my own wrists.
With soft pressure, he pressed me back down until my breasts flattened into the cool counter, my face turned to the side, my hot cheek against the hard surface.
"Beautiful," he said, his voice husky. His hand smoothed down my spine and over the curve of my ass. One long finger dipped lower to trace my pussy. "Spread your legs."
I did, more than happy to make room for his hand. I drew in a ragged breath, my body tense, ready, trying to guess what he would do next, wanting whatever it was.
He surprised me, yet again. His fingertip grazed the hot flesh between my legs just long enough to verify that I was wet before pulling away to drop a quick, impersonally affectionate smack on my rear end.
"Don't move," he said. "I'm going to change. I'll be back in a minute, and I expect to see you exactly like that when I return."
"Yes, sir," I said, the words slipping from between my lips as if I'd been saying them all my life.
I had been, but never, ever like this.
My mind raced as I listened to him walking away, his footsteps fading as he went down the hall toward the master bedroom. I couldn't believe he'd just left me like this, naked, arranged exactly as he wanted me.
Jacob Winters was a tease.
If I'd been in charge, I would have teased him back.
I knew, deep down, that I wouldn't be half as aroused by all this if I'd been in charge. If I'd been in charge, there would've been no spankings the night before, no nipple clamps, no naked dinner.
No Jacob eating dessert off my pussy and licking me until I came.
No, I didn't want to be in charge.
At the memory of his mouth on me the night before, I squirmed. My nipples were hard, tight points against the granite.
The edge of the countertop was uncomfortable against my hip bones, and my arms were getting tired. I didn't move. I waited, quietly, if not patiently.
My body was still, but my mind raced, thinking of all the things Jacob might do to me in this position.
It seemed like a year before he came back, though it was probably only a few minutes. I caught a glimpse of him in my peripheral vision, and a wave of lust and something else, something warm and sweet washed through me at the sight of him.
He'd shed his formal suit in favor of a pair of well-worn broadcloth pajama bottoms and an Emory T-shirt.
This wasn't Jacob, the billionaire playboy, or Jacob, the cutthroat real estate magnate. This was just Jacob Winters, at home, relaxed, and ready to play.
I could steel myself against all the other Jacobs, but this one was too real. He snuck under my guard, especially when he sent me an almost boyish grin, stopping beside me and resting a hand on my ass.
"You take direction very well. Now we'll see how well you can direct me."
Okay, then fuck me, I said in my head. I knew better than to say it out loud.
The hand on my ass dropped down, his fingers again tracing around my pussy, collecting the gathered moisture until they dropped further and circled my clit. I gasped, the shock of direct contact sharper than it would have been if he'd touched me before all the teasing.
"Do you know your recipe by heart?" He asked in a conversational tone as if he didn't have his hand between my legs, stroking my slick heat.
I tried to answer the same way, but I heard the tension in my voice, the need bleeding through as I said, "I do."
"Tell me what you were going to do next," he commanded. My brain scrambled to keep up.
"Make the Dijon sauce," I stuttered.
"Walk me through it." His fingertips left my clit as one long finger pressed inside me, slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. I resisted the urge to push back at him, knowing instinctively that wasn't the game.
The game was for me to let him tease me until he decided to fuck me. I really wanted to win. Forcing my mind back onto dinner, I said "See the red plastic bowl on the counter? You need to mix the sauce in there and then heat it up in the pan on the stove."
"And what goes in it?"
A second finger joined the first, stretching me, taunting me with the prospect of being truly filled. His knuckle grazed my clit, and I jumped.
His other hand came down on my ass with a quick swat, the flash of pain transmuting to pleasure, shooting straight between my legs.
"One third of a cup of sour cream, two tablespoons of Dijon mustard, two teaspoons of the chopped garlic, and two teaspoons of lemon juice. It should all be out there on the counter."
He repeated the recipe back to me, then said, "And what about these green beans? Are they done?"
Crap. I'd forgotten about the green beans. It was a good thing I'd set a timer on the oven, or there was no chance the salmon and potatoes would come out in time.
"No," I said, my voice breathy with arousal. "Turn them on low. On medium," I corrected, "and put the lid back on, please."
I wanted to cry when his hands left my skin. After the heat of his touch, the cool air in the kitchen against the wet between my legs was freezing.
I heard sounds behind me, the clink of metal against glass, the slide of plastic on the counter, the click, click, whoosh of the gas stove turning on under the green beans.
"So I mix all these ingredients together in the bowl?" Jacob asked.
He was only a few feet away, but it felt like a mile. I wanted to tell him to forget about the sauce and come back over here and touch me. If I thought I had a chance in hell of getting it to work, I would've done it.
Instead, I said, "Yes, mix it all together with the whisk on the counter. When it's done, I'll tell you what's next."
It didn't take him long. I'd chosen a simple recipe on purpose for my first day in Jacob's kitchen, not sure what kind of equipment he might have.
I waited, trying to guess what each small sound was, feeling relief when I heard the whisk swirling against the plastic of the bowl. He rewarded me a second later by leaving the sauce and coming back to the island.
He pressed up behind me, the hard, thick ridge of his erect cock separated from me by only the thin cotton of his pajama bottoms.
My breath caught in my lungs. I wanted it inside me so badly. He leaned over, plastering his chest against my back until his lips grazed my ear. "What's next?"
"Turn on the medium-sized skillet," I said, my voice shaking a little. "On low, and pour the sauce inside. You need to keep stirring it. You want it to warm up, but it shouldn't boil or it'll separate."
I almost wept at the realization that his attention to the sauce would mean he'd have to stop touching me until it was done. I wished I'd decided to make pot roast tonight instead of tomorrow, even though there hadn't been enough time.
Pot roast didn't need any attention. You could fuck all night with a pot roast in the oven.
Jacob peeled himself off me and stepped back, taking his lovely hard cock with him. I moaned at the loss. He'd barely touched me. Two quick smacks and a few strokes of his fingers had me shaking with need.
I heard the sound of another burner flicking on and the metallic scrape of the whisk against the stainless steel skillet. Conversationally, Jacob asked, "What's in the oven?"
"Salmon and herbed new potatoes," I whispered.
"And how long will this sauce take?" He asked so casually, I might have cried if I hadn't heard the steely thread of tension beneath his words.
"At least five minutes," I said, my voice so forlorn, I wanted to laugh at myself.
Jacob grunted in response. Was the tension getting to him, too? I hoped so. I'd imagined a lot of things when Jacob had proposed this deal, but I'd never guessed he would be such a tease.
The night before, he'd implied that the spanking hadn't been my punishment. The punishment had been sitting through dinner with the clamps tugging on my nipples while he watched, doing nothing to ease my need.
He was diabolical. An eternity passed, punctuated by my uneven breaths, my racing heartbeat, and the quiet sounds of Jacob stirring the mustard sauce.
"How do I know when it's done?" he asked.
My brain trapped in a fog of lust, I managed to say, "Taste it. If the garlic is too sharp, it needs to cook longer."
"Mmm. Here, you try."
Jacob's finger appeared at my lips. I opened them, sucking at the offered fingertip, barely tasting the Dijon sauce, my tongue cleaning it from his skin, my tastebuds eager for the flavor of Jacob beneath the rich sauce.
"It's done," he spat out before yanking his finger from my mouth and shoving his pants down his legs. The head of his cock brushed my pussy, and I whimpered, unable to stop myself from rocking back against him.
He should have punished me. He must have been as lost as I was.
He leaned into my body, driving his thick, hard cock deep inside my pussy, not stopping until he was in to the hilt, his balls swinging forward to smack my clit.
I whimpered again, wanting more. Wanting him to fuck me hard and fast after I'd waited so long.
He did, driving into me. Fucking me hard, filling me. I wanted it, I wanted more. Our bodies shifted, and his hips drove mine straight into the edge of the granite countertop.
I let out a moan of surprise. It hurt, and not like the spankings. I wasn't sure what to do.
Should I tell him? Or was I just supposed to take it whether it hurt or not? I didn't know, and not knowing put a damper on my lust.
Jacob must have sensed something, or he was psychic, because he stopped and stepped back, his cock sliding out of me with a sucking pull that made me quiver.
Running his hands down my sides, he tugged back, urging me to put space between my hips and the edge of the island.
His hands found mine, still clasped behind my back, and he released them, placing them on either side of my torso, skimming his hands up my front to cup my now exposed breasts.
Leaning over me, covering me with his body, he slid inside me again. I sighed in satisfaction.
"Always tell me if you're in pain," he whispered, his breath hot against my ear.
"There's a difference between spanking and nipple clamps and when I'm actually hurting you.
I'd never want to hurt you, Abigail. Not like that.
Not ever. Promise me you'll talk to me. This won't work if you don't talk to me. "
"I promise," I whispered, tears filling my eyes as he began to move, slamming his cock into me, kneading my breasts, pinching my nipples until all the sensations, in my body and my heart, collided in an orgasm so huge, I lost my breath and let it pull me under.
It took me a while to come back to myself. We stayed there, leaning over the island, his tall body covering mine like a warm, hard blanket, trying to catch our breath.
Just when I thought I might be able to move, Jacob drew back. For a moment, before I got myself under control, I missed his heat and strength with a fierce longing that took me by surprise.
He touched my back and said, "I'll take care of this. You can finish dinner."
By this, I knew he meant the condom. I wondered how long it would take for Dr. Whitmore's tests to come back.
"May I get dressed?" I asked, not sure I knew what I wanted him to say. As if he'd read my mind, he raised one eyebrow and said, "You decide."
It was a little chilly in the penthouse, or I might have left off clothes altogether. I wasn't above teasing Jacob back when I got the chance. However, I did not like to be cold.
As a compromise, I left the camisole, underwear, and lounge pants piled as they were on the countertop and slipped back into the cashmere cardigan.
By the time Jacob came back, I had dinner ready to serve.
He walked into the kitchen, his silver eyes taking in the elegantly arranged plates with salmon drizzled in a mustard sauce and fresh, crisp green beans and beautifully browned herbed new potatoes, served by me, wearing only an unzipped cardigan.
He grinned, the expression giving him that boyish look I loved and said, "I could get used to this, Abigail."
I was counting on it. The scary thing was that I could get used to it, too.