12. Jackson #3
"Fuck," she breathes, eyes closed as she adjusts to the fullness. "You feel?—"
"Perfect," I finish for her, hands gripping her hips with bruising intensity. "You feel perfect."
When she begins to move, it's with devastating precision. Each roll of her hips sends me into overdrive. I watch her—head thrown back, bottom lip caught between her teeth, breasts bouncing with each movement—and something possessive surges through me.
This controlled, meticulous woman is coming apart above me, taking her pleasure with single-minded focus. It's the most erotic thing I've ever witnessed, but a part of me wants to shatter that control, to see her completely undone.
I thrust upward, matching her rhythm but deepening the impact. Her eyes fly open in surprise and arousal, a gasp escaping her lips.
"Yes," she hisses, increasing her pace. "Just like that."
My thumb finds her clit, circling with firm pressure that has her thighs trembling against mine. Her movements become less coordinated, more frantic, as pleasure builds.
"Come for me," I urge, watching the flush spread across her chest, her neck. "Let me see you fall apart."
Her pussy walls clench me, her body quivering, her climax tearing a cry from her throat that sounds like my name. The sight of her coming undone is nearly enough to finish me, but I hold back, determined to draw this out.
In the momentary surrender of her orgasm, I flip our positions, pressing her into the mattress with my weight. Her eyes widen at the sudden shift.
"My turn," I growl, capturing her wrists and pinning them above her head.
"Jackson," she breathes my name like a confession.
I drive into her with renewed purpose, setting a rhythm that has her gasping beneath me. The power shift is intoxicating—her surrender all the more precious for how rarely she relinquishes control.
"Is this what you want?" I ask, voice rough with restraint. "Me taking charge?"
"Yes." The word is half moan, half plea as she arches against me. "God, yes."
I release her wrists to hook one of her legs over my shoulder, changing the angle to hit deeper. Her hands immediately find my back, nails scoring paths I'll proudly wear tomorrow.
Her second climax builds visibly—the flush deepening across her skin, the slight furrow between her brows, her breathing growing increasingly erratic. When I slip a hand between us, thumb circling her sensitive clit, she shatters completely.
The pulsing grip of her orgasm triggers my own release, vision narrowing to pinpoints as pleasure crashes through me in overwhelming waves. I collapse beside her, both of us breathing heavily in the aftermath.
For long moments, neither of us speaks, the only sound our gradually slowing heartbeats in the quiet hotel room. Her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with unexpected tenderness after such raw passion.
"That was…" she begins, voice still husky.
"Yeah," I agree, turning to see her profile in the dim light—flushed, satisfied, somehow more beautiful for being thoroughly disheveled. "It was."
She shifts to face me, something vulnerable flickering beneath the lingering desire in her eyes.
"I should have known you'd be demanding," she says with a small laugh.
"Me?" I raise an eyebrow. "You're the one who just rode me like you were claiming territory."
Her blush deepens. "I've wanted to do that since I first saw you in the office."
The admission—this glimpse of how long she's been fighting the same attraction—sends a fresh surge of possessiveness through me.
I trace her jawline with my thumb, marveling at the contrast between the fierce woman who took her pleasure so confidently and this softer version, willing to admit vulnerability.
"That makes two of us." My hand slides lower, following the elegant curve of her neck, the delicate line of her collarbone. "I had something slightly less corporate in mind during that first meeting."
Her laugh is warm against my skin as she curls closer. "Tell me."
"I imagined bending you over your perfectly organized desk," I admit, voice dropping lower. "Hiking up that precise pencil skirt and discovering if you were as controlled underneath as you appeared on the surface."
"And now you know," she murmurs, her hand tracing lazy patterns on my chest.
"Now I know you're even more surprising than I remembered." I kiss her temple, breathing in the scent of her—vanilla and sex and something uniquely Tarryn. "The perfect contradiction."
She hums contentedly, eyes growing heavy with satisfied exhaustion. "We should probably talk about this," she says, though the words lack conviction.
"Tomorrow," I suggest, pulling her closer. "Tonight, just stay with me."
For a moment, I think she'll argue—the careful lawyer reasserting boundaries—but instead, she nestles against me, her body fitting perfectly against mine.
"Okay," she whispers, the simple acceptance more meaningful than she probably realizes.
As she drifts toward sleep, I watch the subtle changes in her expression, the professional mask completely dissolved, leaving only the woman. Not just the passionate creature who claimed me so thoroughly, but something more complex—vulnerable and strong, controlled and wild.
Each layer of Tarryn Wells I rediscover makes me hunger for more, a craving deeper than mere physical desire. This isn't just about sex, though God knows that's transcendent enough. It's about seeing all of her—the brilliant attorney and the woman with secret fire—and wanting every aspect of her.
Tomorrow will bring complications… professional boundaries to renegotiate, Christine's watchful eyes to evade, decisions about what this means beyond a hotel room encounter.
But tonight, with Tarryn's breath warm against my chest and her body melted trustingly into mine, those concerns seem distant, manageable.
Whatever comes next, this moment, this perfect, honest connection, makes every risk worthwhile.