CHAPTER 9 – AN INTIMATE WEEKEND
Eliza
There’s nothing like seeing your parents’ Subaru drive off for a weekend in Wisconsin when you’re conducting a secret affair with a gorgeous man.
I wait exactly three minutes after their taillights vanish before sprinting upstairs to pack my overnight bag.
It’s not even subtle: I’m bringing a bottle of perfume that Jack loves, a black slip dress I haven’t dared to take out of its wrapping, and a box of condoms that, if I’m honest, will probably be empty before Sunday night.
This time, there’s no need to sneak back in before sunrise.
For once in my life, I get to do whatever the hell I want, for as long as I want, and what I want is Jack Landry, full stop.
The drive across town is a blur, all nervous energy and pulse-throbbing anticipation.
Jack told me to “come hungry,” which I know is code for both wine, steak, and sex, possibly at the same time.
I rehearse a dozen cool, casual greetings in my head, each more mortifying than the last, then abandon them all and opt for the oldest trick in the book: just knock and smile. Let him do the rest.
The sun’s not even down when I park in front of his house.
There’s no one around; even the next-door neighbor’s yippy dog is quiet for some reason.
I smooth my hair, check my make-up in the rearview, and grab my bag, feet barely touching the ground as I bound up the walk.
Before I can knock, the door swings open—of course Jack was watching for me—and there he is, black t-shirt clinging to every muscle, jeans hanging perfectly off his narrow hips, and that dark hair attractively tousled.
His blue eyes gleam in a way that makes you want to put your whole body against his just to feel that hard physique against my own.
“You’re early, sweetheart,” he growls, and I swear to god I almost come right then and there.
“Couldn’t wait,” I say, and my voice is breathy with need.
He grabs my wrist, yanking me inside and slamming the door with his boot.
I drop my bag, barely registering the sound as he presses me up against the cool wooden panel of the door.
There’s no slow build, no preamble—just mouths, teeth, and heat, his hands everywhere at once.
My cardigan is gone in a heartbeat, my shirt bunched at my shoulders as he slides his palms under the fabric, fingers hot and sure.
I gasp, arching my back to bring my Double D’s into his hands, and he doesn’t disappoint—he’s rough, squeezing, pinching, then soothing with his thumbs as I mewl with need.
“You smell incredible,” he murmurs into my neck.
“It’s Chanel No. 5,” I say, but I doubt he even hears.
Jack kisses me again, deeper this time, tongue all the way in.
My knees threaten to buckle, but he catches me under the thighs, lifting until I’m straddling his hips.
I’m dizzy, drunk on him, the world collapsing to a pinprick that contains only this man, his scent, his body, and the need blooming in my belly.
He carries me a few steps to the foyer, sets me down on a bench, and kneels in front of me. My skirt’s up before I know it; he runs his hands up my legs, pushing the fabric higher, then slides a finger under the band of my panties. “You miss me, sweetheart?” he asks, low and dangerous.
I can only nod, lips parted, already desperate for him.
He slips two fingers inside, finding me slick and pulsing. “God, you’re so fucking tight and wet,” he says, and the words vibrate all the way up my spine. “Goddamn.”
My eyes flutter shut as he works me, slow at first, then faster, thumb circling my clit until I’m whimpering, clutching at his head for balance.
The noises are obscene. There are wet sucking sounds as he rattles his fingers in my cunt, going faster and faster, with my juices dripping all over the foyer floor.
I want to last, I want to savor it, but my body has other plans.
I tip over the edge, crying out his name, my whole body shuddering as the orgasm rips through me, quick and brutal.
“Jack!” I scream, my head tipping back with feminine pleasure. “Unnnh, yes!”
He continues shaking his fingers in my cunt, watching avidly as the plush folds clamp around his hand.
“Fuck yeah,” he groans. “Shit, you’re responsive.”
When my shaking’s stopped somewhat, he pulls his soaked fingers from my pussy and then stands, before lifting them to his mouth and sucking the nectar from his digits.
His blue eyes gleam as I watch him, shocked and yet thrilled by his dirty ways.
Then the man smirks and bends to kiss me until I taste myself on his lips.
But I want him to experience pleasure too, and pull away for a moment.
“Now it’s your turn,” I whisper, reaching for his fly, but Jack shakes his head.
“Not yet. I want to fuck you first.”
He pulls me up, bends me over the bench, yanks my panties down, and lines himself up without ceremony. The head of his cock presses against my entrance, and I brace myself, still sensitive and raw. He pushes in, slow but relentless, splitting me open inch by inch until I’m full of him.
“Unnnh!” I squeal helplessly, lifted off my toes by his massive size. “Oh god!”
“You’re doing good,” Jack rasps, panting already. “Fuck you’re so tight and wet.”
He sets a hand at the small of my back, pinning me in place, and starts to move—long, deep strokes that make my toes curl. The sound is obscene: wet, heavy, punctuated by my gasps and the slap of skin on skin. He fucks me like he’s been starving for days, every thrust a promise and a demand.
“You like that, baby?” he grunts, gripping my blonde locks in his fist.
“Yes, Daddy,” I whimper, the words torn from me by pleasure. “It feels so good!”
“I know, sweetheart, because you have a slutty cunt that only Daddy’s deep fuckings can satisfy. Isn’t that right, Eliza? This wet pussy craves big dick.”
I can’t answer as he pounds harder, faster, my body singing with sensation.
I’m close again, the heat building with every slap of his hips.
Jack knows exactly what he’s doing; he pulls me up, one arm around my waist, and reaches down to rub my clit while he keeps thrusting.
The double stimulation is too much and I come again, seeing stars as I scream to the Heavens, my pussy clenching so hard it almost pushes him out.
He holds on, fucking me through it, until he groans and shudders, his penis reaching deep inside. Then Jack explodes, shooting hot jizz inside me.
“Fuck!” he roars. “Oh shit shit shit!”
The feeling of him, pulsing and raw, sends aftershocks through my body as I’m pumped with gallons of hot, virile semen.
“Fuuuuck,” he groans again, still pumping. “Oh shit.”
I mewl with pleasure, my pussy convulsing around that hard shaft, milking it for every last drop.
I love how Jack makes me feel, so taken, feminine, and filled with his virility.
I’m utterly satisfied, and mewl again, my head dropping from my shoulders.
For a second, we just stand there, bent over and panting, clinging to each other.
Then he kisses my temple, gentle now, and helps me upright.
“Jesus, Jack,” I say, pulling my skirt down, “are you trying to kill me?”
He laughs, that low, rumbling sound I crave. “You’re a tough cookie, sweetheart. You can handle my massive size.”
I want to say something clever, but all I can do is smile, sweaty and sated, high on endorphins and the realization that this is my life now—this man, his massive body, and this need. I’ve never felt more alive.
Jack gives me a minute to catch my breath, then takes my hand and leads me into the kitchen.
I know it well now, but I still adore the masculinity of the space.
There are massive stainless steel appliances and granite countertops, and the fridge is covered in magnets—Air Force bases, Machu Picchu, a few with dirty jokes.
There’s even a photo of a much younger Jack standing next to a fighter jet, grinning with reckless abandon, and I love it.
“You still want steak?” he asks, pulling two thick ribeyes from the fridge.
“God, yes,” I say, “but I also want to shower first. I’m a mess.”
He eyes me, a sly grin curling his lips. “You look perfect to me, sweetheart, but if you want to freshen up, go for it. I’ll set the table.”
I skip up the stairs and into his bathroom before splashing cold water on my face. I stare at my reflection for a beat. I look wild—cheeks flushed, blonde locks disheveled, lips swollen. I look like a woman who’s been thoroughly, spectacularly fucked, and I love it.
When I come back out after a quick rinse, Jack is at the stove, bare-armed and focused, turning steaks with a pair of tongs like he’s defusing a bomb.
He’s made a salad and opened a bottle of wine, and the table is set with actual cloth napkins.
For a moment, I watch this man, admiring the contrast: the roughness of his hands against the delicate stemware, the way he moves with purpose even in the most mundane of tasks.
I sidle up next to him, wrapping my arms around his waist from behind. He leans back into me, nuzzling my cheek.
“You make this look easy,” I murmur.
He shrugs, flipping a steak. “Forty-five years and I’ve cooked for myself for forty-four. You pick up a few tricks.”
We move in tandem, plating the food, pouring the wine, bumping hips and laughing when we collide. The air between us is different now—still electric, but softer at the edges, the heat tempered by something like comfort. I didn’t know that was possible, not with him, not with anyone.
At the table, we sit close enough that our knees touch. I rip into my steak, moaning with pleasure at the first bite.
“You’re not a vegetarian, are you?” Jack asks, feigning worry.
“God, no,” I say. “I’d die.”
He smiles, chewing thoughtfully. “You could probably live on wine and cake if you had to.”
“Wine, cake, and you,” I reply before I can stop myself.