CHAPTER 9 – AN INTIMATE WEEKEND #2
Jack’s eyes flicker with something devious—filthy thoughts? Amused thoughts? “You planning to keep me around that long, sweetheart?”
I flush, but hold his gaze. “Maybe. You haven’t scared me off yet, big boy.”
He laughs, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “That’s because I’m on my best behavior.”
I giggle. “You call the endless raunchy lovemaking your best behavior?”
He shrugs, the movement sending a ripple through his arms. “I want to do even more, sweetheart. I want to fuck you into next week, and then five ways on Sunday.”
“Oh you!” I giggle helplessly. “You’re so bad.”
We finish the meal, talking about nothing and everything: his days in the Air Force, my nightmare boss at the law firm, the weird neighbor who tried to sell him a taxidermied armadillo. It’s easy, effortless, like we’ve been doing this for years.
At one point, I drop my fork and say, “Can I tell you a secret, Jack?”
The dark man nods, setting his own fork aside. “Of course, baby. You can tell me anything.”
I take a deep breath because this is a declaration.
“I think I’m addicted to you,” I say, voice barely above a whisper.
Jack doesn’t laugh. Instead, he stands, walks around the table, and pulls me up into his strong arms.
“I could get used to that, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and kisses me, soft and sweet this time.
“Oh good, because I don’t want you going anywhere,” I admit in a soft voice. His eyes gleam, but they’re filled with adoration and security. Jack makes me feel safe, and I’m so happy to be here, in his arms.
After, we clean up together, the mundane domesticity oddly intimate.
I wash, he dries. Every so often, he flicks water at me, and I retaliate with a soap bubble to his cheek.
We move around each other with a familiarity that feels dangerous, like if we’re not careful, we’ll end up wanting this every day for the rest of our lives.
We end the night curled up on his couch, a shitty action movie playing in the background, my head on his chest and his fingers idly tracing circles on my arm.
For the first time in weeks, maybe ever, I’m not counting down the minutes until I have to be somewhere else. I’m just here, and it’s enough.
Before I drift off, I hear him whisper, “You’re trouble, Eliza. But I like it.”
I smile, eyes closed, and let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, I could be his trouble forever.
I wake up to the smell of coffee and the soft, unmistakable sound of someone humming Sinatra, which is not a thing I would have ever pegged for Jack Landry, ex-military, anti-karaoke, anti-anything-embarrassing.
But here it is: low and smooth, almost sweet, drifting into the master bedroom where I ended up sleeping like a log after the movie.
I was so tired that we didn’t make love, but that’s okay.
I have Jack Landry to myself for the whole weekend, and I can’t wait.
I tiptoe to the bathroom, splash water on my face, and then do the walk of shame—barefoot, bedhead, and nothing else but Jack’s shirt—down the hall to the kitchen.
He’s at the stove, making French toast, and the sight of him in boxers and a battered t-shirt, spatula in hand, is so domestic it makes my ovaries clench.
There’s something about seeing a man like Jack in a kitchen, cooking for you, that should be illegal, or at the very least regulated by the FDA.
He doesn’t turn around, but he knows I’m there. “Sleep okay, sweetheart?”
“Like a corpse,” I yawn, sliding onto a stool. “You always make breakfast for your conquests?”
He laughs, and the sound is warmer than the sun slanting in through the kitchen window. “Only for the ones who survive the night.”
I smile sweetly, stretching, and let his shirt ride up just enough to see if he’s watching. He is, and the way his eyes darken makes me shiver.
“Hungry?” he asks in a casual tone.
“Always,” I say, and it’s true in every possible way.
He plates the food, pours two mugs of coffee, and we eat at the island, knees bumping under the Formica.
It’s shockingly easy, the conversation moving from TV shows to work horror stories to whether we’d survive a zombie apocalypse (“I’d die first,” Jack claims, “because I’d refuse to eat canned fruit. You, on the other hand, would thrive.”)
We’re halfway through breakfast when he leans over and wipes a bit of powdered sugar off my lip with his thumb, slow and deliberate. “You’re cute like this,” he murmurs. “I like it.”
“Like what?” I ask, mouth full of syrup.
“Messy. Human. Not trying so damn hard.”
I freeze, suddenly aware of how rare that is for me. I’m always trying—at home, at work, even on camera. But with Jack, it’s easy to forget. I want to be good for him, but I also want to be real, even if it’s ugly.
“I could get used to this, Eliza,” he says, softer now.
“So could I,” I whisper, and the moment hangs there, fragile and perfect, before the spell breaks.
He stands, pushing his chair back, and lifts me off the stool with a single motion. I yelp, but he kisses me before I can protest, and the taste of coffee on his tongue is the best thing I’ve ever had.
He sets me on the counter, and I wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him in tight. The French toast is forgotten as his hands slide under the hem of my shirt, thumbs circling my bare skin. I’m still sticky with syrup, and I can tell it’s driving him crazy.
“Someone’s going to have to clean this counter,” he growls, voice low and rough.
“Maybe we should get it dirtier first,” I reply, tugging his waistband down. “More efficient, right?”
Jack laughs, but it’s cut short as I reach in and wrap my hand around his cock, already hard and hot.
Oh my god, he’s big and stiff, so thick that I can hardly get my fingers to touch around the diameter.
He groans, kissing me harder, and the world narrows to this: the cool stone under my thighs, his big body pressed against mine, the sun slicing across the countertop and catching the glint of sweat on his temple.
But my pleasure is always important to Jack. The alpha male pulls back for an instant, his fingers grazing over my inner thigh, and then slides two fingers inside me, hot and wet. I gasp, clinging to his shoulders for balance.
“Fuck baby,” he mutters in my ear. “You’re always drenched.”
“I know,” I whisper in a panting voice, clinging to his shoulders. “I need you, Jack. Now, please!”
Jack growls deep in my chest. He’s learned my body already, knows exactly how to touch me, how to make me forget everything else.
I’m wet, hungry, and he pulls his fingers out, before lining that big dick up at my little hole.
Then, when he thrusts into me, I bite his shoulder to keep from screaming.
“Unnh,” is my low moan. “Ohhhh!”
“That a girl,” he rasps, going still to let me adjust to his massive size. “Fuck.”
Soon, I’ve started breathing again, and he fucks me slow, controlled, each stroke a master class in how to ruin a girl for anyone else. The edge of the counter digs into my ass, but I don’t care. I want it to hurt, want to feel him everywhere, want to remember this in every cell of my body.
“Jack,” I whimper, “mmm, harder.”
He obliges, gripping my hips and slamming me down onto his cock, the impact echoing off the tile. The plates rattle, the syrup bottle tips, but nothing matters except the fire building between us.
“Oh!” I squeal, clutching at his shoulders. “Oh Daddy, it’s coming—!”
I climax like a hurricane, clenching around him, the pleasure blinding.
He holds me through it, lips on my neck, murmuring sweet, filthy things in my ear, but the insistent pulsing of my cunt is too much.
His cock jerks once, hard, and then the shoot at the base begins to pulse.
With a growl, he erupts, teeth scraping my jaw as he shudders inside me.
“Fuck!” he roars. “Ohhhh shit!”
We stay like that for a minute, breathing hard, bodies tangled and sticky with sweat and sugar. Around us, the kitchen table looks like an apocalyptic scene with plates pushed to the side, spilled syrup, and napkins askew.
“Worth the mess,” he says, grinning.
“Definitely,” I reply, licking his collarbone.
We shower together, and it’s somehow even more intimate than the sex.
He soaps my back, I shampoo his hair, and we stand under the spray as the water runs over us.
He squeezes my big breasts as I moan before fisting his cock, and we almost end up making love again, but somehow come out without another hot session.
After, we lounge on the couch, wrapped in huge robes and each other, watching bad movies and making up alternate endings. He lets me choose the first one (“Notting Hill,” obviously), and pretends not to like it, even though he laughs at all the right parts.
Around noon, my man gets a wild idea. “You ever made real pasta sauce?” he asks.
“From a jar?” I reply, and he groans in mock agony.
“No, like, actually from tomatoes and basil and all that shit. The good stuff.”
I shake my head, and he pulls me off the couch, leads me to the kitchen, and lines up the ingredients like we’re prepping for a military op.
He talks me through every step: the garlic, the olive oil, the way you have to crush the tomatoes by hand (“It’s messy, but worth it.”) We’re halfway through when I squish a tomato too hard and it explodes all over my chest, leaving a bright red splotch on Jack’s shirt that I borrowed.
He laughs, then licks a drop off my collarbone, slow and deliberate.
“Oops,” I whisper, already vibrating with need.
Jack smiles deviously. “Leave it. I like you like this.”
Then, he pins me against the fridge, kissing me until my knees go weak. His hands are under the shirt again, squeezing my big tits, the cold juice making my nipples pebble.
“Should we finish the sauce?” I pant.
He shakes his head. “It’ll simmer.”
We’re on the dining table this time, Jack lifting me onto the wood surface with one hand, the other already yanking my shirt open. I’m naked underneath, with my big tits trembling and pussy already wet. His eyes devour me.