Chapter 4 #2
But then I think maybe I want to play with him a little first. So I hum him a tune under my breath, doing a slow shimmy as I work my panties down my hips, over my thighs, past my knees until they’re bunched around my ankles.
It’s not the most graceful look I’ve ever pulled off, but judging by Jack’s face, he’ll be leaving a five-star review.
I stretch some more, cup myself, fingers brushing over nipples that tighten because even though it’s late February in Tennessee and definitely not beach weather, I’m burning up.
Not even a little bit cold.
“You’re beautiful,” he growls.
“And you’re way too slow.” I make grabby hands at him. “You get naked, too.”
He nods—of course he does, because he’d give me whatever I want and we both know it. Then he strides over, wrapping his arms around me gently, pulling me into him. We’re eye to eye now, and I’m on fire.
I cradle his face between my hands and kiss him.
He—
God. He opens for me.
He kisses me back, his tongue teasing mine so lightly, tracing my lips.
Hello. Come on in. This is our second kiss, but our first without an audience, and his mouth feels like it’s everywhere at once.
I forget to breathe, forget that I should be touching him back—he kisses me and I lose my place in this whole song.
His mouth is That Firm Curve of Him, and when he deepens the kiss I fall into That Irresistible Dip that peeks out from the corner of his beard.
And then there’s all That Edible Scruff along his jawline, rough and delicious.
He pulls back. “Is this too fast? Too much? Yes?”
“Unequivocally,” I whisper against his mouth. “Yes, to everything you want to do to me. If you need suggestions, I have a list.”
He curses roughly.
I feel the corners of my mouth curve up. “You have a wicked, wicked mouth, Mr. Carter. FYI? I’m taking those as promises.”
Then we’re kissing again, his hands sliding up, up, up into my hair, angling me, taking control.
The brush of his flannel shirt against me is maddening—of course he’s still dressed.
He wears his self-control like armor, and the way he holds himself in check drives me wild, has me squirming against him.
I fall into him, already lost. I slide my hands behind his neck, down his back. Come here, you. He’s frowning—fierce in his concentration, but also looking at me as if he—
I don’t know.
But I like it.
His hands get busy, moving down to cup my ass and pull me up, my legs wrapping around his waist. I press harder against him, riding him, messing him up, arching my back.
This is what I need, this connection, to feel like I’m fully alive and capable of flying for once.
He groans, making these guttural sounds, and none of the words falling from his mouth are stop or no or we should think about this.
Instead, he’s saying things like yes and beautiful and use me. Let me. May I? Like that?
It’s all urgent kisses and wet touches, sweet friction and breathlessness.
Except I’m naked, and he’s still not, and I need him all the way close with no clothes between us.
I lean back to yank at his shirt, undoing his buttons and pushing the sleeves down his arms. He’s got a hand between my legs now—so wet, he growls, his fingers working—as I get his flannel shirt off and toss it on the floor.
He groans, setting me down on the bed. Steps back.
He fists the hem of his T-shirt and yanks it over his head. Beneath the flannel and cotton, he’s a work of art, all slabs of muscle, a light dusting of hair, lines, and grooves worthy of a Michelangelo.
“Faster.” I rise up on my knees, reaching for his belt buckle.
He’s wearing too many clothes for the dirty plans I have, and I unbuckle, undo him, push his jeans and boxer briefs down. Our fingers meet because we both have the same fucking goal.
My hands stroke over his hot, bare skin, learning, taking, and he lets me. He’s mine now. I’ve claimed him. I kiss the strong line of his shoulder, kneeling up in front of him to lick his chest and slide my hands south to wrap around him.
“Christ,” he rasps. And then, “Dixie.”
He takes my mouth with his. His lips demand, open me up like a box of sweets, sweep inside to taste me. He kisses with unexpected hunger, bold and unrestrained. This is Jack unleashed. The preacher thing is false advertising—he’s absolutely filthy.
He’s all in, angling my face toward him with a big, sure hand, holding me tight.
His beard against my face is an unexpected softness.
His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me toward him, and my brain skips a track on this record, imagining his hands, his mouth, the goddamned beard elsewhere on my body.
He tears his mouth from mine, his chest heaving, eyes fierce. “Yes? Yes, Dixie?”
His voice holds the sexiest rasp.
“More.” I kiss the stern line of his jaw, a little too fierce and not at all gentle. “I want all of you, Jack. Right now.”
He grunts something softly—a breath of a sound, not quite a word. Good? God? I’m not here for conversation.
“I’ve wanted to get your clothes off you since we met.”
He groans. “That was about an hour ago, Dixie.”
“Yes! And we’ve wasted so much time. Your flannel shirt should be illegal. I need you naked all the time. Fuck me now, okay?”
“I—” His big hands palm my ass. “Okay. Yes.”
He takes his cue, shifting me until I’m flat on the bed. He braces himself over me, one big hand planted beside my head. His thumb finds my cheek and strokes.
I explore his body with greedy hands. Muscled forearms cage me in. He’s a perfect frame of steel and heat and strength. I want to bottle him up, drink him down like the vampire I accused him of being. He grunts, sliding against me.
“You’re my silver lining.” My voice is low and needy, and I can’t catch my breath but I kiss him harder, deeper, because things between us can’t be uneven, not ever. My mouth devours his, fingers tight in his hair, and I’ve never felt more alive.
Not ever. Not even onstage.
It doesn’t take long before we’re both done, panting and wrecked and tangled up together in his big bed.
When the afterglow fades, Jack’s still braced above me.
His thick fingers thread through my hair, beard brushing my forehead. When he shifts, I feel the tug everywhere—regions south, my scalp, and everywhere between.
“Okay?” He rumbles the question, eyes searching mine as he pulls free.
I am. I’m fine. Great. Collapsed in a puddle of postorgasmic bliss. That’s not what freaks me out.
It’s not even the kiss he brushes across my forehead like we’re some long-married couple or reincarnated Victorians. No—it’s the way he rolls us both over and goddamned spoons me.
That’s what bothers me. The tender grip. The care with which he holds on to me like I’m the best surprise ever and he can’t get enough. He whispers things, compliments, praise, rougher sounds that aren’t words but still say way too much.
I suck at this part of sex. The aftercare, the cuddling, the making-emotions-out-of-hormones bullshit. It’s like a Magic Eraser for all the good parts.
Now I’m hot and sticky, with handfuls of my hair trapped under my shoulder. And I’m stiff everywhere. Activity’s supposed to help with my RA, but I’ve overdone it.
I should go. Somewhere. Back to Nashville if there’s an Uber that’ll drive out this far for free.
And as soon as I try to plan my escape—Google Map a move to Mars—I realize shit, I haven’t answered his question. He checked in about our sex, and I ignored him.
“Super! That was awesome, big guy!”
There. Feedback given, ego stroked. I’m the worst ever postcoital snuggler. I want to jump out of bed and get things done. Had it been sixty seconds? Ninety? Can I leave in two minutes?
When bells ring—twice and loudly, like the whole goddamned roof’s coming down—I jackknife upward. Could be the harbinger of doom. Could be the ice cream man. Either way, it’s GO time.
“Just church bells,” Jack murmurs.
Out in the hallway, Huck bays his agreement.
“Every hour?” I need clarification because holy interrupted sleep patterns, Batman.
“Yeah,” he grunts. He sounds sleepy. Oh God, he’s one of those people who falls asleep after sex.
He surprises me by getting up to dispose of the condom, then comes straight back, cracking a window before sliding in beside me.
“You’re—” he starts. “That was—”
“Yeah.” I pat his arm, roll over. “Totally.”
He pulls me back against his chest, trying to be the big spoon to my teaspoon. Joke’s on him. I’m a knife—stiff and sharp. He settles himself carefully, one big paw smoothing my hair back from my face.
He established in the first sixty seconds of our acquaintance that he’s a giver. He towed me, made room for me at Southern Comforts, offered up a bed. No questions asked. If I need it, he gives it.
He’s one of the good guys. I’m not. Not even close.
“You okay?” he rumbles in my ear.
I yank his duvet—a duvet with pinstripes—up to my chin and squeeze my eyes shut. “Shh. I’m sleeping.”
“That bad, huh?”
“No complaints. Five stars. Would sin again.”
His hand brushes my shoulder. “Sleep tight.”
When he goes to shift, to roll away, the words fly out of my mouth. “You’re warm.”
“You can stay, you know,” he says quietly.
I tense for half a second.
“Yeah. Thought so,” he adds, when I say nothing.
I pretend to be tired, to drift off in his arms, and then he gives up, tucking his chin into the space between my shoulder and my ear. His breathing evens out and slows.
I trace the muscles in his forearm as it loosens with sleep.
There’s a name for those under-the-skin pieces that I forgot years ago in high school biology, if I ever knew it.
His arm’s darker, sun-bronzed. I bet he rolls his sleeves up every month of the year, not just summertime.
Drives around Wickham Hollow 10 percent naked all the time.
When the stupid church bell tolls three times, I get up, grab my clothes, and tiptoe into the hallway.
I’m shaking, but only a little. Just too much sex. No big deal. Huck raises his head to look at me.
“Don’t look at me like that, mister.”
His tail thumps.
I shimmy into my clothes and dart out the door without looking back.