Chapter 2 #3
Or he talks and I respond, and my responses get longer. Eventually I’m talking too, and somewhere in the middle of that the bar empties around us without either of us noticing until the bartender makes the subtle sounds of someone who would like to go home but isn’t going to say so outright.
Jack’s funny in the way that’s actually funny rather than the way that requires you to pretend finding it funny for his ego.
He’s witty underneath the surface. He asks good questions and he receives the deflections without pressing them, which is rare, in my experience.
Most people press. He just notes, and moves on, and comes back around from a different angle, which is worse in some ways but more interesting in all of them.
“The carnival,” I say, at some point. “You work it?”
“I run the game alley.” He says it with pride. “Have for seven years.”
“In this town?”
“In this town.” He looks at his glass. “I wasn’t always here. Spent three years on the circuit before this.”
“What changed?”
“Someone asked me to come home. Turns out I’d been waiting for someone to ask.”
I look at my whiskey, disappointed. I had hoped he was single and now I can imagine he’s cheating on his wife and five kids. That totally gives me the ick which I try to cover with another sip.
“You have people here?” I ask.
“A few, yeah,” he replies, without hesitation. Then he looks at me with the quick eyes and the direct attention. “Not in a romantic sense. In a family sense. You don’t. Right now.”
It’s not a question and it’s not cruel. It’s just accurate. Stated without pity, without performance of sympathy, just seen and said. I choose to believe him about not having that wife and kids I’d imagined a moment earlier.
“No,” I say. “Not right now.”
“Well.” He raises his glass. “You have one. Tonight at least.”
I raise mine.
We drink.
I don’t decide the next part.
That’s not quite true. I do decide, it’s a choice, I’m aware it’s a choice and I make it clearly and without the post-hoc narrative that says it just happened.
I’m a person who acts deliberately and this is deliberate.
But the deciding happens somewhere between his third question that I actually answered and the moment the bartender finally, gently, says last call.
By the time I’ve acknowledged that I’ve decided, the decision is already made and has a consequence I’m comfortable with.
I need to not be alone tonight.
Not the vulnerability version of that. The other version.
The one where you’ve been running solo for seventy-two hours and your nervous system is exhausted and there is a man at a bar who has been looking at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the room and you have decided that tonight you are not a fugitive or a strategy or a next move.
Tonight you are just Lola. And Lola wants this.
“Your place or mine?” he asks, outside in the cool air.
“Mine’s a rented room in a stranger’s house,” I reply.
“Mine’s not far.” He pauses. “No obligations. No morning weirdness.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you well enough for tonight,” he says. “And tonight’s the right amount right now.”
I watch him. He looks back with the open, quick, relaxed attention that has been his register all night. He’s not pushing, not coercing, just turned toward me the way he’s been turned toward me since he moved two stools down and asked about my life.
He means it. The no obligations, no morning weirdness. He means all of it. I find that extremely attractive right now. Heat coils in my stomach while my Omega purrs with excitement.
“Show me,” I say.
He grins.
His place is beautiful. A large modern cabin in the woods just beyond the carnival. The river runs alongside it like a thick ribbon. He takes me through a back entrance into the laundry room and down a dark corridor.
Finally, we reach his bedroom. It’s warm and slightly chaotic in the way of someone who lives fully in their space and doesn’t maintain it for appearances. Books, a large television, and the comfortable clutter of a life being actively used.
“I’m not the tidiest person on earth,” he comments.
“It’s fine,” I reply, which is true. I’m certainly not someone to judge.
“Tell me if anything’s—”
“Jack.” He looks at me. “Stop talking.”
He does.
I kiss him first, because why the hell not? My lips crash into his, all teeth and urgency. He responds like he’s been waiting for this his whole damn life. His hands find my waist, pulling me against him, and I can feel the heat radiating off his body.
That Alpha scent of his—spicy and wild, like campfire smoke mixed with something dangerously addictive—wrapping around me. It’s intoxicating, making my Omega instincts flare, but I shove that down. This is just a distraction, an hour of fun, nothing more. No bonds, no packs, no complications.
I’m in control here.
He backs me toward the bed, our mouths never breaking apart, and I tug at his shirt, yanking it up over his head.
His chest is broad, inked with tattoos that look like they tell stories I don’t have time to read.
I run my nails down his skin, not gently, and he hisses against my lips, a low, playful growl that sends a thrill straight to my core.
“Easy there, tiger,” he murmurs, voice hushed but laced with that cocky grin I can feel more than see. “We’re playing nice and quiet, remember? Everyone else in this house is sleeping.”
I nip at his bottom lip, hard enough to make him groan softly. “Then shut up and make me.”
His eyes darken, that chaotic spark igniting, and he spins us, pushing me down onto the bed. The mattress is soft, piled with rumpled blankets that smell like him—earthy, masculine, with a hint of that Alpha musk that makes my body hum.
He climbs over me, knees bracketing my hips, and captures my wrists in one hand, pinning them above my head. Not too tight, but enough to make me arch up against him, testing the hold.
“Oh, you like that?” he whispers, his free hand sliding under my shirt, fingers splaying across my stomach. His touch is electric, sending sparks everywhere. “Bossy little thing, aren’t you?”
I buck my hips, grinding against the hard length of him straining through his jeans. “You have no idea. Now strip me or I’ll do it myself.”
He chuckles, low and throaty, but keeps it quiet, mindful of the house. “Patience is a virtue, babe.”
“Fuck virtue.” I twist my wrists free—surprising him—and flip us so I’m on top, straddling his waist.
His eyes widen in delight, that grin splitting his face as I peel off my own shirt, tossing it aside. My bra follows, and the cool air hits my skin, making my nipples harden. His gaze drops, hungry, and he reaches up, cupping my breasts, thumbs circling the peaks.
“Goddamn, you’re perfect,” he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. “Wild and perfect. A chaos queen.”
I lean down, my hair falling around us like a curtain, and kiss him again, tongues tangling in a messy, heated dance.
His hands roam, squeezing, teasing, and I rock against him, feeling his cock twitch beneath me.
The friction is delicious, building that ache between my legs, but it’s not enough. I need more. Now.
“Off,” I demand, fumbling with his belt buckle. He helps, lifting his hips as I yank his jeans down, along with his boxers. His cock springs free, thick and hard, curving up toward his stomach. I wrap my hand around it, stroking firmly, and he lets out a muffled curse, biting his lip to stay quiet.
“Fuck, Lola… slow down or this’ll be over too quick.”
“Where’s the fun in slow?” I tease, pumping him a few times, watching his face contort in pleasure. His hips buck into my grip, and I love the way he loses a bit of that cocky control, his breath hitching.
He grabs my hips, flipping us again with effortless strength—Alpha perks, I suppose—and pins me down, his mouth on my neck, sucking lightly. “My turn to play.”
His hands make quick work of my pants, sliding them off along with my panties.
I’m bare to him now, exposed, and the way he looks at me, like I’m a feast he can’t wait to devour, makes my clit throb.
He spreads my thighs, settling between them, and trails kisses down my body—collarbone, breasts, stomach—until his breath is hot against my core.
“Quiet now,” he warns, eyes glinting up at me mischievously. “Or I’ll have to stop.”
“Don’t you dare.” I thread my fingers through his hair, guiding him, and he dives in, tongue flicking over my clit in a way that makes me gasp.
It’s expert, teasing circles that build the pressure fast, and I bite my own fist to stifle the moan building in my throat.
His hands grip my thighs, holding me open as he laps at me, sucking gently, then harder, driving me absolutely wild.
“Oh shit, Jack…” I whisper, hips grinding against his face.
The pleasure coils tight, hot and insistent, and he doesn’t let up, adding a finger, then two, curling them inside me to hit that perfect spot.
My body tenses, the edge rushing up, and I come hard, waves crashing over me.
I clamp down on my lip, keeping the cries locked in, but a soft whimper escapes.
He kisses his way back up, smirking like the devil. “Good girl. See? Quiet can be fun.”
I pull him down for a kiss, tasting myself on his lips, and reach between us, guiding his cock to my entrance. “Your turn to be good. Fuck me like you mean it.”
He pushes in slowly at first, inch by inch, stretching me deliciously. We both groan softly, the sound mingling in the dim room. He’s big, filling me completely, and once he’s buried deep, he pauses, forehead against mine, breathing ragged.
“You feel incredible,” he murmurs, starting to move with slow thrusts that build to a rhythm, wild but controlled. I wrap my legs around him, meeting every push with a roll of my hips, our bodies slamming together in hushed intensity.