5. Jarvis #2
He does it, pressing her forward until her palms are flat on the leather seat and her back arches.
He grinds against her from behind, and I can see the thick outline of him straining against his jeans.
He's not inside her yet—we're saving that—but he slides against her, teasing through the thin fabric of her dress and whatever she's wearing underneath, and her moan echoes through the empty room.
"I'll never get enough of you," Jett whispers against her ear. His hand rests around her throat without squeezing. "Every time I think I've had my fill, you give me more. I'm addicted to you, to this, to everything you are."
She whimpers. Her hips push back against him, seeking friction, and Jett gives it to her. Slow, deliberate rolls of his hips that make her gasp.
"Jarvis," she says. It is not a question. It is a plea.
I walk toward them with measured, controlled steps, but inside I'm anything but calm. I'm fire and need and the kind of want that doesn't ask permission.
"Spread her wider," I say. My voice is low.
Jett grips her hips and pulls her back, spreading her legs with his knee as her dress rides up to reveal the wetness soaking through her panties. She's always soaked for us.
"Let him hear you," I tell her. "No holding back. This room is ours. This restaurant is ours. And right now, I want to hear what he does to you."
Jett slides against her again, harder this time, and she cries out. The sound bounces off the walls.
I reach them and stand to the side, watching her face. Her eyes are glazed, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed pink. She looks wrecked, and we haven't even started.
"Please," she whispers.
"Please what?"
"Please touch me. Both of you. I need... I need..."
I know what she needs.
I lift her easily, and she gasps as I turn her and set her on the bar—the same bar where I reviewed profit margins this morning and where she ate Thai food with her whole body. Now she's sitting there with her legs spread and her dress bunched around her waist, and I'm going to ruin her on it.
Jett moves to her side. He holds her knee, spreading her wider. I kneel in front of her, my face level with her core, and I look up at her.
"Watch me," I say. "Don't look away."
I pull her panties to the side. She is pink and swollen and glistening, and the scent of her makes my mouth water. I lean in and lick her from bottom to top, slow and thorough, and she screams. Her hands fly to my hair, gripping tight, and Jett catches her wrists.
"Let him taste you," Jett says. He holds her arms above her head, pinned together with one of his big hands. "Let Daddy drink his fill."
The word makes her shudder. I feel it against my tongue.
I close my mouth around her clit and suck, hard, and her whole body jerks.
She is close already. Nine days of us touching her, tasting her, feeding from her breasts, but never taking her completely.
She is wound so tight she could snap from a breath.
I pull back just enough to speak. "You are not allowed to come yet. Not until I say."
"Jarvis," she whimpers. "I can't... I can't hold it."
"You can and you will." I look up at Jett. "Lift her."
Jett slides his free arm under her back and lifts her slightly, arching her toward me. Her breasts are heavy in the dress, and I see the wet spots forming on the fabric. She's leaking, and she needs to be drained.
I tear the front of her dress open.
Buttons pop and fabric rips. She gasps but doesn't protest. She knows by now that her body is ours to access, to care for, and to use for both our pleasure and hers.
I latch onto her breast. Milk floods my mouth, sweet and thick and perfect. I suck deeply, rhythmically, my cheeks hollowing, and she sobs with relief. Jett's hand slides down her stomach, his fingers finding her clit, stroking her in tight circles while I drink from her.
"Look at you," Jett murmurs. He is watching her face, watching her fall apart. "So fucking beautiful. Our perfect little milkmaid. Giving to us even when you're falling to pieces."
She gives everything. Her milk flows into my mouth, her wetness coats Jett's fingers, and her body is a fountain of generosity that only we know how to receive.
I switch breasts without wasting a drop, drinking until she's soft and the pressure is gone, until she's limp and panting between us.
Then I go back to her core, licking and sucking and thrusting my tongue inside her while Jett holds her open, stroking her thighs, her stomach, her nipples.
She is begging now. Babbling. "Please, Daddy, please, I need you inside me, please, I can't..."
"Not yet," I growl against her flesh. "Not until you're ready. Not until we say."
"I am ready," she cries. "I've been ready. Please..."
I look up at her. Her face is flushed, her eyes wild, her hair falling out of its knot. She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
"Come," I command. "Now."
I seal my mouth over her clit and suck hard. Jett pinches her nipple. She shatters.
Her scream is so loud I am glad the restaurant is empty.
It is a sound of pure, violent release, of a dam breaking after years of pressure.
Her hips buck against my face. Her hands, still pinned by Jett, twist in his grip.
She comes and she comes, and I do not stop licking her until she is twitching, oversensitive, trying to close her legs.
Jett releases her wrists, and she collapses back onto the bar with her chest heaving and her ruined dress falling open.
I stand up, my cock hard and aching against my zipper, but I ignore it.
This isn't about my release—it's about hers, about marking this space, about making sure every room in this building carries the memory of what we did to her.
Jett kisses her slow and deep, tasting her on his lips as she moans into his mouth. I lean down and press my lips to her forehead. "This booth, this bar, every room in this place—ours."
She nods, still too breathless for words. Good.
The next morning, the shift begins.
She is quieter at breakfast. She does not reach for the jam when I push it toward her. She stares at her eggs like they hold the answer to a question she is afraid to ask.
At the bar, she works and posts and responds to comments, but her laughter is gone. In its place is a politeness that cuts deeper than silence.
On day ten, I find her in the office, standing at the window with her arms wrapped around her own waist, holding herself together.
"Jolie," I say.
She jumps and turns with a smile that's too bright and too fast.
"Hey. I was just thinking about the lunch rush post. I think we should do a behind-the-scenes of the kitchen prep. People love that stuff."
"Come here."
She does not move. "I'm fine. Really. Just tired."
"Jolie."
My voice drops into the tone that makes grown men straighten their posture, and she flinches—not in fear, but in recognition that she can't hide from me. She walks over slowly and reluctantly, and when she's close enough, I take her hand. Her fingers are cold.
"Talk to me," I say.
"There's nothing to talk about." She looks at the floor.
"I'm just... I'm aware that this has an end date.
That's all. I should probably start thinking about where I'm going to live when I go back.
My lease in the city is month-to-month, so I can probably get back in, but I need to call my landlord and... "
I squeeze her hand.
She looks up with wet eyes, holding it back with everything she has.
"You think you're a burden," I say. It is not a question.
She pulls her hand back, a small gesture almost invisible, but I track it like a hawk.
"I don't think that," she says, her voice too high. "I know I'm not... I mean, I know this is temporary. I know what this is. It's the thirty days, the restaurant, and... it's physical. And that's fine. I just don't want to pretend it's something else and then be surprised when..."
She stops and swallows.
"When what?" I ask.
"When you get tired of me."
The words hit me like a physical blow. She's been carrying this fear since she was a child watching her mother walk out the door. And she's been waiting for us to do the same.