4. JACKSON #2
"This looks incredible," she says, taking a bite of her risotto like she's not currently running her toes along my inner calf. "How's your steak?"
I cut into it. Blood pools on the plate—exactly the right amount for medium rare. "Fine."
"Just fine? It looks perfect."
Her foot reaches my knee and keeps climbing. I take another bite, chewing slowly, letting her think she's winning whatever game she started. But I'm watching her face, cataloging every micro-expression, every tell that gives away how much she's enjoying this.
She's enjoying it a lot.
"Tell me more about your family," she says, like she's not currently trying to undo me under the table. "Do you have siblings?"
"One brother. Younger."
"Is he military too?"
"Marines."
"Competitive family." Her foot slides higher, and I have to grip my knife tighter to keep my hand steady. "Do you see them often?"
"Holidays."
"That's nice. I bet your mom loves having both her boys home for Christmas."
Her foot finds the inside of my thigh, and something shifts in her expression. The playfulness flickers, replaced by something else. She blinks, once, and her hand goes to her chest—quick and subtle, but I catch it.
The game stops.
"How bad?" I ask, my voice dropping low.
"It's fine." She tries to smile, but there's tension around her eyes now. "I can wait until we get home."
"You're not waiting."
I'm already signaling for the check, but the waiter is across the room helping another table. Jamie's breathing has changed—still controlled, but I can see the effort it takes.
"Jackson, really, it's?—"
I stand and pull out my wallet, dropping enough cash on the table to cover dinner and a generous tip. Then I take her hand and help her to her feet.
"Where are we going?"
"Bathroom."
"We can't—this is a nice restaurant."
"I don't care."
I guide her through the dining room, one hand on the small of her back. The bathroom is at the far end of the restaurant, past the bar and down a short hallway. Single occupancy, which is exactly what I need.
The door closes behind us with a solid click, and I turn the lock.
"Jackson—"
"Come here."
She moves toward me, and I can see the discomfort in the way she holds herself, the tension in her shoulders. Her breasts are fuller than they were an hour ago, straining against the fabric of her dress.
"How long have you been uncomfortable?"
"Since the woman came to the table." She looks up at me, embarrassed. "I think the stress triggered it early."
"The stress?"
"Watching her touch you. Watching her look at you like—" She stops, shaking her head. "Never mind."
"Like what?"
"Like she wanted to eat you alive."
The honesty in her voice, the admission that seeing another woman touch me affected her physically, sends heat straight through me. I reach for the zipper at the back of her dress.
"Turn around."
The zipper teeth separate with a low, deliberate rasp under my fingers, each inch revealing another sliver of her pale skin.
The dress slips from her shoulders like it's surrendering, sliding down to bunch at her narrow waist and leaving her exposed in nothing but delicate lace that barely contains her.
My throat tightens, mouth suddenly parched at the sight of those full, straining breasts—swollen tight with milk, the skin stretched glossy and flushed, veins faintly blue beneath the surface.
Her nipples have deepened to a dusky rose, pebbled and leaking the faintest beads of cream that glisten under the harsh bathroom lights.
I peel the bra away and set it on the cool marble counter. The weight of her breasts fills my palms immediately—heavy, fever-hot, the skin so taut it feels like satin stretched over liquid warmth.
She whimpers, the sound raw and needy, vibrating straight down my spine to pulse in my aching cock.
"Please."
The word barely leaves her lips before I duck my head, pressing my mouth to the delicate curve where neck meets shoulder. I trail lower, lips brushing the upper swell of one breast before I close them around the stiff peak.
The first firm suck draws a sharp cry from her that echoes off the tiled walls. Thick, warm sweetness floods my tongue, sweet as warm honey with a creamy undertone that makes my head spin.
I swallow greedily, feeling her body melt against mine as the painful pressure eases from her chest. Her small hands fist in my shirt, tugging me closer while soft, broken sounds spill from her throat with every rhythmic pull.
Switching to the other breast, I lave the neglected nipple with my tongue first, savoring the way it tightens further under the wet heat. She arches hard, grinding against the rigid line of my erection trapped behind my fly.
The friction is maddening, her heat radiating through the fabric, and the mirror throws every detail back at us—her tiny frame dwarfed by my bulk, head lolling back, my dark head bent to devour her while one massive hand kneads the soft flesh of her hip to hold her steady.
I pull back just enough to meet her gaze. Her green eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide with a mixture of relief and raw, filthy hunger that has nothing to do with easing her body's demands anymore.
The air between us feels thicker, charged with the wet sounds of my mouth and the rapid beat of her breathing.
"Better?"
"Much." Her voice comes out husky, almost slurred, but that desperate edge sharpens it.
Still, the way she's staring at me now—lips parted, cheeks flushed deep pink—tells me the ache has shifted lower, burning between her thighs.
She's rocking subtly against the hard ridge of my cock, seeking pressure, and the sight of her doing it while milk still shines on her swollen breasts nearly undoes me.
The scent of her arousal cuts through the sweetness in the air, musky and sweet, making my balls draw up tight.
"What do you want?"
"You know what I want." The words tremble out of her, half plea, half demand, her hips rolling again in a slow, deliberate grind that drags a groan from deep in my chest.
I do know. It's written all over her face, in the way her thighs press together and her nipples tighten impossibly further under my gaze. I can feel it in every restless shift of her body against mine, the way her soaked panties must be clinging to her slick folds.
But hearing her say it, hearing that sweet voice shape the filthy request while she watches us, is a need that claws at me harder than my own throbbing arousal.
My fingers tighten on her hip, possessive, as I wait. The bathroom air feels alive against my overheated skin, every shallow breath she takes brushing warm across my forearm where it bands around her.
I want to bury myself so deep inside her that she forgets every other touch she's ever known. The thought coils tight in my gut, dark and hungry, while her green eyes beg me from the glass without saying another word.
"Tell me."
"I want you inside me."
The belt buckle gives way under my fingers with a low metallic click that cuts through the humid hush of the bathroom. Zipper teeth part next, and when I pull my cock free, thick and aching, the cool air hits the overheated skin like a shock.
Jamie’s breath catches—a raw, broken sound that’s equal parts relief and raw hunger. Her green eyes track every inch of me in the mirror, pupils blown wide.
“Turn around. Face the mirror. Spread your legs.”
The words leave me gravel-rough. She obeys instantly, small hands planting on the counter as she widens her stance. The movement makes her short dress ride higher up those smooth thighs.
I hook a finger under the soaked edge of her panties and drag the fabric aside. Her pussy glistens, lips swollen and flushed dark pink, arousal already dripping down the inside of one thigh.
The sweet, musky scent of her fills the tight space between us, making my mouth water. When I drag two fingers through her slippery folds, parting them, she shudders hard enough that her knees nearly buckle.
“Look at yourself.”
Our eyes lock in the glass. Hers are glassy, desperate; mine are black with need. I notch the blunt head of my cock against her entrance and push forward in one slow, relentless glide.
The tight, scorching grip of her virgin walls stretches around me, fluttering and resisting before yielding. Her lips part on a silent cry, jaw slack, cheeks flooding with color. I have to brace one big hand on the counter beside hers to keep from slamming home too fast and hurting her.
“God, my stepdaughter’s pussy is tight.”
The confession slips out low and filthy. I start to move, long, dragging strokes that let me feel every ripple of her inner muscles. Her breasts bounce heavily with each thrust, nipples stiff and leaking tiny beads of warm milk.