6. JACKSON
JACKSON
I wake before the alarm the way I always do. Five-forty-three, according to the clock on my nightstand. Seventeen minutes early, which puts me exactly where I expected to be.
What I didn't expect was the body next to me.
Jamie sleeps curled on her side, facing away, one hand tucked under the pillow and the other stretched toward my side of the bed. Her hair spreads across the pillowcase in a mess of brown waves that catch what little light filters through the blinds.
She takes up maybe a quarter of the mattress — less space than my duffel bag when I pack for deployment — but somehow the bed feels smaller with her in it. Tighter. Like she's rearranged the dimensions just by being here.
Three nights. That's how long she's been sleeping in my bed, and already I can't remember what it looked like empty.
The apartment smells different. Not bad different — different like sugar and butter have moved in permanently. Yesterday she made something called brown butter madeleines, which required her to stand at the stove stirring a pan for ten minutes until the butter turned the color of hazelnuts.
The smell is still here, baked into the walls. My kitchen counters have things on them now — mixing bowls, measuring cups, a stand mixer that takes up half the available space.
My cabinets hold ingredients I couldn't spell without her help.
I shift onto my elbow and look at her properly. The sheet has slipped down to her waist, and even in the dim light I can see the fullness in her breasts. She's due.
The four-hour window hit sometime in the last half hour, and her body is telling me so whether she's awake to feel it or not.
I could let her sleep another twenty minutes. Set her alarm, let her handle it when she's ready.
I reach for her instead.
My hand settles on her hip, thumb tracing the curve where her waist dips in. She stirs but doesn't wake, just pushes back into the touch. Her skin is warm and soft and I can feel the moment she surfaces — not fully awake but aware enough to know it's me touching her.
"Hey."
She makes a sound that isn't quite words, something between a hum and a question. Her eyes stay closed.
"You're full."
"Mmm." She rolls toward me, slow and sleepy, and her hand finds my chest. "What time?"
"Early. Before my alarm."
She blinks up at me, her eyes still heavy with sleep. "You have to go to work today."
"In a while."
"Jackson." She says my name like she's tasting it, trying to decide if she's awake enough for conversation. "I can handle it myself if you need to get ready."
I lean down and kiss her forehead, then the bridge of her nose. "I know you can."
That settles it. She doesn't argue, doesn't insist on doing it herself.
Three days ago she would have. Three days ago she was fumbling with a broken pump in my bathroom, crying from pain and embarrassment.
Now she just shifts onto her back and pulls the sheet down, offering herself to me like this is what mornings are for.
Maybe it is.
The rough stubble of my jaw scrapes a faint pink path down the smooth valley between her breasts, and the contrast makes my cock twitch against the sheet.
She smells like warm linen and the faint trace of vanilla extract that still clings to her from yesterday’s baking, a sweet, almost edible haze that mixes with the deeper, sleep-musk scent rising from her skin.
My tongue traces the delicate skin just beneath her collarbone first, savoring the way her pulse jumps there, rapid and alive.
When my lips finally close around her nipple, the first hot rush of milk floods my mouth, thick and faintly sweet, like warm cream laced with sugar.
A low groan vibrates in my chest before I can stop it. She isn’t just leaking; she’s overflowing, the pressure so built up that it spurts against the back of my tongue with every pull.
Her entire body reacts like I’ve flipped a switch: a shudder rolls through her small frame, toes curling against my calf, and that sleepy little sigh escapes her lips again, only this time it fractures into something raw and needy.
God, the taste of her, the knowledge that I’m the one draining this ache from her body, settles deep in my gut like a claim.
My cock is so hard it hurts, trapped between my stomach and the mattress, leaking steadily against the cotton. I still can’t get enough of how her tits feel heavier in the morning, how the veins stand out faintly under the pale skin when she’s this engorged.
I suck harder, swallowing every drop, and her fingers tighten in my hair, not directing, just anchoring herself while her back bows off the bed.
Her other nipple is already beading, a thin white trail sliding down the curve of her breast. I switch sides with a wet pop, latching on immediately, and her thighs fall open.
The scent of her arousal blooms between us, sharp and feminine. My free hand maps downward, catching on the soft give of her belly before I reach the slick heat between her legs.
She’s drenched, folds swollen and slippery, clit already pebbled and begging.
The moment two thick fingers sink into her tight cunt, her walls clamp down greedily, fluttering around the intrusion. A broken moan tears from her throat, louder than she probably meant it to be, and her hips jerk up to meet my hand, chasing the stretch.
I can feel how close she already is, the way her inner muscles ripple and squeeze, milking my fingers the same way her breasts are still leaking against my tongue.
“Jackson.” Her voice cracks on my name, half plea, half prayer.
I lift my head just enough to see her face, flushed crimson, lips wet and parted, green eyes glassy with overwhelming sensation.
“I know,” I rasp against her damp skin, voice rough from everything I’m holding back. “I know exactly what you need.”
My mouth returns to her breast, sucking deep pulls that make obscene, wet sounds in the quiet room while my fingers curl inside her, stroking that spongy spot that makes her sob.
She’s trembling, thighs shaking around my wrist, every shallow breath carrying a tiny whimper that goes straight to my balls.
The possessiveness surges through me, hot and territorial. She’s mine to unravel like this, mine to taste and fill and soothe. Every drop of milk, every drip of her slick, every helpless sound belongs to me now.
And I’m nowhere near done with her.
The words slip out low against the curve of her breast, my breath dragging hot over the damp, flushed skin that still beads with tiny pearls of milk. “Look at you. Can barely hold still because you’re dripping for your stepdad, can you?”
Jamie’s throat closes around a broken sound—half my name, half raw begging. Her fingers twist tighter in my hair, yanking hard enough that the sting shoots straight down my spine and settles heavy in my balls.
Every shallow pant she takes fills my lungs with the sweet, coppery scent of her leaking breasts mixed with the thicker musk rising between her thighs.
It’s filthy. It’s mine.
I crook two thick fingers deeper into her soaked heat, feeling the slick, velvet walls flutter and grip like she’s already trying to pull me all the way inside. “So fucking ready. Every damn morning.”
“Please.” The word fractures on her tongue.
“Please what?” I drag my thumb over her swollen clit just to watch her hips jerk again, chasing friction she can’t control.
Her green eyes lock on mine, pupils blown wide, lashes wet. “I want you inside me.” The confession spills out desperate and shaking. “Please, Jackson. I need my stepdad’s cock.”
The raw hunger in her voice punches the air out of my lungs. I crawl up her trembling body, careful not to crush her small frame beneath my bulk, even though every muscle screams to pin her down and rut.
She’s so tiny underneath me that her arms have to stretch fully just to hook around my shoulders. Her thighs splay obscenely wide to make room for my hips, the soft inner skin quivering against the coarse hair on my legs.
I notch the fat head of my cock against her dripping entrance, feeling her pussy kiss and flutter around me like it’s starving.
I push in slow, inch by inch, savoring the scorching, silky drag as her body yields. Her eyes flutter shut, lashes casting shadows on flushed cheeks.
Her mouth falls open on a silent cry that eventually tears free—relief and raw pleasure braided so tight it vibrates through my chest. The wet, obscene sound of her cunt swallowing me fills the quiet apartment, louder than the distant hum of traffic outside.
“There you go,” I rasp, voice scraped raw. Only halfway buried and she’s already shaking, inner muscles rippling in frantic waves. “That’s my girl.”
Jamie’s eyes open again, glassy and wondering, like she still can’t believe the sheer size of me stretching her open.
The disbelief in her gaze twists something deep and possessive behind my ribs. She looks at me like I’m both salvation and sin, and fuck if that doesn’t make me throb harder inside her.
“Your girl,” she whispers, the words barely audible over the wet suck of flesh meeting flesh.
“My girl.” I sink the last few inches until my hips press flush against her, until I bottom out and feel the mouth of her cervix kiss the tip of my cock. She gasps, a sharp, punched-out sound that makes my balls draw tight. “In my bed. Every morning.”
“Every morning,” she echoes, voice cracking as her walls clamp down around the thick invasion, milking me in helpless spasms.
Then words dissolve. I rock into her with long, deliberate strokes that drag every ridge and vein along her most sensitive places.
No rush. I’ve got a full hour before I need to leave for work, and I refuse to waste a second of it. This is ours—the slow glide of my cock stretching her open, the wet slap of skin, the way her smaller body arches and trembles beneath my weight.
Her hair spills across my pillow, sticking to the sweat at her temples.
“So good,” she breathes against the side of my neck, lips brushing the hammering pulse there. “You feel so fucking good.”
I tilt my head and claim her mouth, swallowing the desperate little moans that keep trying to escape. She tastes like sleep-warmed skin, the lingering sweetness of her own milk, and something that is only Jamie—bright and addictive.
Her legs lock around my waist, heels digging into the small of my back, pulling me impossibly deeper. The new angle makes her cry out into my mouth, the sound vibrating against my tongue.
“Shh,” I murmur, even though the apartment is empty and silent except for us. My lips brush her ear. “I’ve got you.”
I do. In every way that counts, she belongs to me now. The woman who curls up in my sheets every night. The woman whose experimental desserts crowd my fridge with their sticky-sweet aromas. The woman who leaves flour handprints on my counter and measuring spoons in my sink.
The woman whose body I’ve mapped with my tongue and fingers and cock—every sensitive inch, every place that makes her sob or laugh or beg.
I shift my weight onto one forearm, reach between our slick bodies, and find her clit with the pad of my thumb. She’s right there—I can feel it in the frantic fluttering around my cock, the way her breathing fractures into tiny, needy whimpers that make my spine tingle.
“Come on,” I growl against her lips, voice low and rough. “Come for me.”
Her whole body snaps tight. Nails rake down my back, leaving burning trails that only spur me on. Her pussy locks down in pulsing, rhythmic waves, milking my cock so hard my vision sparks at the edges.
The wet heat of her release floods around me, dripping down to soak my balls. I bury my face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin and sweat and spent pleasure, and let myself shatter.
Thick ropes of come surge into her, pulse after pulse, until I’m empty and she’s overflowing. The obscene sound of it—wet, filthy, ours—echoes in my ears as I keep rocking through the aftershocks, grinding every last drop deep where it belongs.
For a long moment we just breathe together, her body soft and pliant beneath mine. The morning light is stronger now, casting everything in warm gold, and I can see dust motes dancing in the air above us.
She traces lazy patterns on my back with her fingertips. "I could get used to mornings like this."
"Good." I roll onto my side and pull her with me, keeping her close. "Because this is what mornings look like now."
She smiles, sleepy and satisfied, and curls into me. Her head fits perfectly in the hollow of my shoulder, like she was made to be there.
"I should let you get ready for work," she says, but she doesn't move.
"In a minute."
"Jackson."
"I'll be home by lunch."
She lifts her head to look at me. "You don't have to come home just for?—"
"I'll be home by lunch," I repeat, and the conversation is over. I have a meeting at nine, paperwork that'll take most of the morning, and a briefing at two. Somewhere in between, I'm coming home to put my mouth on her breasts because she'll need it and because I want to.
She studies my face for a long second, green eyes soft and searching. Whatever she finds there makes her smile widen, small and secret, before she tucks herself back against my chest.
Outside, I can hear the first stirrings of the neighborhood waking up — cars starting, doors closing, the distant sound of someone walking their dog.
Soon my alarm will go off and I'll have to get up, shower, get dressed, drive to work and pretend to care about anything other than the woman in my bed.
But not yet.
What a way to start the day.