Chapter 69 Tension Rising
Tension Rising
Sara wakes earlier than usual. She creeps to the bathroom, quietly brushes her teeth, and takes a quick shower.
Once she dries off and throws on some clothes, she heads downstairs.
With each creak of the staircase, she pauses and looks down the hall, waiting for Jaxon’s door to open.
To her surprise, it doesn’t—and she makes it down to the living room.
With last night still very present in her mind, she decides to make a big breakfast instead of watching TV.
One—so they all can eat. Two—it’ll distract her from the ache clawing through her chest and between her thighs.
Sara can’t stop replaying the conversation she and Jaxon had on the porch, or the near-kiss that felt like the earth shifted beneath them.
The way he opened up, the way his eyes saw through her.
There was nothing casual about it. Nothing safe.
It was raw. Deep. Laced with something dangerously close to devotion.
He is the perfect man. And this? This could be the perfect life.
The thoughts linger—flickers of need crawling up her spine as her hands start moving in the kitchen. She talks to herself like a woman trying to stay grounded, trying to drown temptation in the sound of her own voice.
“I could have all of this. All I have to do is give in… just let go.”
Each time she tries to shake it off, that almost kiss comes rushing back like a slap and a caress all at once. A reminder. A whisper. A dare.
She shakes her head. “Bacon. Eggs. Grits,” she mutters like a mantra. Like a lifeline.
Sara grabs the pot for the grits like she’s reaching for him—slow, intentional, already aching in the center of her body.
Her fingers curl around the handle, but it’s not metal she feels.
It’s him. Thick, warm, twitching in her grip.
She sets it on the stove like she’s laying him down—exposed, pulsing, hers.
Her thighs clench before she even turns the burner on.
The cabinet clicks shut behind her, but her body doesn’t move. It’s already buzzing, wound tight and humming with every memory Jaxon ever burned into her skin. She breathes slow, tries to focus, but her focus slips right down between her legs, where need has already soaked through.
The burner ignites with a flick and a flare—just like him.
The heat licks up her arms, across her neck, settling over her chest like a weighted blanket of lust. In her head, it’s his mouth on her skin.
His breath on her neck. His voice—low and possessive—murmuring don’t fucking move.
The flame steadies. So does her pulse. It’s the kind of slow burn that promises ruin.
She pulls the bacon and eggs from the fridge and lays them out on the counter like sacrifices.
Her hands tremble slightly. Her body buzzes louder.
Every strip of bacon is a command. Every egg is a promise.
She doesn’t need a priest—she needs Jaxon on his knees behind her, pushing her forward while she pretends to cook through the sound of her own moans.
The grits go in next—dry to start, but once they hit the water, they thicken with each slow stir.
Pulse by pulse. Her wrist circles the spoon like she’s grinding down on him.
The bubbling is obscene—thick and wet and suggestive.
Just like her thoughts. Just like the mess already clinging between her thighs.
Then the bacon hits the pan. The hiss is so sharp it makes her gasp.
It sounds like a moan. Like the echo of her ass slapping against Jaxon’s thighs, over and over, fast and frenzied.
She hears it, feels it—the way he should pull her down on him, demanding more, harder, deeper.
The crackle of grease becomes a rhythm—his hips, her whimpers, the slap of skin on skin in a dark room where no one is allowed to be gentle.
She reaches for the eggs and cracks them hard.
One after another. The yolks spill out, golden and slick, and her breath catches because it would be the way she leaks after he finishes inside her.
She stares at the bowl, the mess of it, and her whole body throbs.
Her grip on the whisk tightens, brutal and unrelenting, like it’s not eggs she’s beating—it’s Jaxon’s cock in her fist. Her wrist moves faster.
Tighter. Like she’s kneeling in front of him, stroking him with both hands while he fists her hair and growls that he’s going to come down her throat.
The eggs hit the pan and the sizzle is sinful. Wet. Loud. Filthy. She pictures him dragging her shorts down mid-stir, bending her over the stove and slipping two fingers inside her like he owns the right to every wet, trembling part of her body. No warning. No permission. Just him—there. Always.
She grabs the tongs, but her mind’s gone.
It’s not bacon she’s flipping—it’s herself.
Bent over. Pulled apart. Jaxon behind her, teeth at her neck, hands on her thighs, voice low and dark while he whispers exactly how many ways he plans to break her.
She clenches around nothing. Her body’s begging and he’s not even in the room.
The stovetop is fire, but it’s nothing compared to the blaze rolling beneath her skin.
She stirs the grits again, slower this time, circles widening.
Every movement mimics the way she rides him—hips rolling, muscles tight, his hands bruising her waist as she begs for more.
She moans under her breath. The air is thick, her knees weak, her panties ruined.
The grease pops behind her. It sounds like a slap.
She pictures him flipping her over. Face-down.
Ass-up. One hand in her hair, the other on her spine, pushing her into the mattress while he fucks her like it’s his right.
She bites her lip and breathes through it—but the heat, the smell, the sound—it’s all too much.
The kitchen is soaked in sex.
Every scent. Every motion. Every sound is laced in lust. The eggs aren’t eggs—they’re moans. The bacon isn’t meat—it’s friction. The grits aren’t grits—they’re the mess she makes when he tells her to be good and she fucking tries.
She can practically taste him—salt and sin and something so dark and addictive it would ruin her for anything else. The only thing keeping her upright is the promise of the plate in front of her and the fantasy clawing at the edges of her sanity.
A few more minutes and the bacon will be done.
So will she.
Suddenly, Jaqueline turns the corner into the kitchen.
Sara flinches, startled—her face flushed, her heart caught in her throat like guilt and desire mixed in one.
“Good morning,” Sara says, voice cracking like her composure.
“Good morning. Where’s Daddy?”
“I think he’s still asleep. How about you go wake him up?”
Jaqueline scurries off to go wake her dad, leaving Sara standing in the kitchen alone with her pulse still pounding from everything she just imagined. The silence hums around her like a secret. The kind you can’t admit out loud—but one that lives under your skin.
Between the memory of last night’s almost-kiss and the erotic storm of thoughts she barely managed to survive while making breakfast, Sara knows this morning is going to be anything but easy.
Upstairs, Jaqueline bursts through Jaxon’s bedroom door and launches herself onto the bed.
"Good morning, Daddy! It’s time to wake up!"
Jaxon groans softly, rolling over with a sleepy smile. "Good morning, baby. How did you sleep?"
"I slept well! Breakfast is ready."
He rubs his eyes, her words sinking in like warmth. Breakfast. From Sara.
"Okay. Let me get ready, and I’ll be down."
As she scampers off, he lies there for a second longer. This is the life I’ve always dreamed of. A daughter who loves me. A woman downstairs who made breakfast. But that hope curdles with the memory of last night—when vulnerability met silence, when his kiss was met with a retreat.
Breakfast turns out to be more strained than any of them expected.
Jaxon and Sara keep to themselves. No small talk. No apologies. Just carefully placed glances and the occasional nod. The air is thick with tension—like they’re both afraid to breathe too deep or say too much. Only Jaqueline’s chatter keeps things from completely unraveling.
"After breakfast, I have to run to the hardware store," Jaxon says.
"Can I go, Daddy?"
"Of course. After that, we’ll stop by the Shoppe."
"What’s the Shoppe?" Jaqueline asks, curiosity sparkling in her voice.
"Ice cream," he replies with a grin.
"Can you come too?" she turns to Sara with wide, hopeful eyes.
Sara nods, smiling despite the ache still sitting on her chest. "If you want me to, then yes."
"Yay! Family ice cream day!"
The words hit them both like a sucker punch wrapped in cotton candy. Family. That word shouldn’t hurt. But it does.
Jaxon and Sara lock eyes—an unspoken agreement to push everything aside. For today. For Jaqueline.
"Why don’t you go change out of your pajamas?" Sara says gently.
Jaqueline bolts upstairs, and the second her feet hit the second floor, the emotional damn between Jaxon and Sara cracks.
"Jaxon, about last night—"
"Don’t worry about it," he interrupts coldly.
"No. I want you to know—"
"You don’t have to explain. I misread signals that weren’t there."
"You didn’t misread anything—"
"Look, Sara. Let’s just forget it ever happened. No point in stirring anything up when you’re leaving soon."
He gets up, his plate scraping loudly against the table as he walks to the sink.
"Damnit, Jaxon. Don’t walk away when we’re finally talking."
He turns slowly. The way he looks at her—it’s heartbreak and fury wrapped in a stare that could burn a hole through steel.
"Conversation? There is no conversation. I get it, Sara. I was with your sister. I had a daughter with her. You loved her too, I know. We both did. But that ended years ago. She’s gone.
And you… you keep pulling me in, then shoving me back like I’m some kind of test you’re not sure you want to pass. "
"It’s not that simple—"
"Yes, it is," he snaps. "You want to talk storms? Fine. This house—this porch, these walls—they don’t run from storms. They stand through them. They anchor. They survive. And if you want something—if you feel something—you fight like hell to keep it. You don’t run every time thunder rolls."
And with that, he walks out, leaving Sara frozen, breath caught in her throat.
Her chest aches.
She isn’t crying—but God, she wants to. Because just like he wasn’t really talking about the house, she wasn’t really talking about the storm. And somehow, without even meaning to, he said everything she needed to hear.
The ride to town is filled with just enough small talk to keep Jaqueline smiling, and just enough silence to keep Jaxon and Sara hurting.
But the moment they walk into the Shoppe—into that cozy, pastel-coated world of sugar and innocence—something shifts. Laughter starts to win.
Jaxon holds the door for them like a gentleman from a forgotten time. The owner greets them like old friends. Jaqueline orders first—super chocolate chunk in a waffle cone, same as her dad. Sara settles for a double-scooped strawberry, though she barely tastes it.
Because the real sweetness? It’s not in the cone.
It’s in the way Jaqueline beams up at Jaxon. It’s in the way Jaxon steals a fingerful of Sara’s ice cream and smears it across her cheek. It’s in the way she pretends to be mad, but can’t stop laughing.
For a brief, beautiful moment, they are a family. A messy, imperfect, maybe-just-for-today kind of family.
And for Sara, that might be the most terrifying and perfect thing of all.