19. Greta
GRETA
Idon’t know why I rush around the house fluffing the row of tan and gold sofa pillows, arranging flowers in a vase to add a pop of color, and spritzing citrus scents throughout the rooms.
This isn’t the Wild Hair clubhouse. It’s a typical two-story with a big beige living room, khaki kitchen, and neutral decor that wouldn’t offend a soul.
I climb to the first landing, suddenly realizing I’ve been space-blind and there are still wedding pictures of me and Jude on the walls. I rapidly jerk them down and stash them in the closet of the spare bedroom to hang out with rest of Jude’s things that haven’t migrated to his apartment yet.
How could I have missed those? I guess it didn’t matter enough.
I return to the hall, frowning. The walls have gaps, a faint ghost of the missing pictures giving me away.
I race back to the guest room and pull down generic flower paintings to throw on the nails to take up the space.
The arrangement looks haphazard and unbalanced, but I’m out of time. The telltale roar of a motorcycle tickles my ears, growing louder as it approaches.
He’s here.
I rush to Caden’s room, which looks out over the front lawn.
Iron Jack is a dark figure on his motorcycle, racing up the street between the crisp white lawns blanketed in iced-over snow.
The streets are clear and dry, a gray ribbon ushering him toward my house at the back side of the circular cul-de-sac.
My retired neighbor, Seb, pauses in shoving fake flowers in his brick planters to watch the motorcycle pass by. Yeah, this will be the talk of the neighborhood. I can already feel the message threads lighting up.
I have avoided talking to Uncle Sherman about him. Work was intense for the two days since I returned, plus school drop off and pick up, and the normal routine.
But now it’s Friday, Caden is back at Jude’s for the weekend, and Iron Jack is pulling up to my drive.
I run down the hall and hurry down the stairs, pausing at the mirror over the entry table. My hair is chaotic, so I shake it into place. The red is fading a bit, but there has been no time to have the color refreshed.
Next week, life might return to normal. Or not. I have no idea how long Iron Jack might stay. What Caden will think. What Jude might say about an MC president staying here. Or Uncle Sherman.
I can’t think about them. I’m just glad he’s here. This is about me.
I don’t wait for him to knock, but open the door wide. He’s parked on the drive near the garage door.
He doesn’t notice me as he unhooks a small black bag from the rear of his bike.
I step out onto the brick porch and lean against the white column.
Finally, he looks toward the house and sees me. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”
I hope I am. I grasp a fistful of the flowing skirt of my icy blue dress and lift it like I’m about to curtsy.
But he’s there in several long, quick steps, dropping the bag and drawing me into his arms.
His kiss is feverish. I wrap my arms around his neck and surrender to it. He tastes like strong black coffee and smells like leather and the outdoors. But underneath those things is something familiar, a sensory combination of warmth, strength, power, and dominance I didn’t realize I already knew.
His kiss gets darker, more insistent. I fall into it, ready for whatever it holds. His mouth moves to my ear. “Caden at school?”
“Yes.”
He sweeps me up into his arms and opens the door, not bothering to pick up his bag. He kicks the door closed and walks to the closest thing he sees, the wood stairs with a carpeted runner.
He sets me down on them, looming over me like a storm, his mouth on mine, his hands everywhere, reacquainting himself with my shoulders, breasts, waist, and hips.
Then my skirt is up and out of the way, and my panties are coming down.
“I’m starving,” he says and spreads my knees.
I want to quip, “Well, hello to you, too,” but I’m already lost, my head falling back on one of the cushioned stairs. Ten years I’ve lived in the house, and nothing like this has ever happened to me.
His hands grip my thighs as his mouth takes me in, as hot as the kisses on the porch but more urgent, his tongue sliding along my skin, then inside me.
“Jack!”
He’s relentless, teasing me, then diving more deeply, bringing it back to a gentle stroke, then surprising me with a sudden sharp sucking that sends lightning bolts through me.
I want a mirror over us so I can watch, but I close my eyes to feel everything, his fingers on my skin, his hair tickling my belly, and each burst of pleasure flying from where he works me.
He snakes a hand over my dress, feeling his way up to the generous neckline and sliding it off my shoulder.
The bra strap goes with it, and he tugs on the top until one breast is exposed.
He holds it firmly for a moment, as if it’s long lost and he needs to remind himself of its size and shape.
Then he tweaks the nipple and the zipping of pleasure flows both ways, down from his hands and up from his mouth.
I want everything. This. More of this. The next thing. Whatever comes after that. I’m both in the moment and anticipating the next. No matter how far apart Jack and I might be in lifestyle, upbringing, and mindset, this is where we come together. He understands what I need. He delivers.
My voice echoes on the narrow walls of the stairwell above me. I’m back in that airy space where only Jack sends me. I’m connected to everything, myself, him, the world around me, the vast expanse of the universe.
He’s a dark god of this realm, and I feel that wildness emerging, the one that had me naked and bearing a blade in a forest. Bailey once told me that Marietta goes wild in the Leaky Skull and nobody understands it.
But maybe I do now. I’m more of everything. Taking the attention. Reveling in it. Demanding more.
The orgasm goes on so long that my legs start to shake. Iron Jack lets go of the breast to support both my thighs. I sink into it a little longer, my belly pulsing, shivers running up my body in a steady thrum.
But then I want it hard and dark, so I reach up and shove his shoulders. I’m up in a flash and pushing him onto the stairs, unbuckling his belt and dragging down the zipper to his black jeans.
He leans back on his elbows, watching me with a hooded expression. “Take everything you want, Greta.”
I reach inside his black boxers and pull out the long extension of his cock. It’s glorious in the light of my bright foyer, veined and purple and thick.
I can’t decide if I want it in my mouth or my body, but there is all the time for both, so I lean down to wrap my lips around the shaft.
His skin twitches as I work him. For a moment, I almost catch myself. What am I doing here in my house, full of debauchery? But I force it away. I want him here.
I lift my long, full skirt and twist it out of the way. My knees fit on either side of him as I hover over his body, then lower myself down.
He fills me so completely that I forget anything else and simply move, up, down, around. I find the spots I want for myself and work them, keeping the pace light so I can enjoy the moment before the darkness takes over again.
I let go of the skirt, and it settles around us like a veil. Iron Jack holds his position, allowing me to do what I want, his hands opening and closing in fists like he’s holding back from what he’d like to do to me.
I don’t intend to pick up the pace, but my body has a mind of its own. I brace both hands on Iron Jack’s shoulders. He lets me lead a little longer, then that’s it, he’s all over me, jerking the dress down to my waist, my nipple in his mouth.
His body lunges up and into me in wild, chaotic strokes.
I lose my grip on directions, not sure what is up or down. It’s just us, colliding and separating, frantic and desperate.
“Come for me again, Greta,” Jack says, his mouth still on my breast. “I want to hear the echo of your cries.”
His hands move to my hips and grind me down on him. I feel every texture, his jeans against my inner thighs, the belt buckle near my knee. A patch of skin on his stomach against mine where his shirt has ridden up.
And I let loose, crying, shouting, his name, every deity, random syllables. He thrusts up into me, and everything goes warm as he releases.
I clutch at his neck, my head on his shoulder as we go still, letting our bodies continue the pulsing on their own. There’s a tempo to it, a call and response, until slowly, it all calms to only the sound of our breathing.
The urge to let out great, heaving sobs comes over me, but I manage to hold them back. I can’t be emotional, not again. He’s only here for a while. I know that. Our situation is impossible. My life, my kid. His club, his responsibilities.
I will take these moments as I get them, and I won’t get maudlin or clingy.
Jack wraps me in his arms. “My city girl. You fuck like a goddess.”
This makes me laugh. “And here I was, thinking you fucked like a dark god.”
He nuzzles into my hair. “We will rule the gods together and make them jealous of our passion.”
I smack his shoulder. “I’ve read that myth. I become someone’s fairy love slave and you get turned into a tree.”
His gaze meets mine. “My determination to get back to you would bring about the end of the world.”
“You’d destroy the earth for me? Such sweet nothings.”
He pulls me close again. “I would end time to make sure no moment with you was stolen from me.”
Maybe he is a dark god.
We hang on to each other on the stairs, the winter sun already dipping below the trees. There’s some sort of magic here. It isn’t connected to the clubhouse or being away from everything I’ve ever known.
It’s the same, here in my house.
Whatever is happening between us isn’t giving in or giving up.