5. Jean
Chapter Five
JEAN
I wake, drifting back into consciousness through layers of warmth, softness, and the delicious ache of being thoroughly, completely ruined by the huge, gorgeous man next to me in bed.
Viper. Russell.
His real name feels like a secret I get to keep now. One I tasted on my tongue last night, moaned into his mouth as he moved inside me like he couldn’t get close enough. And now he’s here, wrapped around me like he never intends to let go.
I shift slightly and feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back, his arm a heavy, protective weight draped across my waist. One of his big hands is splayed over my bare stomach, fingers grazing the underside of my breast. The morning light is golden on his skin as I run my fingers over his tattooed skin.
His skin is so warm. Rough where I’m smooth. Solid where I’m soft. Every inch of him presses against me and, oh God, he’s already hard again. I bite my lip, heat blooming low in my core, as my pulse starts to race. Then his mouth brushes the back of my neck. Slow. Intentional.
“You awake, Red?” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, sliding his tongue across my skin.
“Mmm…” I press back into him, just a little. Teasing. “Seems like you are too.”
He groans against my shoulder. “Hard not to be. With you curled up all soft and sweet in my arms.”
His hand moves, slides upward, cupping my breast gently, thumb grazing over my nipple until it tightens under his touch.
I gasp, hips tilting, and he growls again.
“You’re trouble,” he mutters. “Waking me up like this.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I say breathlessly.
“You don’t have to.” He pushes the sheets down with one hand and rolls me onto my back, settling between my thighs like he belongs there. “You just exist. And it wrecks me.”
I open my mouth to say something, but he dips his head and licks a slow stripe down my throat, then lower, until his mouth is on my breast, his tongue teasing and warm.
“Yes,” I breathe, threading my fingers into his hair.
He lifts his head just enough to look at me, eyes heavy-lidded and dark.
“I want you again,” he says. “Slow this time. Deep. I want to feel every inch of you, Red. And I want to taste you first.”
“Yes,” I whisper again, legs parting for him. His tongue trails down my neck to my breasts, licking and sucking, then down my belly in slow kisses until he settles between my thighs.
He licks slowly around my clit in circles as I try to buck up off the bed. His big hands hold me exactly where he wants as he tongues my clit in a persistent, regular rhythm. I grasp the sheets, writhing, as electric pulses radiate out across my body.
“Please, I need you inside me…” I moan as the pressure builds.
All I want is to feel him filling me up, stretching me wide.
He looks up at me and grins, then adjusts his position so his body settles between my thighs, weight and heat and hardness pressing against the most sensitive part of me.
I hook my legs around his hips and arch into him, desperate to feel all of him again.
“Fuck,” he growls against my lips. “You feel like heaven.”
I smile into his kiss. “Then why are you teasing me?”
That earns me a low, dangerous chuckle. “Because I want to enjoy every second, gorgeous…”
He reaches between us, lining himself up, and I suck in a breath as the thick head of his cock pushes against my entrance. He’s so big, it makes me tremble when he starts to press in.
“Look at me,” he commands, voice rough. “I want to see your face.”
I open my eyes just as he thrusts in, slow and steady. My mouth falls open, a broken moan escaping me as he fills me up inch by inch. He watches me the entire time, eyes locked on mine, like he’s memorizing my every reaction.
“Good girl,” he groans. “You’re so fucking tight. So wet for me.”
His hips are flush against mine, and we both breathe for a second, chests heaving, bodies trembling.
And then he starts to move; slow, deep thrusts that spark every nerve ending. His hips roll just right, hitting that perfect spot with each stroke, and my fingers claw at his back, trying to anchor myself. It’s overwhelming; the pleasure, the way he watches me like I’m the only thing that exists.
“You feel so good,” I pant.
He drops his head to my shoulder, pressing kisses to my skin between gritted teeth.
“Can’t get enough of you,” he mutters. “Could stay buried in you forever.”
I gasp when he shifts the angle, his thrusts becoming a little harder, deeper, the friction building fast.
“Oh my god… don’t stop…”
“I’ve got you, baby,” he growls, sweat beading on his brow. “Come for me. Let me feel you.”
His hand slides between us, fingers finding my clit, circling with firm, expert pressure that sends me over the edge.
I come hard, crying out his name, my whole body clenching around him as the orgasm crashes through me. He growls deep in his chest, thrusts turning rough and erratic before he surges forward, spilling inside me with a deep groan. We collapse into each other, sweaty and shaking and completely spent.
He kisses my temple, my cheek, my jaw. Like he can’t stop touching me.
“Good morning,” I murmur, dazed and breathless.
He huffs a laugh, still catching his breath. “Best one I've had in fifteen years.”
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I ignore it, too blissed out to care about the outside world. Russell traces lazy patterns on my shoulder, and I'm thinking this might be the most perfect moment of my life.
The phone buzzes again like an angry hornet. And again.
“You’re very popular this morning,” Russell murmurs against my skin.
I reach over reluctantly and grab it. Seven missed calls from my mother. The latest text makes my blood run cold:
Jean, call me immediately. Your father saw yet another article about the incident. However, his colleague mentioned there’s a position open at Henriksson & Associates. In Sweden. They may not have seen the social media posts. We need to discuss your next steps NOW.
The post-orgasmic haze evaporates instantly, replaced by cold, creeping panic.
What am I doing?
I've known this man for three days. Three days, and I'm already naked in bed with him, acting like some kind of... what would my mother call it? Loose woman. The type of girl who texts strangers, rides motorcycles, and apparently has mind-blowing sex with bikers she barely knows.
Viper notices the shift in my mood.
“You okay?” He's propped up on one elbow, studying my face.
“Yeah. Fine. Just…” I pull the sheet higher, suddenly self-conscious about my nakedness. “Processing.”
“Processing what?”
“This. I don't usually…” I wave a hand vaguely at the tangled sheets, at us. “This isn't like me.”
“What isn't like you?”
“Any of it. Texting strangers. Getting on motorcycles. Having sex with someone I just met.” The words tumble out faster now, panic rising in my chest. “I don't do impulsive. I don't do reckless. I plan things. I think things through. I make pros and cons lists, for God's sake.”
He sits up, running a hand through his messy hair. “And this is bad because...?”
“Because I don't know you! Not really. I know you have four sisters and you weave blankets and you've been clean for fifteen years, but I don't know your middle name or your favorite color or whether you vote or even what you want for breakfast.”
“Jean—”
“And you don't know me either. You don't know that I rearrange my bookshelves when I'm stressed or that I cry during sad dog movies or that I've never had an orgasm like that in my entire life.” I clap a hand over my mouth, horrified that I just admitted that.
Something flickers in his eyes. Satisfaction? Pride? But his voice is gentle when he says, “So tell me. We've got time.”
I scramble out of bed, grabbing my robe. “Do we? Because this feels like some kind of mountain vacation fantasy that's going to implode the second real life intrudes.”
“What real life?” He's watching me pace, his expression calm and unreadable.
“My real life. The one where I'm unemployed and living in my parents' basement and can't show my face in public without someone recognizing me as the dildo girl.” My voice cracks on the last words.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Then buzzes again. And again.
Viper glances at it, then at me. “You gonna get that?”
I grab the phone, and my stomach drops. More messages from my mother.
Jean, call me immediately.
Jean, answer your phone. This is ridiculous.
Call me NOW.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, the phone shaking in my hands.
“What is it?” he asks.
“My parents… they have a job lined up for me.” I scroll through the messages, each one making me feel smaller. “Henriksson & Associates. In Sweden.”
“You don't sound thrilled.”
“I'm not.” I look up at him, this gorgeous, dangerous man sitting naked in bed like he belongs in my life. “Same kind of work, different office, different country. My mother will say it's a 'fresh start,' but it's just... more of the same.”
“So don't take it.”
I laugh, but there's no humor in it. “Right. Don't take the job. What should I do instead? Wait tables? Become a starving artist? Move back in with my parents permanently?”
“You could stay.”
“Stay?”
“Here. In Snowflake Falls. With me.”
For a moment, I can picture it. Waking up in his arms every morning. Meeting his sisters and his grandmother and building something real together. Then reality crashes back in.
“I can't.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don't know you!” The words come out sharper than I intended.
“I don't know anything about you. Not really.
And you don't know me. What if you decide you don't like who I am when you figure out I'm not some adventurous free spirit?
What if I'm just the uptight accountant who got temporarily knocked off her axis by a crisis?”
He's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is carefully neutral. “Is that what you think this is?”
“I don't know what this is. That's the problem.” I stand up again, needing distance. “A few days ago, I was a completely different person. I had a plan. I knew who I was, even if I didn't like it. Now I'm considering throwing away my entire career, and I don't recognize myself.”
“Maybe that's not a bad thing.”
I wrap my arms around myself. “What if I'm just running away? What if this whole thing is just me having some kind of breakdown and using you as an escape from my real problems?”
The look that flashes across his face cuts me to the bone, but I can't take the words back.
“Right.” He gets out of bed and starts pulling on his clothes. “Good thing you figured that out.”
“No, I didn't mean?—”
"Sure you did." His voice is flat now, empty of the warmth that was there minutes ago. “And this was fast.”
“That's not what I'm saying?—”
He's fully dressed now, standing by the door like he can't wait to leave. “Look, Red. You've got some stuff to figure out.”
The endearment sounds different now. Distant. Like he's already pulling away.
“Where are you going?”
“Home. Give you some space to think.” He pauses at the door. “Call me when you know what you want. Or don't. It’s your choice.”
And then he's gone, leaving me standing in a bedroom that suddenly feels too big and too empty.
I sink onto the bed and put my head in my hands. My phone buzzes again, but I ignore it.
What have I done?