Chapter 32 Pop Tarts （Revised Recipe） #2
“Fuck anyone who only wants the curated version of you.” He strokes over my lips with his thumb. “They don’t deserve you.”
Before I can reply, he turns me around, hand sweeping away the mess on the table. My hair is in one long braid today, and
he wraps the end around his fist, tugging lightly. With my throat exposed, he kisses my pulse. The hard lines of his body
press against me. I’m caught between him and the edge of the table, bent over just far enough to make my toes curl.
“I’m going to get you out of your head, sweetheart.” His hand drags down my spine. He squeezes my ass, making me gasp. “That’s
what you want, isn’t it?”
I nod.
“Tell me.”
“Yes. Please.” I squirm helplessly at the press of his body against mine. He’s controlling the angle, the position, making
heat pool in my core. “Jack . . .”
“Attagirl.” As he talks, his hand inches down my belly. He unzips my jeans. I bite my lip as he cups me through my panties,
allowing his middle finger to dig in a little deeper than the others. “Stay in the moment with me.”
My nerve endings erupt with sensation. This isn’t a light kind of desire, a mere fluttering in my stomach. It’s sharp and
deep, filled with need. I arch against the table to feel the imprint of his hand that much more. My breath hitches. He turns
my head to the side, kissing my neck roughly, all while his fingers explore.
I can’t think straight with the way his thumb is circling my clit. The evidence of his desire presses against my bottom, dragging a moan from my throat. I feel his smile against my shoulder, and it makes me smile too, the warmth of his approval like the first true sunny day in spring.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Just like that, baby. Nice and loud for me.”
He kicks my legs wider apart, letting my jeans fall around my ankles, followed by my panties. The button of his pants digs
into the bare curve of my ass. He tugs on the curls guarding my most sensitive place, then breaches it, two fingers crooking
inside me as his thumb continues a torturous tease of my clit. Captured like this, in the vise of his body and the table’s
edge, I bite my lip out of habit, preventing a whimper from escaping my lips.
He stops moving his fingers, leaving me half-empty. “Louder, sweetheart.”
Only when I manage to obey, whining his name, does he press them back in, along with a third, stroking my inner walls. Whenever
I clam up, he stops. My nipples are two throbbing points of heat, matched by the bud between my legs, stiff and aching for
his touch.
The rough texture of his clothes against my bare skin is driving me to the point of distraction. If anyone walked in on us,
they’d see buttoned up, pristine Jack, effortlessly dismantling half-naked me. The thought should strike terror into my heart,
but it just ratchets my desire up even higher.
His blunt fingertips dig into the soft skin of my backside. He’s rocking against me now, slow and languid. Out of the corner
of my eye, I see him reach for the cup of utensils on the table. He draws out a wooden spoon.
“I’ve been imagining this for ages,” he says conversationally. The edge of the spoon drags down my spine, then lower. “What
would keep you right here, with me? What would get you out of your head?”
My heart is pounding so hard, I can hear it in my ears. I tense, anticipating a swat, but for the moment, apparently, he’s
content to tease. I’ve never been handled quite like this. His touch is so sure. His deep voice is oddly soothing. I want
the pain he’s promising, and the praise that I know will follow.
The flat part of the spoon smacks against my backside. I startle at the sting, then moan.
“You know what I want to hear,” he murmurs. “Give it to me.”
Another whack, harder this time. Desperate heat blooms throughout my body. My mind narrows to the here and now, discarding
idle thoughts about if I’m too eager, if this is too dirty, how the cries tumbling from my lips sound to him, whether I’m
attractive enough in this position. It’s freeing. Intoxicating, the way he grounds me. He murmurs praise in between each spank,
rubs my clit to distract from the sting. It isn’t long before each touch feels like exquisite torture, the pleasure and pain
so entwined I’m not sure where one ends and the other begins.
I’m going to come like this, and we both know it, and I don’t want to hold back when it hits.
“You’re so beautiful.” His voice is hoarse. He tugs my braid; gives my bottom another firm smack. His hand, this time, not
the spoon. My core clenches at the intimacy of it; the way his fingers dig into my tender flesh. “Fucking gorgeous. I’m dying
to get inside you.”
“Please,” I breathe. I want him to spear me open, inch by delicious inch. I want him everywhere. “Jack, please, I need it.”
“If you’re good and come first.” He gives the braid a harder pull. “Don’t you dare hold back.”
My scream echoes in the gleaming steel of the kitchen as my climax crashes through me. It’s ferocious, pulling from some primal
place I can’t quite name. I’d be embarrassed with anyone else, in any other situation; but I’m with Jack, and he’s spinning
me around, and we’re tumbling to the floor together in a chaotic cloud of flour and breathless kissing. Sex has never felt
like this. I’ve never felt like this. So utterly myself, with no concessions.
I scrape my nails through the curly ends of hair at his nape. “Please tell me you have a condom.”
“I do.” He teases my red, stinging bottom with his rough fingertips. “Tell me what you need so I can give it to you.”
I whisper it into his ear, that heart-pounding, all-consuming desire to be taken, invaded, filled. It’s clear he would prefer
me to shout it. I don’t know what to make of a man like him. I’ve never encountered his kind, in or out of the bedroom.
“We’ll work on it.” His voice is rich with promise.
The next moments are a blur. We tear off the aprons, our clothes. I help him with the condom, enjoying the way he hisses, as if he’s in pain and getting inside me is the only thing that will help. He pins me against the wall, then pushes inside slowly, one thick inch after another.
“Fuck,” he groans, eyes sliding shut. He uses his weight to keep me pinned, dragging me up and down on his length. I lift
my leg; he helps me wrap it around his waist. “You feel so fucking good . . . Poppy . . .”
He hits the perfect angle, and all the thoughts leap right out of my head. Moans spill from my lips, earning me longer, surer
thrusts. He’s confident, bordering on arrogant, using me like he would a favorite knife. My body is on edge, quivering, ready
to fall apart again.
“Tell me what you need.” He cradles the side of my head, urging me to look at him. He’s half-wild, eyes alight. “Don’t you
dare go quiet on me.”
“Harder.” I gasp as he complies immediately. “H-harder and faster, Jack, please, I’m close—”
His fingers seek out my swollen clit, teasing lightly in contrast to the rough thrusts. His lips brush the delicate skin of
my breasts. I squeeze my eyes shut, panting through the wave of sensation. He bites me lightly, accompanied by a sharp pinch
of my clit. That’s all it takes for the last of my self-control to shatter. I shout against his neck, and at my voice, he
comes, shuddering as he spills into the condom.
Afterward, we stay on the floor together, lounging in a patch of sun like a pair of cats. He holds me to his chest, fingertips
skimming over my bare skin. I like the cage his body makes, comfortable and secure. The smattering of dark hair on his chest
and legs, which contrasts with my smooth skin. I rub one flat nipple, then kiss it. I turn his free arm from side to side,
admiring the bold tattoos inked into the sun-warmed skin. I even nip his bicep, smiling at his huff of amusement.
“What’s this one for?” I’m running my nail over a blue-black inked moth.
“Just thought it looked cool.”
“Really?”
“That’s the secret us tattooed freaks don’t want the rest of you to know.” His breath ruffles my hair. I shiver pleasantly. “Sometimes it’s just because we wanted the ink.”
“I think you wanted the pain.” I slant my eyes upward. I know I’m right, judging by his eyes. “What about my favorite one?”
“That one I planned. I got it after my first shift in a Michelin-starred restaurant. It’s me.” He says it with such confidence,
I know he’s serious. He thinks of himself as a panther, stalking alone through the forest, knife in his maw. I can’t imagine
anything lonelier. Florida panthers are endangered, after all. “Why is it your favorite?”
“I don’t know.” I pet the panther. It’s one of the most detailed pieces he has. “I guess part of me realized it was one of
the meaningful ones.”
Now that I think of it, all the most detailed tattoos are of animals. I can’t even imagine how long it took to ink the octopus
splashed across his chest and collarbone.
I spot an inked patch on his hip. A wishbone. When I trace it, first with my finger, then my tongue, he jumps.
“I’ve been dying to know if you had any secret ink.” I look at him from underneath my lashes, a grin playing over my lips.
All the while, this one was hiding underneath his clothes. “Is this it? No ass tattoo, right?”
He snorts. “What would I get tattooed on my ass?”
“I’m sure I could think—”
“Hello?” a voice I don’t recognize shouts. “Jack, are you here?”
We freeze at the same moment. Jack groans, pressing his forehead against mine before rolling away.
“Hazel,” he calls back, “wait right there.”