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It isn’t easy to fit him in my mouth, but he groans appreciatively when I begin to suck the head of his cock, my tongue exploring in languid circles while he shivers and heaves ragged breaths. His hands rest on my head—not pushing, not directing, just urging—and he’s moaning my name over and over again while I work him, sliding the taut skin of him up and down as I bob slowly. Each time I squeeze him, he gushes drops of his essence onto my tongue and I wonder if he’s the type that still wants to kiss after he’s left part of himself in my mouth.
I get my answer moments later, when he tugs my head up and off of him, laughing as he takes several long, slow breaths. “Too close,” he sighs, “can’t come yet.”
“One-shot man?” I ask as I meet him halfway and no, he doesn’t mind kissing me, and the taste of us mingled and mixed together is strange and alien but intoxicating. Not just for me—I can feel it in the way his kiss changes, the slow enjoyment of something exotic instead of the near-rabid hunger.
And I’m pushing him over, tipping him slowly onto the rug as he finds the zipper of my dress and draws it down; before I know it he’s got my bra strap free, releasing it with more smoothness than I ever can so that when I finally press myself to him my breasts rest against his chest. I straddle his waist, and raise myself up long enough to take the damned thing off and cast it aside while Jake unbuttons his shirt.
His chest is smooth and stacked, and he bucks against me, his cock still wet from my mouth, gliding over my soaked lips that are moist from my excitement and his mouth, and with just a little work I feel the tip of him working slowly into me. The walls of my tunnel stretch to accommodate the thick rod, just this side of uncomfortable, and I sink down onto him.
His eyes are on mine, locked and wide, his mouth open just like mine is as we both hold our breath against the incredible feeling of being finally connected, joined, and I can’t believe it can feel this good. I’m still raw from having come once already, and I can feel every inch as it glides through me until I’m firmly seated on his hips.
Jake leans up easily without dislodging me, and as his hips begin to rock he takes my hard nipple into his mouth, groaning as he sucks. One hand grips my breast, while the other snakes around behind me to lift me up, and down, each thrust grazing my exposed clit just barely, just enough that I twitch in his arms every time.
I hold him tight inside me, and it’s easy because every part of me is locked up tight with the sensations echoing through my nerves, and in just minutes Jake is panting against me, his thrusts becoming more urgent by the second. The hand on my breast moves between us, and again he’s playing me like an instrument.
“Close,” he groans. “Fuck… Janie… fuck I’m close… come with me… come for me, Janie…”
His teeth bite, his tongue flicks, and his fingers pinch and rub as he picks up his pace, and I can hear it in his voice how close he is, how desperate he is to come with me. What was an almost plaintive need before becomes a command as my walls tighten around him.
“That’s right,” he growls, “come with me, Janie… good girl… you like that, baby, don’t you? Come on, just a little more. Come with me, Janie… fuck…” The word is drawn out, and echoed from my own throat as our bodies tense together and for a heartbeat we’re suspended together, his cock swelling inside me just before it begins to pulse in time with the contractions inside my own body as we both explode.
We’re both hanging in the afterglow, locked together still, and I can feel his dick still jumping in response to my own aftershocks. He kisses my breasts, and the space between them, and my neck. He nibbles my ear, groaning softly, and then finally we’re kissing again.
I don’t know how long it lasts, how long we stay like that, but when I begin to rise, he laughs quietly, and pulls my hips back down so we can start all over.
We never do get around to that glass of wine.
Chapter 63
Janie
We wake up early the next day, and from the moment I open my eyes my mind and body are filled with the distinct sensation of being on vacation even though I know that it’s still a work day for me. But that time seems to be hours away and all I want right now is to be here, now—that’s what all the self-help gurus say, right?
Jake isn’t with me, but the smell of something cooking is. I sit up, and listen carefully—from down the stairs I can hear the sound of things sizzling. That is definitely bacon.
Wrapped in only the sheet because my clothes never made it upstairs with me, I pad down the stairs to find Jake naked except for an apron, his muscular, sculpted body bobbing and swaying as he hums to himself. I can wait to announce myself; this is worth watching.
After a minute or so, Jake turns with a pan in hand and freezes when he sees me leaning against the banister.
“Caught you,” I say, smiling compulsively.
Jake snorts, and waves the pan in my direction. “That’s all the show you get. You want more, I better see some dollar bills.”
“But can he actually cook, is the question,” I mutter as I approach the bar.
Jake is smug as he delivers not just pancakes, but credible crepes to a plate. He makes a show of scattering berries, cream cheese, and some dark blackberry-based drizzle in overly intricate swirls before rolling it all up and adding bacon to each plate. “My mom used to love making crepes,” he tells me. “I learned from her. I’m confident in my crepes, but that’s about all I got.”
“Just the one trick?” I sigh, feigning disappointment. “Taking you back to the shelter.”
Jake barks a laugh, and comes around the bar to kiss me, his warm hands gripping my hips. “I think I have more than one trick,” he mutters against my lips.
“Fair enough.” I’m hot for him again, and the fact that he doesn’t seem to mind what I look like in the morning makes it somehow even more acute. Not that I’ve passed a mirror on the way down, but I’m well aware of how I present in the early hours.
“Come on,” he says, tugging me off of the stool. He takes both plates and leads me out the sliding door facing the beach and then, bold as you please, walks off the back porch and down a little path to the sand wearing nothing but that apron. His ass is high, round. I want to grab it.
My lip between my teeth, I giggle as I clutch the sheet to me and follow him down. It’s a private beach here, probably one of his father’s properties if I had to guess, and no one can see us easily without scaling the cliffs. That doesn’t seem likely. It’s nerve-racking at first, but gets easier once we’re seated under a canopy on the sand.
He’s not wrong about the crepes—they’re good. If I was inclined to run a breakfast service in addition to dinner, these could easily be on the menu. The bacon is cooked just right, and I don’t feel remotely guilty for devouring two thick-cut pieces in just a few bites.
