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“It’s tasty,” I say with my mouth full. “How come when we open our mouths like that, we do it like we’re opening up for a dentist?”
He tilts his head back and belly laughs. “Oh, my goodness, Brynne, you have some unique observations.”
The room is designed to allow sound to travel in case conversation at one end of the table needs to be heard by someone at the far end. Plus, the room also served as a music venue to host live music before the advent of amplifiers and such. His laugh rocks the walls.
“Woah,” he says.
“Cool acoustics,” I say. “If you were at the end of the table and I just spoke very softly, you could hear me clearly.”
“Very cool indeed,” he says, rising. “But hear me now. No matchmaking.”
My face is momentarily heavy with sadness. “It’s just that when I get these ideas,” I say. “I have like an internal gauge, not exactly intuition. It usually tells me I am right. Todd works at a surf shop in Malibu. I mean, if she surfs, that would be perfect.”
“She does,” he says cryptically. “But I wouldn’t rely on mysticism as your guide, Brynnie. It will let you down.”
Jack clears the bamboo disposable plates and is about to toss them in the trash. I grab them before he does. I can reuse them at least two or three more times before they end up in a landfill. He needs to learn to be a bit more environmentally sensitive, but now is probably not the right time to launch into a lecture about the joys of recycling.
Then it dawns on me. Jack is a recycler – in a way. He recycles buildings instead of bottles and cans – although I wish he’d skip this one.
I hear the legs of the bench scrape the floor.He’s going to play.
The tune is familiar - dated and flowing. It sounds like something from Calypso’s grand past. I moved from the kitchen through the parlor to the dining hall and, leaning against the door jamb, watched his fingers glide over the keys. He looks so freaking good playing that piano.
His robe parts in a wide V from the neck down. His chest is muscled, and he has actual hair on it. I have a thing about “manly” men, and the very sight of it stirs me. It was a pleasant surprise to find he did not wax like almost everyone else. I can’t remember when I saw a surfer with chest hair.
Jack lifts his eyes to me. I move closer to him as if answering his summons. Our gazes never waver as he continues to play. When I approach the piano, he stands and clears the end chair from the table. He touches my breastbone with just enough pressure to tell me to lie back on the table. My legs are at his hip level.
His robe falls open. He scoops my legs with his arms and draws me to him. I fit perfectly around him as he slips his thick cock inside. He plays me like another instrument, in and out of my core. I bend my knees, and he places his arms around them and pushes them forward for maximum access, penetrating me to the hilt.
Slowly, he pushes my knees apart in a wicked position. He takes my hand. I know what he wants. Out of reflex, I close my eyes, but he says no.
“Look at me,” he rasps.
So, we stay connected as we make that elusive climb together. There is something intensely exciting about the way he looks at me. It fuels our already potent chemistry. His eyes are deep and dark as if he is watching me from the deepest part of his soul.
I thrash on the polished mahogany of the hall table. Jack is not letting up. Not slowing down. Not changing positions. He is steady and unrelenting.
I could climax at any moment, but I don’t want this to end. But when he presses his thumb where my fingers are, he sends me over the edge.
My cries pack the hall. If anyone is surfing now, they most likely heard me. I am making noise that scrapes my throat, deep and low and almost mournful.
My flesh convulses around his mighty cock, helplessly, endlessly.
Jack whimpers now as he, too, is tumbling over the sweet edge of passion. His movement is jerky and jagged. His face registers how close he is to losing the fight to keep going. He hums while wave after wave of ecstasy takes us. When he comes to, he smiles from ear to ear.
“Yes, ma’am. I’d do that again. And again.” he says, kissing me fiercely.
“On my grandmother’s good table, no less,” I joke.
We wander out to the deck arm in arm. The moon is full and round, and its reflection on the water otherworldly. “When I was really little, I used to pretend I was on a cruise ship,” I say. “My Uncle John played along with me.”
“Who was the captain?” Jack asks, sidling behind me.
“He was,” I laugh. “But that was my idea.
“So long as you were in charge,” he says with a wink. “Got a multimillion-dollar view, that’s for sure.”
I have the odd feeling he is falling in love with the place. I bite the urge to snark about how dumb it would be to replace all this with a soulless office complex. I don’t want to upset the apple cart - which is so not my usual style. More typical would be me forcing the discussion. But my internal gauge tells me I can wait. Things might work out my way.
