by Carly Keene
He swallows. “Next time, I’ll take you somewhere nice. What do you like best?”
“You,” I say honestly, and he laughs again, before reaching over and wiping sauce off my chin. He really must not care that I look like hell, with my hair all over the place, and no bra.
“You’re beautiful,” he says. “And so sweet. No, I mean what kind of romantic dinner would you like best? Are you a seafood girl? Steakhouse your thing?”
“Guess,” I say, and eat more pizza.
“Um . . . I am hoping you don’t love sushi.”
“I like sushi,” I confess, “but I really don’t think it’s at its best this far from the coast. Anyway, that’s not my favorite. Try again.”
“I’ve never had sushi in my life. Guess I’m more of a country boy.” He tilts his head and looks at me with one eye screwed up. “Italian?” He studies my face. “No?”
“I like Italian.”
“Just not your favorite for romance? Okay.” He bites his lip, and it’s darn cute. “I think I gotta go with steak here.”
“For romance? Yes. With a nice Pinot Noir. So what’s your favorite?”
“Definitely steak. At Connors?” He blinks. “Or no, I guess Ruth’s Chris would be better, if I’m going to impress you.”
I can’t help smiling. “In terms of a fancy dinner, Ruth’s Chris steaks are great, but I’m not sure they’re worth the price compared to Connors.” I lean over and kiss his cheek. “I’m already impressed by you anyway. This was just what I needed tonight: low-key and perfect.”
He gives me the sweetest smile. “You really are perfect.”
“I didn’t mean me!”
“I did.” He caps the soda bottle and sets it on the floor, and then reaches to cradle my face in his hands. “I love that I feel so comfortable with you.”
I feel that way too. I tell him I’ve been so stressed lately, and I tell him how I felt once I got to the tree farm winter festival. “It’s so cozy there. And I felt really safe.”
“Why wouldn’t you feel safe?”
I find myself telling him about the stalker, Mr. Miller. I can see Jackson’s face getting concerned, but even if I couldn’t see his face, I would know he was upset, by the way his hands draw up into fists and his biceps flex.
“What a jerk some people are!” he says. “Man—there was even some asshole who practically rode my truck bumper into the parking lot out there.” He waves at the window.
“He didn’t use the code?” I ask. “Everybody’s supposed to use the code.”
“I don’t know,” Jackson admits, and then he smiles and touches my cheek again. “I was so excited to see you, I didn’t really notice.” He leans over to kiss me. “So you’ve been stressed lately? Would you like a massage?”
“I don’t think that should even have been a question. Of course I’d love a massage!”
The number of times that a man has offered me a massage is an unqualified zero. Never. Not even my ex-boyfriend Dan, who I dated for two whole years, ever offered to so much as rub my shoulders. I have been missing out.
Or maybe I’ve just been waiting to meet Jackson Sledd.
He looks down at the bedspread and purses his mouth. “Well, I should probably tell you that it’s likely to turn sexy at some point.”
“I should think it would,” I say, all that good leftover heat from the last go-round rising in my lower belly again. “I do hope so.” I reach for the empty pizza box and toss it to the floor, and then stretch out on my stomach, turning my head to Jackson. His eyes glow blue heat at me, and then I can’t see him anymore because he’s behind me, rubbing those strong manly hands over my shoulders and neck, working out any residual tightness left after those incredible orgasms.
He moves from my neck down, getting all the little aches out of my shoulders and back, down to my lower back and my butt—there are muscles in your butt, you know, and his hands feel so good on me—and then down my thighs. He lets his hands drift to the inner slopes of my thighs, and up toward my very grateful center, but then he goes back to working on my legs. I hadn’t realized that I carried tension in my calves and feet, but apparently I do, because after he’s massaged them, I’m as relaxed as I’ve ever been. I feel like melted butter. I can’t move.
Except that he gently rolls me over to lie on my back, and he caresses me from shoulders to breasts to waist, and then past my hips to the fronts of my thighs, and then he’s touching my inner lips again. One finger tenderly strokes my clit, two more dip inside my pussy, and I can feel how wet I am again. I can’t stop moaning because his fingers feel so good on my sensitive places.
He’s hard again. Noticing his beautiful cock wanting me again makes me even hotter, and I arch my back as my third orgasm of the night barrels through me. “Please,” I beg, as the swell of pleasure subsides. “Please fuck me.”
“Oh god yes,” he says, and kisses me. “This way? Or you want to roll over?”
For answer, I roll to my stomach and lift my ass, offering him my pussy. I’m breathless. “This way.”
He makes a groaning sound, and his hands are on my butt, then my thighs, positioning me and lifting me from behind. Then the head of his dick is inside me, filling me up and rubbing over a place inside that feels amazing. He’s slow and gentle, but his penis is so hard, and he’s rubbing that good place so firmly, repeatedly, that my body can’t help but respond. I need to come again already, and if he doesn’t stop I’ll get there. “Don’t stop!”
“Won’t,” he says between breaths, and he gets faster, bumping that perfect spot, rubbing it, rubbing it, rubbing it until POW the whole world explodes, everything winding up tight and then unraveling in a roller-coaster plunge into ecstasy. While I’m gasping for air and letting the world fall back into place around me, his hands squeeze my hips and he’s moaning my name in my ear, and then he fills me with a jet of heat collapsing nearly on top of me.
“Mmmmm,” I say, and roll to my side so we can hold each other.
He kisses my ear. “Damn, woman. What have you done to me? All my bones are melted.”
It makes me laugh, because I feel the same way. “Me too.” We lie on my bed, and this time he doesn’t doze off. He strokes my arm from shoulder to wrist over and over. I kiss his cheek, where beard stubble is growing and making him sexier than ever.
We talk about everything and nothing, for a long time. We make stupid jokes, we laugh, we talk about our families. We talk about the future, not exactly planning for one we share, but making room for that. Making room for a Jackson-and-Noelle Us.
Past midnight, we make love again, this time with me on top cowgirl style and his hands on my nipples. It is so good this way that it’s easy for me to come, grinding his rock-solid cock into my excited pussy. The second time I come, I feel this weird urge to pee, and then I think I do pee, just a little—everything gets really wet, and it’s embarrassing so I stop moving.
But Jackson grabs my hips and moves me on him. “Don’t stop! It’s so fucking good, you’re so amazing.”
“I peed,” I whisper.
He shakes his head. He reaches down to the wetness on his stomach and tastes it, making me yelp. “No, it’s sweet. You just squirted.”
I’ve never squirted before. I didn’t think I could.
“Don’t look so surprised!” he says. “Did it feel good?”
It did. “Yeah.” I’m still super turned on, but really relaxed somehow.
“You never did before? God, that is the sexiest thing I have ever seen,” he says, and then he’s helping me, using those gorgeous lumberjack arms to rock me on his dick, taking over until I can get enough strength to ride him again. “Shit. Noelle . . . I’m gonna come. That was so. fucking. hot.”
We finish together, the heat of his stiffness pulsing over that good spot inside my cunt and making me come again. And this time he does go to sleep, slides right off into dreamland immediately after gathering me into his arms. I’m too happy to go to sleep right away, and my bl
ood is racing around my veins like crazed three-year-olds.
It occurs to me that I am happier than I’ve ever been, and it’s because of Jackson. Not just the great sex, or the orgasms, or the pizza, or the conversation. It’s the way I feel: I like him. I like myself. I like my life right now, with him in it.
I’m so happy that I go to sleep having forgotten to set my alarm to the earlier time I’ll need for the commute to the West Knoxville/Farragut branch tomorrow.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Chapter 7
Jackson
I wake up logy and fuzzy-headed, at first not sure where I am. Then I smell Noelle’s sweet vanilla-and-flowers scent on the pillow, and the smell of sex on the sheets, and I know. My heart jumps, and I smile: Noelle. Her bed.
But she’s not in it with me, and the pale December morning light is sneaking around her bedroom curtains. I get up and peek out. It’s later than I’d assumed, looking at the color of the sky—either that, or it’s going to snow soon. Maybe both.
I go looking for Noelle and my phone, in that order, so I can check the forecast. A light snow might bring people out to the tree farm, but a heavier one usually makes them stay home, right after they raid the grocery store for milk, bread, and TP.
Noelle’s not here.
There’s a sticky note on the inside of the door with my name on it. It’s scribbled, the way you’d write if you were in a big hurry, and it’s clear she was rushing when she wrote it: “Jackson—very late for work, wish I could stay and wake up with you—call me? Dinner again? :) Noelle 1000X PS pls lock door behind you.”
A thousand kisses. My heart jumps again. A thousand wouldn’t be nearly enough, but it would be a good start.
I clean up the little mess we made last night with the soda and pizza, and make up the bed, taking an extra minute or two to just smell her pillow. Really, the whole apartment smells like her, all deliciously girly, and the more I sniff, the more my dick wakes up. “Down, boy,” I tell it. “She’s not even here.”
The microwave clock says it’s almost eleven, way way later than I’d thought. Snow is undoubtedly coming soon. I find my phone on the coffee table, intending to check the NOAA weather app for snow, but it is dead. No way to call Noelle until it’s charged up.
I sigh. Maybe I can just go by the PharmHouse and say hello, maybe take her some lunch, before I go get reamed out by my brother for being late to work.
I take one more deep sniff of the smell of Noelle before locking the door behind me. My truck’s cold, and when I get to my apartment it’s cold too. Funny how I’ve never noticed that before, and you’d think that I would have noticed, given that I work outside. Maybe it’s just Noelle’s warmth I’m missing.
My phone’s so totally battery-dead that even ten full minutes of charging isn’t enough to boot it up. I unhook it and plan to plug it in at the tree farm office later.
Clean work clothes on, I make a stop by Biscuit World to pick up sweet tea and a sack of chicken biscuits, which are good for both breakfast and lunch. Then I hit the grocery store for a small bouquet of pink roses. I can’t stop smiling when I think of her face.
I sweep into the Sledds Run Pharmhouse, still smiling, still holding roses.
She’s not here. Not at the front, not in the back at the pharmacy counter, nowhere. The smile falls off my face and crashes onto the floor, in my disappointment.
I go up to the pharmacy and ask for Noelle, and the woman there—Beth, her nametag says—jumps back a little bit from me, eyes big. “She’s not here today. And no, I can’t tell you where she is.”
Only then do I remember the stalker guy. “Oh. No, I’m not the guy with the restraining order. I just wanted to bring Noelle some lunch.” My stomach rumbles. Pizza was a long time ago.
Beth’s eyebrows go up, like I’m some skeeze. “Sorry. If that’s all you’re here for, I need to ask you to leave.”
My jaw drops. “Look, I’m not the creeper, I swear. Can I just—look, can you maybe call her for me? I’m Jackson.” She’s still staring at me, a crease in her forehead. “Jackson Sledd.” Blank stare. “You know me.”
She takes a deep breath. “Sir, Ms. Fouché isn’t working here today, and I am unable to communicate her whereabouts to anyone. That’s all I have for you.”
She’s not working here today.
I’d forgotten there were other locations for this business. I relax, nod, say thanks and sorry to bother.
I take the roses back out to my truck. They’ll just have to wait until I can get my phone charged and get in touch with her that way. And I’ll be at work the next eight hours, at least.
I hate waiting. Now that I’ve found the woman I want to spend my life with, I can hardly stand to be without her. I resign myself to a workday alone.
At least the chicken biscuits are good.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Chapter 8
Noelle
I can’t wait to see Jackson again.
He hasn’t contacted me, though. Hasn’t responded to my six texts. At lunch time, I pull my phone out and try calling, but his phone shunts me over to voice mail, and although I generally consider voice mail pointless when you can just text instead, I leave a brief message asking him to call me. I’ve got this sinking feeling in my stomach. I didn’t think he was the kind of guy who just wanted in my pants once and then would get tired of me, but it’s making me nervous that I haven’t talked to him.
It was pretty hard to leave him sleeping in my bed this morning. Maybe I should’ve woken him up to tell him goodbye, but when I managed to drag my eyelids open, I was already so late for work that I knew I was going to have to skip both breakfast and makeup in order to walk in the door at 7:55 a.m., buy a bottled iced coffee, and chug it. I’m lucky it was Friday and I could wear jeans and a knit top under my lab coat, instead of having to iron a blouse and work pants, because that was definitely not going to happen. I did manage a three-minute shower and a quick toothbrushing, but that was all. I even forgot to take the cinnamon muffins I bought at the tree stand shop yesterday.
I hope he saw my note on the door. Maybe it came unstuck, and fell? But he does have my number, because we texted last night about the apartment’s gate code. I’m so confused.
I take a bathroom break at two, and try calling again: straight to voice mail. Damn. I’m going to have to hunt him down.
Is it stupid of me to think that he was really into me? The things he was saying last night sounded serious, and he didn’t have to say them. He’d already had me three times by then. Unless he was just trying to be nice.
Double damn.
Maybe his phone’s dead, or broken, or maybe he’s lost signal out there in the sticks. I’m going to hope for that, anyway.
The day is dragging, and I’m dragging too. My body feels good, if sore in certain spots, but my brain is not quite up to its usual speed, thanks to the lack of sleep. I make myself double-check every prescription for the particulars to make sure I get it right. Five o’clock cannot come too fast for me.
But it does, finally, come, and I am utterly starving, and I dash through the Burger Shack drive-through on the way out of Knoxville to Sledds Run. The way he was eating last night, I figure he might have trouble turning down a delicious homestyle burger and fries, and if he stops working long enough to eat, he’ll have to stop long enough to talk to me.
When I get to the tree farm, it’s covered up with customers, the lot full of cars and the shop full of people. When I finally catch a glimpse of Jackson, he and his brother are being charming to a group of older ladies wearing red and purple. Jackson lets one of them squeeze his bicep, and he flashes his beautiful smile at her when she pretends to swoon.
(He wasn’t just being nice to me last night. Or was he? Does “being nice” mean making sure I have eight orgasms?)
I go into the shop and browse. It finally clears out a little, and I go talk to the friendly older lady behind the counter about those cinnamon muffins, asking if they a
re likely to be stale by now. She looks me up and down, and then she grins. “Didn’t get much sleep last night, did you, sweetheart? I bet it was worth it.”
I stand there with my mouth open, and she laughs.
“I’m Nancy, adopted grandmother, and I know when my boys have fallen in love. Jackson is ass-over-teakettle for you, girlie.” She nods. “He came dragging in here late, lookin’ like he’d been hit upside the head with the love mallet. Oh yes.” She nods toward a glass vase sitting on the desk; it’s full of pink roses. “Those were for you. He was right upset he didn’t find you at work, and even more upset that his phone was dead. Then he’s been too busy to call since it got enough juice to turn on.”
Warmth has begun to flood me from head to toe, pooling in my lower abdomen. Jackson’s “adopted grandmother” says he’s in love with me. A dead phone is why he didn’t call, not because he was ghosting me.
I really need to talk to him, and right now.
My eyes are leaking just a little. I wipe them and thank Nancy, letting my teary smile take over my face. He’s in love with me. And I am in love with him.
“Go on out there and catch his eye,” Nancy urges me. “He’ll be relieved.”
I nod, too relieved myself to speak. Outside, he is still talking to the Red Hat ladies, but this time he sees me, and breaks into the hugest smile. I wave. He waves back. His brother pulls him by the sleeve, and he casts a helpless look toward me. I point down, indicating that I’ll stay right here, and he nods, turning away to help his brother carry a tree.
I step back toward the shop, looking at the beautifully decorated wedding chapel, the Christmas lights glowing in the December dusk. I’m so happy.
I’m so happy that the voice in my ear makes no sense at first. “You filthy slut.” But the hand over my mouth makes sense, and the smell of cough drops makes sense too: Mr. Miller. Oh shit. I try biting the hand over my mouth. “Wouldn’t even talk to me, but you’ll screw Ax Boy with the curtains open. I saw you. I was watching, you whore.”
