Not the Rebound Guy

by Abby Knox

  Eliza whispers, “I knew you were a dirty boy as soon as I met you.”

  “Sweetheart, this is just the previews.”

  My strums against her clit quickly send her writhing through a sudden orgasm. She’s biting her lip to keep from crying out, so I help out by covering her mouth with mine, pulling her against me.

  But Eliza, still shuddering, pushes back to angle her hand down inside my jeans. An uncontrollable grunt rises from my throat the first time she touches my cock.

  We writhe and wiggle, tugging and jerking pesky fabrics out of the way without completely disrobing. Eliza wraps both hands around my dick, and the gasp escaping her makes me grow at least another inch. I have to hold back the urge to curse at the pleasure of her soft hands against my stiff rod, the way it tentatively explores it at first. She runs her thumbs over the tip, the stimulation producing a bead of precum.

  When I see Eliza let go to lick her palms, I think I have died and gone to heaven. The particular kind of heaven where I can still get blowjobs. That better be a thing, or I’m going to ask to speak to the manager.

  “Baby,” I start, knowing full well I don’t have the right to call her my baby. We haven’t had that conversation yet, and I feel like it’s a strong word. “Baby, you don’t have to…if you want to just use your hands…oh my fuck…”

  She doesn’t use her hands. Well, she does. But also her ravenous mouth. And her wet, hot tongue. And her throat. If anything will give us away, it’s me, dampening my snarls by biting down hard on the picnic blanket. The ache grows at the same time as my pleasure. All I want to do is come hard down her throat, but the build-up is so enjoyable I don’t want to come just yet.

  We ease into a pleasurable rhythm, my fingers tangled in Eliza’s wild hair as her head bobs up and down. I can’t say that my body relaxes or that I’ve overcome the urge to howl her name, but I close my eyes and let my mind drift into a zen-like state of pure pleasure. Finally, her expert mouth sucks and teases so thoroughly, I nut into her mouth. I stroke her hair while she finishes me off, the sexy slurping noises somehow making me come harder, longer.

  “Fuck!” I growl quietly, spilling what’s left of me into her.

  She releases me from the grip of her sweet mouth, then her devious face appears above the blanket. I reach out and grasp her face with both hands. “You don’t have to kiss me if you don’t—“

  “Shut it,” I whisper, then roughly claim her mouth with mine again. She’s awakened the dirty boy. The preview is over. The main attraction is about to begin.

  Chapter Eleven

  Eliza

  Garrett lifts the security tape and sweeps me inside his house.

  “Are you sure this is okay? I thought your house wasn’t livable.”

  “We aren’t gonna shack up here. I’m just gonna fuck you on my sofa.”

  Why do I get the feeling he wanted to finish that sentence another way? Somehow, I can hear instead: “We aren’t gonna shack up here, at least not until my house is finished.”

  I’m fogged up in a haze of horniness and happiness, and I let myself entertain these thoughts. Would that be so bad? If I stayed? Just to try it out? At the moment, I don’t care how insane this sounds.

  He switches on a living room lamp, revealing a room full of unfinished drywall, a bunch of tools, stacks of new floorboards, and a table saw. Garrett tumbles us both onto an old sofa, tugging me onto his lap to straddle him while we kiss.

  “I missed this,” he says.

  “The drive was literally five minutes,” I whisper.

  “Too long,” he says, going back to owning my mouth, his hands having their way with my breasts, then my ass, then my breasts again, as if he can’t decide which he likes better. I’ve never felt so spoiled or known a man to be so enthused about my body. I like it.

  After we’ve built up too much heat to put off the inevitable any longer, I scoot back far enough to help him get rid of his flannel and undershirt. I take a second to admire that skin, all those ridges, angles, and lean muscle, rangier than I always thought was my type. I like something to grab on to, but I feel exhilarated as I run my hands over his hard edges.

  “We need to get rid of this,” he says, hiking up my shirt, deftly unhooking my bra.

  I hold my breath and let my shirt and bra fall to the sofa cushions.

  I know he’s already felt every intimate part of my body as we tussled in the dark, in the back of his pickup. But everything feels much more vulnerable with the lights on, even a dim one. I don’t know what his reaction will be. Jared never wanted to do anything with the lights on.

  “Look at you,” Garrett says with ragged desperation. Surely he can’t be that turned on when he just came five minutes ago. I’m not accustomed to someone gazing at my curves, studying my breasts while stroking them. He looks awestruck, which feels like a bit much. I know I’m pretty, but come on. Still, I don’t hate this. “Look at you,” he repeats, then makes a hungry, growling noise that causes a fresh wave of wetness between my legs.

  What is it that he says? Live in the moment? All I want to do is sit on that cock, but at the same time, I can’t say no to what he’s doing to my breasts. His adoration of them is touching, sensual, making me more and more desperate to be filled.

  Finally, we get around to shedding our jeans and underthings. Together, we sheathe his hard cock with the condom he’s removed from his wallet. He pulls me close again, and I angle upward, slipping the tip in.

  Let him stretch me out.

  The eye contact is almost too much, yet I can’t look away as I slide all the way down to the hilt.

  Instantly I know, this is not just fucking. It is, but it isn’t. Garrett has a way of making every moment exactly what it is but still communicates volumes.

  His hands feel warm on the skin of my lower back while his eyes study my face, my chest, my stomach. We’re still for a moment while we both take notice of this feeling—me seated on his cock, the girth of it making me feel whole and adored. Garrett lavishes every inch of me, running his rough palms up my sides, over my breasts, across my chest, and along my neck before pulling my head down for another deep, sensuous kiss. There are profound, churning leagues under the calm seas of Garrett.

  The motion then begins. He thrusts up in one long, slow, and hard push. He must have the core strength of a fucking gymnast; I swear his hips lifted off the couch.

  He knows what he’s doing. He pushes into me like he’s claiming me. I grind down to meet him with every thrust, but he’s setting the pace with these long, athletic strokes that take my breath away.

  “I thought you were in a hurry,” I say breathlessly, cupping his face for a kiss on the slow downstroke. The upward stroke is so strong I tumble against his chest and have to throw my arms around his shoulders to hang on.

  I feel his breath in my hair as he tells me, “I was just in a hurry to get inside you. I ain’t in no hurry to get out.”

  Oh my god. Who…who says things like that? I think I just drooled on his shoulder a little.

  He’s trying to make me fall for him. He’s succeeding.

  How could I not fall for someone who does everything he does? And on top of all that, he looks at me like I’m a fucking queen of the universe.

  It’s almost not fair. He’s too good.

  And yet, I can’t stop. Garrett feels too good buried deep inside me because it’s not just his body. His sweet soul is marking me. He’s connected with me.

  His hands and his attention wake something up inside me. This is more than fucking, and we both know it. He’s wooing me. Courting me. Showing me how he’d fuck me if I were his completely.

  Good god, the man raises farm animals yet doesn’t know what it means to have a quick fuck?

  I don’t know how long we’ve been on this ride, but I’ll say this for him. He’s got stamina. So much I don’t know how much more I can take.

  Grasping his shoulders and I whisper in his ear. “I need you to call me a slut.”


  His brow furrows together, and he kisses me. “That’s no way to talk to a lady.”

  “It’s just dirty talk. Trust me.”

  Darkness clouds his eyes when he gets what I mean. “He grips my chin and whispers roughly in my ear. Of course, Garrett is such a pure soul it takes a few stammering stops and starts, but he gets there. “My slut. Are you a slut for my cock?”

  His words and his breath in my ear make me gush.

  He feels the fresh wave of heat.

  I reach down in between us and begin to stroke my clit.

  “Hold on there, missy, that’s my job.”

  “You asked for it,” I say, holding on to his chest.

  I arch against him and moan out the first wave of my orgasm. “There she is. There’s my girl.”

  It’s so good I don’t even care he’s using that kind of language. Claiming me. Calling me his girl.

  Maybe I am his. Perhaps he’s ruined me for anyone else, and this is it for me.

  My pussy clamps down hard and tight, and his orgasm hits him like a truck. The man curses like a goddamn farmhand. “Holy shit. Oh my fuck. Wh—I—Eliza—fucckk…”

  Oddly he keeps it inside of me when he’s finished, watching me shudder through wave after wave of relief. Kissing me through all my moans and gibberish.

  And, oh god, he kisses me all over my face. I’ve never been worshiped like this before. I expect him to pull out, go clean up, toss the condom, and hop in the shower.

  He’s just there, still inside, me, between my legs, his face resting between my breasts, catching his breath.

  Still, he kisses me. He kisses my breasts, my arms, and then takes my fingers in his, brushing his lips against the back of my hand.

  “Are you comfortable?”

  “Of course,” I say.

  “Stay right here,” he says, gently lifting me off like I weigh nothing and setting me down on the couch.

  He runs off and returns with a warm, wet towel and a glass of water.

  “The showers are still being worked on, but I had some bottled water in the fridge.”

  He’s warmed up the towel between his hands and I take it from him.

  We share the water, wrapped up cozily together.

  “You’re a mystery, Garrett.”

  “I think I’m pretty straightforward.”

  “You know you are. I thought we were just messing around, but you gave me, like, 100 percent. That was honeymoon sex. Not I’m-helping-you-get-over-your-ex sex.”

  “I don’t half-ass anything,” he says. “Once I’m in, I’m in.”

  I try not to spit out my water all over him. “Good thing we didn’t have sex in Gram’s house because you’re loud.”

  “I’m not loud. I’m the least loud person I know.”

  I lean back and catch the twinkle in his eye. “Did you witness your own orgasm? Because that was loud. And you cursed.”

  He scoffs, “I don’t curse.”

  “Wow, you’re also a liar,” I laugh.

  His smirk is too charming. My body is in danger of making him go another round.

  “I should really go to bed. Gotta get up early and help Grams make jam,” I say.

  “Can’t sleep on Grams’ jams.”

  “Oh my god, get away from me.” I start to pull away, and he grabs my arm playfully.

  “What, you don’t like a rhyme? We have such a fun time.”

  I stand up and take the blanket with me. “Good night, Garrett.”

  “Wait, I’ll walk you home.”

  “We’re going to the same place.”

  “Same house, yes. But I’d prefer it if we were staying in the same bed.”

  “Grams wouldn’t like that,” I say.

  “Don’t be so sure. Your grams seems awfully determined to push us together.”

  “True that.”

  He holds my hand as we drag our rumpled selves over to Grams’ house and sneak inside, as sneakily as we can, with a dog waiting for us on the porch.

  All is quiet, and I listen for Grams at her bedroom door.

  When we reach the bathroom, I tell him I’m going to have a shower and go to bed.

  “I can’t wait for an empty house so we can shower together,” he says, nibbling my earlobe.

  Heat flashes across my skin, and I know I’d like that too. “Um…”

  He kisses me softly and tenderly. Just moments ago, he was nearly splitting me in two, and right at this moment, I might be a fragile china doll. “

  “G’night, Garrett.”

  My body is sore as I wash, but already my skin misses him. The welcome twinge between my legs reminds me of the physical, but it’s nothing compared to how the man has rearranged my feelings. His intensity makes a mockery of what a rebound is supposed to be.

  He’s cracked me right open.

  I tell myself it’s the water of the shower, not my eyes leaking hot tears, and get on with my bedtime routine.

  Chapter Twelve

  Garrett

  This time, I wait until I know she’s asleep—I can hear Eliza’s gentle snoring —before I start quietly plucking out a new song on my guitar.

  In the morning, I wake up early even though I’ve only had about three hours of sleep and walk over to tend to all my critters.

  When I finish with that, I take a walk to pick up some flowers from the supermarket while I think things over.

  The truth is, there’s not much to think over. I’ve fallen for this woman. I might even use the “L” word. I’m certainly going to get my heart broken when she goes back to New York, and I can do nothing to prevent that.

  If she wanted me to come to New York to be with her, I would finish the job on my house in a heartbeat. Sell everything, even the goats, and follow her anywhere. But only if she wanted me to. I’ve known her less than two days; I know I shouldn’t be thinking like this.

  That’s the thing about shoulds. They’re everywhere, and they don’t mean a damn thing.

  I’m supposed to be the chill one. Not the plan-for-all-contingencies one. But this thing between us has made me run headlong into spontaneity and come out the other end ready to plan my whole future around this woman.

  When I arrive back at Grams’ house, I can hear the two ladies talking over coffee through the open windows. Inside, I give the white tulips to Grams and the pink ones to Eliza. She smiles at me, takes both bouquets, trims the ends, and places them together in a wide-mouth jam jar.

  “Perfect centerpiece. Thank you,” Eliza says, her cheeks blooming red as she sips from her mug.

  Apart from coffee, the kitchen is full of the aroma of strawberries cooking on the stove and bacon and fresh biscuits.

  “Breakfast is in the oven; help yourself,” Grams says. “After you pour in the sugar and stir the berries for me.” She nods to the big bowl next to the stove.

  I pour the massive bowl of sugar into the bubbling pot of smashed strawberries and listen while Grams tells me how long to stir. “I never thought about it, but everyone should have you be the official jam stirrer. You don’t tire out as easily as most people.”

  Eliza chokes on her coffee behind me, and I keep my eyes trained on the bubbling pot.

  This time, it’s my cheeks that feel like they might burst into flames.

  “True, very true,” Eliza sputters.

  The two of us try to keep it together as we spend the rest of our Saturday morning canning jam and jellies under the authoritarian watch of Grams.

  By the time we break for lunch, we’ve done about seven or eight batches of eight jars each.

  “We’re cutting it close,” Eliza says, looking over her planner, leaning against the farmhouse sink.

  Grams has ambled outside to the other garden to “get some sunshine,” leaving Eliza and me alone in the kitchen.

  Eliza is so cute in her borrowed apron covered in strawberry syrup. With the way she pores over her planner, I’m almost coming around to the idea of buying one for myself. She looks up with a bright smile. “But w
e’re gonna make it.”

  “We?”

  She smiles. “We’re a team, right? You and me and Grams.”

  “Sure are.”

  It’s then that I notice her cleavage has a blot of strawberry jam on it.

  I lean over the table, invading her space. “Hey. How did that get there?”

  She glances down and says, “Oh. Dammit. The shelf strikes again.”

  “Let me get that for you,” I say.

  Eliza stammers. “Oh. Um. Grams is just outside,” she points out, but doesn’t seem committed to this reason for us not to fool around.

  “She’s in the back 40, fussing over her crop,” I say. “She won’t be back for a while. The goats will give plenty warning.” I cover the spot with my mouth and lick the sweet, sticky jam. “Mmm.” I suck a little bit of skin into my mouth, but not enough to give her a hickey.

  “Garrett, you are playing with fire right now.”

  “I think I like the sound of that,” I say, kissing across her breasts. Her thin, soft cotton tee-shirt is stretched tight. I want to get rid of that apron and bend her over the kitchen table.

  I want to tell her how she’s ruined me. Wrecked me. I was a nice, polite guy before we met on Thursday, but now all I can think about is getting rid of all of these clothes and putting my finger in her ass. Watching her tits bounce while she rides my dick. Watching her lips wrap around my cock.

  I think there’s a chance she might continue to protest, but then I see her scrape jam out of what’s left in the pot with the rubber scraper.

  She holds it out to me. “Hungry?”

  I lean forward, but she pulls the utensil away, teasing me.

  Growling, I grab hold of her. She laughs and accidentally drips more of it onto her chest.

  “Oops,” she says, in an exaggerated fashion.

  “Aren’t we supposed to be cleaning up?” I ask.

  She smiles. “So, help me clean up.”

  I repeat the same move as before, yet some of it has dripped down, deep into her cleavage, inside of her bra. With a growl, I tear her apron off over her head and yank down the front of her vee-neck tee shirt, stretching out her neckline. My face dives in between those ripe melons, devouring all the jam until she’s clean, and then I keep going.