by Remy Rose
Murphy meows at me from the kitchen counter. I toss my keys on the table, scoop him into my arms and gently set him on the floor. The house is cool, thanks to central air, but I’m sweating. I give my armpits a quick sniff. Good—I smell deodorant. I dart into the downstairs bathroom to check myself in the mirror, deciding that I look more professional than sexy, with my sleeveless, silk navy blouse and gray dress pants. But Madeline Callaway, Real Estate Broker, will soon make way for Madeline Callaway, Sultry Vamp.
Before that, though, a quick rinse with the cinnamon mouthwash in the medicine cabinet and neatening up my smudged eyeliner.
A few deep breaths later, I slip off my heels and climb the stairs. As I get closer to my bedroom, I can hear Jack’s voice and realize he’s on the phone. His voice is low, but it sounds serious. Should I try to listen? Of course I shouldn’t; eavesdropping would be disrespectful and sneaky and rude.
But the part of me that’s a nosy bitch can’t resist.
I can see him through the plastic tent that’s covering the new doorway to the bathroom, and a thrill zings through my chest. He’s facing away from me, one hand holding the phone to his ear and the other resting on his hip. Even blurred through plastic, his build is Adonis-like.
My nosy bitch-self strains to hear what he’s saying.
“...already heard...it doesn’t matter who.” His free hand goes up to rake his hair—God, I want to do that—and there is a pause before his tone darkens. “Save the courtesy bullshit, and I’m not giving you my fucking blessing, if that’s what you’re after. You’ve taken enough from me.”
Ughh, now I’m wishing I hadn’t heard any of this. It’s none of my business, and I should only be focusing on Jack in the present, since his past is inconsequential, and there will be no future Jack. Plus, I don’t like hearing him angry and upset like that.
The conversation is over. He takes the phone down from his ear, presses his finger on the screen and slips it in his pocket, shaking his head like he’s in disbelief. I don’t want him to know I’ve been standing there, so before he turns around, I call out, “Hey” as I push the plastic to the side and step in.
He whirls around. There is fire in his eyes that begins to cool when he sees me. His jawline looks tight, and I feel the urge to put my hand on his cheek, take away his anger.
“Hey yourself, Callaway. Did you just get home?”
His eyes are roving over me, his face brightening, and I feel a pang of pleasure that he’s glad to see me. “A few minutes ago.”
“Sorry I got here later than usual this morning. I wanted to see you before you left for work.”
“You did?”
He laughs softly. “Uh, yeah. Of course I did. Don’t sound so surprised.”
I’m feeling heat in my cheeks. And in other places. “I wanted to see you, too.”
He looks down at my bare feet, frowning in disapproval. “You should have shoes on. It’s not safe to walk in here.”
“Maybe I’m trying to live dangerously.”
“Nice. I like that. Still, I don’t want you to step on anything.”
I watch him as he walks toward me, reaching me in three strides, this man who can wear a t-shirt and jeans and look like he’s dressed in Dolce & Gabbana. I feel very small in front of him, and that awareness of his size compared to me adds to my excitement. He takes my hand and leads me into my bedroom, gently positioning me between the two windows overlooking the backyard and ocean. My heart begins to pound.
I’m looking up at him, soaking in the masculine beauty of his face. All the anger he had with the phone call has vanished, and I’m glad. His expression is calm and serene, which is in stark contrast to me basically dying over here. I can’t wait for him to touch me. For me to touch him.
Impulsively, I stand on my tiptoes and start to put my hands on his shoulders. I’m not usually forward with men, but Jack Decker is making my list of “not usually’s” turn into “to do’s.”
His crystal-blue eyes are crinkled at the corners in amusement as he grasps my hands and then gently places them behind my back. “Callaway. Maybe I’m not that kind of guy.”
As usual, his sense of humor ratchets up his hot factor. I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“Now you’re not playing fair.” His dark brows lift in admonishment as he carefully places his work boot between my feet, spreading my legs a bit.
“What do you mean?”
“Biting your lip like that. And the way you have your back arched, your tits out...it’s turning me on.”
Sweet holy fuck. I beg him silently, because I don’t want to appear desperate, but God, I’m desperate. Please, please, put your mouth on mine, Jack. Kiss me hard.
He doesn’t. He pulls my hands a little more behind me so that my breasts are thrust out even more. I can feel my nipples hardening against the thin satin of my bra, and I’m betting he’s noticing this, too.
Jack puts his face close to mine, his breath tickling my ear. “Did I ever tell you I like walls, Callaway?”
I’m whispering. “I don’t think so.”
“Building them is very satisfying.” He puts his lips to my neck, tightening his grip on my hands when he feels me shudder. “Taking them down is fun, too.” He nuzzles my hair with his nose as he pushes his hips into me, and I bite my lip again, because fire down below!
“Do you like walls, Callaway?”
“Walls can be very nice,” I say weakly.
He starts to grind into me. He is harder than granite.
“Can you guess my favorite thing about walls?”
“No.” A lie, because I’m pretty sure I can, but it’s so much sexier hearing him say it.
There’s a smile in his voice. “I think you know, but I’m going to tell you. Keep your hands behind you for me just like that.” Releasing his grip on me, he unclasps the large clip at the back of my head and tosses it to the floor, spreading his fingers underneath my hair to loosen it and looking at me hungrily.
“I’ve got a bit of a hair fetish,” he shrugs, grinning. “Sorry not sorry.”
No apology necessary. None at all.
Jack’s hands are in my hair, his eyes looking deep, deep into me. “My favorite thing about walls is when I take a woman against one.”
He bends down, his mouth only inches from mine. “Kiss her… touch her.” Our lips are millimeters apart, now. “Lick her.”
His tongue snakes out and runs along my upper lip, then lower lip, as I start to whimper. “Fuck her.”
And then we are kissing deeply, passionately, like we are each other’s oxygen. His fingers are tight in my hair as he attacks my mouth, and I can’t tell if the groans I hear are from me or him or both of us, but oh God, I’m so very glad it’s Wednesday.
I can’t be sure how long we kiss, but it’s not long enough. He pulls back, shaking his head as though he’s in disbelief, his eyes glassy with arousal. “Christ, Madeline...you’re testing the fuck out of me.”
What does this mean?
He takes back both of my hands—this time, in just one of his—and uses his free hand to deftly unbutton my blouse. It occurs to me he’s had lots and lots of practice doing this, but at this moment, I don’t care, because it also occurs to me that I’m going to benefit from all his experience, and I’m more than okay with that.
Thank you, all the sluts that Jack has trained on!
Of course, right now, I am one of those sluts.
I’m more than okay with that, too.
He’s tugging the bottom of my now-unbuttoned blouse from my pants, and once it’s free, he slips two fingers inside my bra, scissoring around my nipple and making me gasp, then repeating the same thing on my other breast with a little more pressure. After he scissors, he gently strokes around my nipple as though to make up for the pinch, and how I appreciate this. Each time he strokes or scissors, the feeling in my nipple shoots down between my legs, and I feel myself pulsing, aching for him to touch me there.
We are kissing aga
in—long, slow, deep kisses that take my breath away. It is driving me crazy that he’s holding my hands back, which of course is why he’s doing it, and I have such a strong urge to touch him that I reluctantly break our kiss.
“Jack…”
He’s breathing hard, locks of his impossibly perfectly tousled hair damp on his forehead. “What is it, sweetheart?”
I’m suddenly feeling shy. “I want to see you shirtless.” Having said it, now I’m feeling bold. “And I want to put my hands on your chest.”
A slow smile drags across his face. “Callaway, I like how you think.”
Stepping back from me, he crosses his arms in front of his waist and does the sexiest shirt removal I’ve ever seen, pulling it up and over his head in one quick, smooth motion, the muscles in his arms bulging. And bonus: his hair is rumplier now.
I’m even more turned on than I was before. Topless Jack Decker is breathtakingly gorgeous, his skin smooth and tanned, his chest and abs so defined, it looks like someone drew muscles on him with pen.
I drink in the sight of him, acutely aware that he is now tracing a line with his finger from just under my bra to below my belly button, and I hope he’s going where I know he’s going.
I reach out to put my hands on his chiseled chest, running them over his skin the way they do in romance novels as my desire climbs. Jack allows this for a few seconds, then folds my hands in his and puts them once again at the small of my back, holding them firmly in his left hand while his right comes around again to the front of my pants.
There is unbuttoning. Unzipping. Sliding down my pants. A murmur for me to step out of them. There is me, trembling, coming unfastened just like my pants.
“Are you wet for me, Madeline?”
Seeing as there’s the equivalent of the Great Lakes in my undies, I would say yes. Yes, I am wet for you, Jack.
I surprise myself by whispering, “I think you should check.”
He kisses my cheek, laughing softly as he runs a finger just inside the waistband of my panties. “Funny, sexy girl.” He holds my hands tighter in his while he eases my panties down to my knees with his free hand. “Step out of these, Madeline, and spread your legs for me. I want full access.”
Oh, God, Jack Decker, you can have it.
I do as he asks, my heart thudding wildly. Being pinned up against the wall like this, unable to move, my hands restrained, with my legs spread and at the mercy of the sexiest man I’ve ever seen...I feel like I’ll come the second he touches me.
I brace myself as I feel his fingers gliding between my legs.
He is touching me. His fingers are skilled, slow, light.
My. God.
He traces my pussy lips and skims the surface of my clit with feather-soft pressure. My thighs are trembling with the effort of not climaxing at this very second; my entire lower half is hot, melting, dripping.
I hear his sharp intake of breath as he slips a finger inside me, his voice thick with desire. “Christ, Callaway...you’re soaked. You’re fucking killing me, woman.”
And you are killing me. His touch is incredible. I have been so starved for so long, I’ve forgotten what this feels like. It’s almost as though I’m back in high school, being touched for the very first time. Like a vir ir ir ir gin.
Oh. He’s pushing his finger deeper inside, using his thumb now to gently massage my clit, and I feel myself tighten around him.
“God, Jack...I want you,” I breathe.
“I’m going to make you come, gorgeous. Spread your legs more.”
I obey him, loving this incredibly hot feeling of being so open, so vulnerable to him. He swirls his finger around my epicenter of pleasure, around and around with a soft, expert touch. I am practically panting with lust. He takes my clit between his thumb and finger and pinches, gently, and I cry out.
“You like that, huh? I love how sensitive you are.”
He drags his finger slowly, lightly around my nub, tickling, teasing.
“You’re so wet, so hot, Madeline...am I making it burn? I want to make it burn.”
“Oh, God, Jack...oh God...” I’m groaning, completely powerless, and barely able to continue standing.
He lets go of my hands to grab my right leg, lifting it up and pushing it toward the wall with his left hand, propping me up so I’m standing on one leg. The effect is electrifying—he has me pinned hard, holding my bent leg close to the wall, and he is stroking my exposed pussy as I feel the first pulses of my climax.
“Come for me, gorgeous girl.” His strokes become faster, harder. I sink my fingers into his taut triceps, holding on tight. He pinches me lightly, then with more pressure as I gasp and try not to scream.
“Jack...oh Jack...please, please!” I am picturing his cock plunging inside me, hard, deep...I want him to fuck me, but there is no time to even ask, because I’m going...going...going…
Gone.
“Ahh, Callaway, you’re such a good girl.” He crushes my mouth with a rough kiss as I jerk and wriggle against his hand, my knees buckling with the force of my climax. I sag against him, gasping for breath, my entire body humming with molten pleasure.
“I guess I don’t have to ask if that was good for you,” he says into my hair.
“No. God, no, you don’t. Sorry if I...overreacted. It’s been a while.”
He looks down at me, a wide smile spreading across his face. “Overreacted? You crack me up. You were just enjoying yourself.” He widens his eyes in mock apprehension as he shifts his pelvis against me. “Imagine if we’d actually had sex. You’d probably spontaneously combust.”
In my post-climactic haze, I am aware of something pressing against my leg. Something very large. Like biggest-zucchini-in-your-garden large.
I want to repay the favor.
Stepping back into my panties, I pull them up and then put my hands at his belt buckle. I hear him draw in his breath.
“I don’t believe I gave you permission to do that, Callaway.”
“I don’t believe I asked, Decker.” I’m unbuckling, unbuttoning with eager fingers. He is straining against the denim fabric. I want to take care of him, both out of gratitude for what he did to me and to satisfy my own curiosity, because just how big is this thing?
“I wanted this to be only about you, Madeline.” He covers my hands with his, but I am on a mission, and with his quickening breaths, I can tell he’s going to let me have my way with him.
As if there was any doubt. I mean, seriously.
“Then you’ll let me do this, because this is what I want.” With anticipation sparking inside me, I slide down his zipper and push down his pants and boxers to his knees.
Oh. M. F. Gee.
I may not be an expert on penis size, but I know there are those members that could be deemed satisfactory—that you won’t be embarrassed for the guy when you actually see it. There are erections in the next level that make you confident you’ll feel sufficiently stretched when it’s inside you.
And then there is Jack Decker, a/k/a Paul Bunyan, in his own category.
He. Is. Enormous. The tip is the size of a doorknob, and I find myself getting wet all over again, imagining how this would feel inside me—that is, if it could actually fit inside me.
I want to try. Very, very badly.
He is all man, so eye-poppingly, panty-sizzlingly sexy, that I shock myself with how much I want to drop to my knees in front of him and take him in my mouth. He is long and thick and smooth—as though he is carved of stone—and I take him in my hand and begin to stroke.
A delicious thrill ricochets through me when I hear him make a sound that’s half groan, half sigh. He bends down to start kissing me again with his delicious mouth. I suck on his lower lip, his tongue, as I run my hand along his length, closing my fingers a little more as I reach the head to give him more friction.
Jack puts one hand on the wall to steady himself, the other arm wrapped around me, looking down at the floor with his eyes closed and fierce concentration on h
is face. He is so goddamned sexy like this, trapped in place by his own pants with his legs spread as much as they can. I move my hand down to the base of his cock, cupping and stroking his balls, then return to his big, sensitive head. I am so turned on by him, and I can’t resist whispering it.
His exhales are harsh, raspy. “You want me to fuck you, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I breathe. “God, yes.”
“Jesus, Madeline...I want my cock inside you,” he growls, his shaft hard as steel. I stroke him hard and fast as his breathing accelerates and my own desire ignites. A mighty shudder, and then he explodes. I keep stroking, rubbing the slippery evidence of his arousal all up and down his member, loving the sounds he is making, relishing the power I have over this gorgeous man—feeling so glad that I made him come.
Jack takes a step back carefully since his pants are at his ankles, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his upper body. His erection is fading, but he still looks long and full. He runs a hand through his hair as he grins at me. “Whew. Jesus. Thanks, Callaway—that was much appreciated. And now I’ve got to clean up. Sorry—boys can be messy.” He winks and gives me a sheepish smile, and my heart skips a beat at the mischievous teenager I see in his bright blue eyes.
“Wait right here.” Blushing, I hold my blouse around me as I go to get the box of Kleenex from my nightstand. I’m suddenly feeling a little self-conscious with him now, post-festivities. Obviously, things will be different between us, and I’m not quite sure how. I wasn’t prepared for the intensity of getting intimate with him.
I return to him and hand him the tissues. He thanks me, and I hastily busy myself with buttoning up my blouse and putting my pants back on as he takes care of himself, going into the bathroom to dispose of the Kleenex. When he comes back, he seems relaxed and happy. Typical male, not to overthink things. Me, on the other hand…
