The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3)

by Julianna Keyes

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I say very, very carefully. “I just...Let’s do it a different way.” There. I’m not going to criticize the blowjob, just suggest something else entirely.

  “Why?”

  Ah...I scratch my neck and look away, trying to think of a sane reason a guy would turn this down.

  Susan’s staring at my erection, throbbing and insistent, so she knows it’s not a mechanical issue. And I see the very moment insecurity sets in. Dammit. “No,” I say, a little too loudly, sitting up to grab her arm when she moves to get up. “It’s not because of you. Fuck, Susan. You know I want you.”

  She’s struggling to keep her expression neutral. “Then what’s the problem?”

  “There’s no problem. Honest.”

  Her nostrils flare. “Don’t lie to me. If there’s a problem, just say so. I can handle it.”

  I scrub a hand over my face. “Susan...”

  She pulls her arm from my grip and clambers off the bed. I catch a glimpse of the pink flesh between her legs and before I know it, I’m following her, sitting on the edge of the mattress, feet on the floor, my fingers tangled in hers as she tries to pull away. “I want it a little messier,” I say quickly, feeling my face heat. I don’t know if she’s going to slap me or grill me about what, exactly, “messier” means. Slowly she turns to look at me, the damp curls covering her pussy so close I can smell her.

  “How does that work?” she asks.

  Very hesitantly, I raise my eyes. If I’m expecting anger or indignation, I’m mistaken. She looks very serious. Studious, even. Mentally preparing to take another set of very thorough notes.

  “I love everything you do,” I begin cautiously.

  “Oscar, spit it out,” she orders. “None of this ‘constructive criticism’ bullshit. What do you want me to do differently?”

  “You’re a little textbook,” I blurt out. “And it feels good, but sometimes it’s a little predictable. A little cold.”

  Oh shit. I hear her sharp inhale, see the muscles in her belly flutter like I sucker punched her. I didn’t mean to use that word.

  “You think I’m cold?”

  I can see her thighs tense, getting ready to flee. “You’re the furthest thing from cold,” I assure her, not letting go of her hand, even when she makes a halfhearted effort to free herself. “That’s not what I meant. You’re sexy and beautiful and—”

  “Your point, please.”

  “Susan.”

  “Be specific. What do you want me to do?”

  I’m thirty-four. I should just be able to tell her. We’re both consenting adults. It’s not like I’m asking her to bark like a dog or shove a cucumber up my ass. “Fine,” I make myself say. “Get on your knees.”

  Her eyebrows raise. “Right now?”

  “Yeah.” I toss a pillow on the floor at my feet, then do my very best to look imperious when I indicate that she should kneel on it, which she does, very, very slowly. She drops back onto her heels, putting some distance between us so she can watch my face.

  “What’s the problem with me touching your head during oral?” I ask.

  Her mouth opens then closes again, startled but unwilling to share.

  “Susan.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Why not? I’m not going to shove my cock down your throat. I just want somewhere to put my hands sometimes.”

  A flush is rising up her chest and she’s breathing very carefully, trying to stay calm.

  “Susan?”

  “Fine,” she says abruptly. “You can do it. But if I tell you to stop, you have to stop. Right away.”

  I peer at her in concern. “Of course I would.”

  “Good. Then there’s no problem. Now, what else?”

  She’s faltering a little. The reserved doctor persona giving way to the woman on her knees with an erection ten inches from her face. The woman asking for sex instructions, only half as bashful as I would be.

  “Let me guide it a little bit,” I say softly, reaching for her with one hand, sliding my fingers through her silky hair, loose now, the ponytail abandoned during round one. I cup the back of her head in my palm and she tenses but doesn’t pull away, letting me draw her in until my cock is millimeters from her lips. The pink tip of her tongue darts out nervously, and my balls tighten, everything in me so fucking, strangely into this.

  I feel the lightest brush of her hands on my feet as she braces herself, fingers slipping up my calves to rest just below my knees as she leans in and opens her mouth, encircling the head of my cock with her lips. Her tongue flicks into the slit and over the sensitive spot just beneath, and I mumble something incoherent, watching.

  She keeps her eyes open, glancing up at me, checking in, making sure she’s doing it right. This is what I want to avoid. The part of Susan that’s looking for an A. Cautiously, I increase my grip on her skull and start to move her head, bringing her in, pulling her back, the pace random and unpredictable. Her nails dig into my kneecaps but she doesn’t fight me, and eventually some of the tension in her shoulders eases and I see her relax, accepting the fact that she can’t control the pace, and that I’m not going to hurt her.

  She reaches for my cock with her hand, but I put it back on my knee. “Just your mouth,” I tell her. “For now.” She looks up at me and nods as best she can, so beautifully willing.

  After a minute I spread my legs a little wider and lean back on my free hand, sliding out of her mouth. My cock’s already pointing at the ceiling but I pull it back to my stomach so she can get at my balls. She’s done it before, so I know it’s not a problem when I say, “Use your hand like this—” I indicate where I’m slowly stroking my cock “—and lick my balls.”

  Oh, Jesus. It’s so fucking crude. I have thoughts like this, sure, but I very rarely say them out loud. It’s just with Susan, I know she’s not going to get offended and run away. If she doesn’t want to she’ll just say so and we’ll move on, and if she doesn’t know how she’ll ask for directions and give it a shot. There’s something freeing about being with a woman like that, and if it keeps up I know I’ll fall—

  My head flops back and I groan, the most heartfelt fucking sound I’ve ever made as she sucks one ball into her mouth and rolls her tongue over it. I cover her hand and together we jerk me off. My hips arch off the bed when she moves to the other side, hot wet suction that feels filthy and amazing. And she was worried I thought she was cold?

  Speaking of which. I focus my gaze enough to see her left shoulder bobbing, and now that I think of it, that hand is unaccounted for. She’s getting herself off and I can’t even see.

  “Susan,” I say more sharply than I mean to. She releases my balls and licks up my shaft.

  “Mmm-hmm?”

  “Don’t you dare come when I’m not watching.”

  She falters, then I see that arm stop moving.

  “Give me your hand.”

  “Oscar.”

  “Let me see it.”

  Her lips twitch, embarrassed and amused, as she raises her left hand. I grip her dainty wrist and even before I bring her fingers to my nose, I see the wetness there. “We can talk about this after,” I say, sucking her index finger into my mouth.

  She moans and I do the same with the next two fingers, then return her hand to my knee where I can keep an eye on it.

  I stroke the fine line of her jaw. “Can I finish in your mouth?”

  “Can I finish right after?”

  “You’d better.”

  She doesn’t need my help after this, sucking, stroking, nails scraping, eyes flickering up to mine. There’s saliva easing down the side of my cock, gathered up in her twisting hand, slipping down to my balls, cupping and squeezing until I can’t take it anymore.

  “Five seconds,” I gasp. My l
egs are splayed wide, both hands cupping her face as I watch her spectacular, well-educated mouth show me what she’s learned. I’m so hard it hurts, my balls pulled up tight, and when I explode my hands grip her face until she winces and I have to force myself to let go, holding her shoulders instead.

  I come with a shout, the whole room spinning, and I hear her slurping, drops of come escaping to land on her chin, even as she does her best to swallow everything. I’ve never come in her mouth before, I can’t really say why. On her belly, her chest, in her hand, my hand. Maybe it felt too personal to do something like this with someone so decidedly distant. But there’s nothing impersonal about watching her wipe the back of her fingers across her jaw, tidying up. Her lips are red and puffy, ridiculously hot.

  “Get yourself off,” I order softly, as soon as I find my breath. It takes a second for the words to penetrate, then she slowly lifts her eyes to mine and I see her right hand move between her legs. I join her on the floor—as though I’d ever miss this show—and she changes positions so she’s sitting with her knees pulled up and open, back resting against the nightstand. I know she’s watching my face but I’m just watching her pussy, wet and splayed wide for me, two fingers pushing inside the channel I know from personal experience to be heaven on earth.

  Her other hand strokes her clit and I pay attention, her studious bullshit rubbing off.

  “Oscar,” she pants after a minute. Her temples are damp with sweat, her hands working feverishly between her legs.

  “What do you need?” I know what I need. A fucking video camera. I’ll quit my job and watch this performance on repeat for the rest of my life.

  “I—”

  I watch her struggle to say whatever’s on her mind.

  “Susan. Tell me.”

  “I—”

  “Suze—”

  Her eyes snap closed and she wrenches her face to the side, shutting me out as she comes. I’m about five percent disappointed and ninety-five percent mesmerized by the sight of her hands working her pussy, and that’s what I concentrate on now, seeing the flesh spasm, the way she draws it out, fingers gentling when she gets too sensitive to sustain the contact.

  Her chest is heaving but she still won’t look at me, and when she closes her legs and wraps an arm around her knees I take it as my cue. I stand up and brush her bangs out of her eyes. “I’ll go grab some water.”

  She nods, and I don’t begrudge her the distance. That was intense. I don’t think she’s mad, I think she’s on new ground and she’s trying to figure out how to navigate it. And I’m not the right person to ask for help. Because this shit is new for me, too. Letting go a little. Feeling like I’ve found someone to do that with.

  She’s in the bathroom when I get back, so I pull on my boxers and polish off my water as I study the dark city skyline. I hear the click of the door pulling open and turn to see her come out, dressed in an oversized T-shirt. She picks up her glass of water and joins me at the window, smelling like mint toothpaste.

  “You okay?” I ask, putting an arm around her.

  “That was real,” she says after a moment. She sips the water and looks out the window at the sea of sparkling lights.

  I’m a little surprised by the comment, but I can’t disagree with it. “I know.”

  She inhales, shoulders rising and falling beneath my arm. “Don’t forget it.”

  * * *

  As if there’s any possible way for me to forget. I think about it nonstop the following day at work, and I’m still thinking about it when Jade and I drive over to the Green Space that evening. The playground equipment arrived as scheduled yesterday, transforming what used to be a place for twenty-dollar blowjobs into a jungle gym, slide, and swings. There’s even a sandbox. The sight of the brightly colored pieces being driven in had drawn clusters of curious kids from all over the neighborhood, their interest suitably piqued.

  We’ve divided the main level into two spaces. On the right is a study area with tables and chairs, on the left is an indoor basketball court. The basketball net was installed last night, the lines on the floor are painted, and now Jade’s not the only thing distracting the guys from their work.

  “...Mrs. Ricky Diaz,” Jade finishes.

  I brake for a red light and look at her in horror. I haven’t been listening for the past five minutes, but what the ever-loving fuck? “What did you just say?”

  “Obviously you don’t care, or you would have been paying attention.” Jade shoots me a disapproving librarian look, enhanced by the high-collared blouse she’s wearing, paired with a decidedly non-librarian-tight black skirt and knee-high boots.

  “Tell me you’re not marrying Ricky.”

  “I’m not marrying Ricky. We’re still broken up. I just knew you weren’t listening. Are you going to marry Susan?”

  My foot hits the gas a split second before the light turns green and we lurch into the intersection. “Jesus, Jade. No, I’m not going to marry Susan. I’ve known her a month.”

  “So?”

  “So that’s a little fast, wouldn’t you say?”

  “It’s not fast if you love somebody.”

  “I don’t love her.”

  Jade gapes at me. “Are you an idiot?”

  “Depends on who you ask, apparently.”

  “Yeah. You’re an idiot. She’s a genius doctor, Oz. And for whatever reason, she seems to like you.”

  That’s it, exactly. She likes me, no question. But love? I’m not sure she’s there yet. I’m not sure she’s going to get there, either. I can teach her to give head the way I like, but teach her to love me? That feels a little pathetic.

  I take the easy way out. “Things are going well, Jade. Leave it alone.”

  “Speaking of things I’m supposed to leave alone, is Wyatt going to be there tonight?”

  “Stay away from him. He’s my only gardener.”

  “No problem there, Oz. He treats me like I have the plague.”

  I look at her, interested. “Oh yeah? Why?”

  “Beats me! Any time I try to talk to him he just mumbles something and runs away.”

  “I know it’s new for you, Jade, but maybe he’s not interested.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Maybe he’s gay.”

  “That has to be it.”

  She reluctantly cracks a smile. “Are you excited about Morrisburg?”

  I hesitate. Is it mean to tell her I’m looking forward to enjoying her thwarted vacation plans? “Should be fun.”

  “Did you buy champagne?”

  “It’s in my fridge.”

  She looks delightedly surprised. “Really?”

  “Yes. And if you say anything to Susan, I’ll throw it away.”

  She tosses her head back and laughs. “You tightwad. You would not. And I’m not going to tell her anything. Except which lingerie to bring.”

  “Don’t talk to Susan about lingerie. I don’t want to think about you while I’m there.”

  More laughter. “You dirty perv. You think about me anyway.”

  We’re a block away from the building when I halt at a stop sign. “Get out here, Jade. I don’t care what happens to you.”

  She just keeps laughing.

  * * *

  It’s after eight when Jade finds me on the second floor of the Green Space. This level is still empty with the exception of one office I’d outfitted with a cheap desk, a couple of chairs, and a file cabinet with a lock.

  We’d received an anonymous donation of used books earlier in the week, so I’d picked up some bookshelves, put them together, and Jade spent the last hours stocking them. The Camden library closed after a flood a few years ago and there’s been no initiative to open a new one, so it, like so many buildings in this piece-of-shit town, sits rotting and empty. Our little study
corner just got an upgrade.

  “Hey,” Jade says, taking the seat opposite me, uncharacteristically serious.

  I glance up from my laptop. I’d spent the better part of the evening keeping track of the mounting expenses for this place, and the last fifteen minutes reading reviews for the Morrisburg Yurt Resort. First things first, however. We’ve got the grand opening in three days, and the more this place comes together, the more optimistic I start to feel. The mayor of Camden is coming, as well as a few news outlets, including that creepy Larry. Lots of local parents and kids have been asking questions, and if their curiosity converts to actual attendance, this grand opening might actually be grand, on Camden’s modest scale.

  Jade’s got her phone in one hand and she squints at it, strumming her fingers on her knee anxiously. “Have you seen this?” she asks finally, thrusting the phone at my face. I frown but accept it, holding the screen under the desk lamp to see it better. I stare at the online edition of Larry’s article, scheduled to appear in the West Chicago News print edition that comes out tomorrow.

  Dr. Susan Jones’ Compassionate Makeover, reads the headline. By Larry Lurst.

  It only gets worse from there. “Six weeks after Chicago-Davis Hospital was forced to issue an apology on behalf of its star neurosurgeon, Dr. Susan Jones appears to have learned her lesson. While renowned for her skills with a scalpel, Dr. Jones’ bedside manner has been a constant source of chagrin for the esteemed hospital. This all came to a head during ‘Garter Gate,’ when the divorced parents of a young patient reported Jones to the hospital board after she allegedly told them, ‘No amount of brain surgery can heal the damage you two do with your non-stop fighting.’ The complaint alleges Dr. Jones implied they were to blame for their son’s inherited condition, and that they would be to blame for his death as well, did they not stop bickering.”

  I stop reading, my breath coming much too fast. This whole story is news to me, but it’s not entirely out of character for her. That’s just the introduction, however. The real “story” is what follows. “It’s hard to believe that the woman championing a charitable new project in Camden is the same one from those reports. For weeks Dr. Jones has been working tirelessly to bring to fruition a rooftop garden and community center that will provide both a safe haven and healthy produce to a town in dangerously short supply.”