by Brandon Witt
I could feel his grin against my neck. “I love the way you talk to me so pretty, baby.” And then he complied, pinning me down and fucking me into the floor.
“Yesssss,” I hissed, pushing back onto him, meeting his hard thrusts. “That’s. Fucking. It. Don’t stop.” I could feel the pressure building in my core, the tingles spreading through my extremities. “Don’t you dare fucking stop.”
“You feel so fucking… good,” he managed, mouth flush against my neck. “I don’t know how much… how much longer….”
There was something just fundamentally different about making love to someone who loved you back. Every move, every touch was meaningful. Fingers lingered and stroked. Lips caressed, and words were whispered. We found each other’s rhythm—moved in perfect synchronicity without any effort at all.
His hand took control of my bobbing cock and began a firm stroke, base to tip, that mirrored his thrusts in my ass. When his thumb dug into the slit, I gasped, my back going rigid. I yelled as I spurted over his hand, coming so hard I saw stars, forgetting that I was at a bed-and-breakfast with vanilla guests and very thin walls. Dimly I was aware of Jordan groaning in my ear, his thrusts taking on an erratic rhythm. He convulsed against my back, and I felt him swell inside me, his hand falling off my sensitive cock. He came for quite some time, shivery and jerking there, heavy on my back as I braced us both against the storm, my breath still coming harsh and fast in my ears.
My knees hurt a little, and my leg was starting to cramp, but I would stay there as long as he wanted me to, as long as he needed me to. His weight finally powered me flat to the floor, and I collapsed there silently, his body heavy and welcome on my back. I didn’t yet care that I was lying face-first on a strange floor. Or that I had just screamed the walls down in the most intense orgasm of my life.
I briefly spared a prayer that my fellow guests had attended the Thursday night hayride and wondered how I was going to get my brains back on the inside of my head.
“You think they heard that?” Jordan’s voice, sleepy and quiet, echoed my own thoughts.
“Wonder if we’ll get a refund if the guests demand our removal?”
“You got a check from this inn in the mail,” he said, yawning. I felt bereft as Jordan slipped out of me. I heard him disposing of the condom but couldn’t be bothered to open my eyes yet.
A check in the mail? My eyes flew open. “What?”
“Peyton must have sent you a refund. I assumed you knew. That’s how I knew the exact address.”
I popped up like a jack-in-the-box. “That sneaky little mountain man. He knew I wouldn’t get it until I got back.”
Jordan flopped onto the bed. “Get up here. I have activities planned for you that don’t involve a crick in your neck and a sore back. At least not until after.”
My eyes went wide, but I was revitalized enough to scramble up and join him in bed. Sounded promising. And Jordan always kept his promises.
Chapter 32
I WOKE up alone. Cold. Instinctively, I snuggled into the blankets, gradually awakening. I looked around, getting my bearings, fighting the softness of the bed that threatened to pull me back into dreamland. The dying firelight was low and lazy, sending dark patterns flitting across the walls. Despite the lure of the cozy bed, I got up, sticking my bare feet in a pair of Sugar Valley slippers. I pulled on a pair of jeans and padded to the deck. When I slid the door open, cold air rustled through the room, and I wished I’d bothered to find a shirt.
He was sprawled in one of the Adirondack chairs, one of the custom white Sugar Valley blankets on his lap. I stood there on one foot, the other scratching my leg, wondering how to approach him. We hadn’t exactly ended on a sour note, but we’d both said some harsh things.
As if he’d felt my presence, he looked back at me, and we stared at each other wordlessly. After a moment, he snorted and lifted the edge of his blanket.
I dove under, suddenly aware that I had been unconsciously asking to do so, and settled my chilly body against his heat. He retucked the blanket around me and locked his arms around that. The cold was as good as toast.
“You make eyes like a deer,” he informed me.
I snuggled against him, fitting my head in the hollow between his chin and his neck. “You just say that because my eyes are brown.”
“They’re hazel. And they’re beautiful. Everything about you is beautiful. And I can’t believe you’re mine.”
I stroked the back of his hand, adding to my mental scrapbook the map of his hand—memorizing every curve, every scar, every groove of the man I loved and only important to me. “You say that like you mean it.”
“I rarely say things I don’t mean.”
The wind whistled through the tall trees in a sweet symphony of sound that only nature could make. I heard laughter somewhere below us and the sound of the front door to the warm inn opening and closing. I snuggled closer. We would go back home, sure, but we would take this moment (and a few Sugar Valley robes) with us.
“Do you think it will snow?”
“Probably.” He tightened his arms around me. “You cold?”
I shook my head. “I meant what I said, you know.”
“About what?”
“About taking this slow.”
He stiffened beneath me, and I rubbed my hand across his chest in a manner that could only be described as soothing.
“Not to give us an out, but to make sure we do it right. I don’t want to shut you out to protect myself. I never did. It was just too hard to think about you leaving me and too hard to let you in.” I drew an imaginary circle on his shirt. Added eyes and a smiley. “I spend the greater portion of every day picking through the curdled remains of love that was. Despite my protests to the contrary, I don’t know if I even believed it truly existed. Until now.” I half smiled. “You defined my love. Short of holding a boom box over my head and singing ‘Don’t wanna miss a thing,’ that’s the best way I can describe it.”
“God no, please don’t ruin it.”
My hands slid into his hair as I angled my mouth over his. It’d been too long since we’d kissed like this… three hours? Too long since I’d felt his mouth take absolute possession of mine and too long since I’d felt the mind-emptying indulgence of his kiss.
“Say it again,” I murmured.
He didn’t hesitate, and his eyes, big-sky-country blue, seared my soul with intensity. “I love you.” After a moment, his affronted voice broke the stillness. “Don’t you have something to say in return?”
I pretended to think. “You’d better?”
I closed my eyes, a smile creeping across my face. I enjoyed my sassiness for two seconds before he dug his fingers in my ribs, causing me to laugh and shriek. “All right, all right! I love you too.”
We listened to the sounds of the inn shutting down for the night. Lights going off. Doors closing softly.
“Good night, John-Boy,” I said, and Jordan elbowed me.
“Too bad I didn’t know we’d resolve this amicably. I used up my grand gesture.”
“Yeah?” I yawned. “What is that?”
“I was going to invite my parents here and declare my love for you. Trust me, with their gossipy nature, that’s like taking out an ad in the Sun Sentinel. People I know. Not just random people seeing me hold your hand.” He picked up said hand and kissed it gently.
“Too bad,” I laughed. “I might have enjoyed that spectacle. So glad you didn’t really invite your parents here.” When he didn’t join my laughter, I looked back at his innocent face.
“You didn’t. Right?”
“My dad loves fishing. You love fishing. That’s something you guys can enjoy together.”
I groaned. “Argh! I have no desire to visit with your parents and perfect family and watch you all reenact It’s a Wonderful Life being a Channing.”
“Have you even seen It’s a Wonderful Life?” he accused.
“No, why? It’s not about a wonderful life?”
/> “God, Mac.” He set squinty eyes on me. “You will meet my parents, and you will be your loving, charming self. Except minus the blasphemy and sex jokes.”
“That’s all I have.” I shook my head. “The things I do for love.”
“What kind of things?”
I tossed back the blanket and stood, holding out my hand. “I show better than I tell.”
He grinned and took it, letting me pull him to a standing position. “Baby, I kind of like your style.”
S.E. HARMON has had a lifelong love affair with writing. It’s been both wonderful and rocky (they’ve divorced several times), but they always manage to come back together. She’s a native Floridian with a Bachelor of Arts and a Masters in Fine Arts, and used to spend her time writing educational grants. She now splits her days between voraciously reading romance novels and squirreling away someplace to write them. Her current beta reader is a nosy American Eskimo who begrudgingly accepts payment in the form of dog biscuits.
Website: http://seharmon.weebly.com
E-mail: [email protected]
To Susana, and all that coffee!
I TOOK one last look at my reflection in the mirror and decided that decent was about as good as it was going to get.
I was freshly showered and shaved—the five-dollar polo shirt was the best I had—and the jeans were the only pair I owned that didn’t have a hole in them. I kept my hair cropped close enough to my head that it didn’t require combing, and the usual thick, gold chain I wore around my neck had been carefully hidden in the drawer in my bedroom. I’d decided to keep the single gold stud in my ear, though. I made no apologies for my orientation and I might as well be upfront about that in my interview. Besides, an empty hole in my lobe pretty much said the same thing as a solitary earring.
With a final look in the mirror, I grabbed my keys, wallet, and phone, and walked out the door. The bus stop was only a few yards away, and the buses ran frequently along the main road. I didn’t even have a chance to contemplate whether I wanted to risk sitting on the bus-shelter bench seat and possibly get gum or some shit on my pants before I spied the squarish green Transperth vehicle approaching.
Carefully I waved the driver down and was disgusted to count out the change needed. A whole $2.80 for a frickin’ bus ride to travel three suburbs away. My budget was waaay past stressed, had sailed on past hurting with barely a flicker of its eyelid, and was firmly staring at oh-my-God-you-have-to-be-joking. I could feed all five foot ten of my body on two dollars a day with wise shopping and no fancy frills. It was painful to hand over the money to the bus driver and only receive a tiny white ticket in exchange.
I found an empty seat and—after carefully checking—plonked my arse down for the ten-minute journey. I would’ve preferred to ride my trusty, rusty bike, but that would mean arriving at a job interview all sweaty. Not such a good first impression.
Okay, I conceded to myself, second impression. I’d already blown the first impression. I’d worked my usual Sunday-night shift down at The Gardie Tav and had arrived home at 2:00 a.m. So when my mobile phone rang just before nine in the morning, I was not exactly Cheerful Charlie on the phone. Without opening my eyes I’d slammed the device against my ear and growled, “Yeah? What?”
A small pause ensued, and I was about to hang up when a no-nonsense, female voice asked, “Is that Jacob Manning?” That woke me up fast. This was no marketing call from India or drunken mother calling because she couldn’t find her car keys. The voice was older, polished, refined and with a definite military-like bark to it.
I sat up, looked at the bedside clock, and put on my best yes-boss-no-boss tone, “Yes. This is him.”
“Mr. Manning, my name is Mrs. Martha West and I’m from Housekeeping Inc. We have received your resume in the mail this morning and I was wondering if you had time to come and see me for an interview this morning at ten o’clock?”
Floored doesn’t even begin to describe my reaction. I had put my resume in the post on Friday because I was desperate for any kind of work. I thought the company may have some sort of outdoor cleaning branch or industrial contracts that I might suit. Anything was good, and I figured it couldn’t hurt. The postage had cost me over a dollar, but I had managed to peel a sixty-cent stamp off an envelope that my housemate had received, so I happily sent my details to the company for half price.
Suddenly I realized that Mrs. Martha West was still waiting for my reply. “Ahh, sure. At your Applecross office?” That was where the newspaper advertisement had instructed the resumes to be sent.
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
“No, ma’am. I just need to take the bus, so as long as there isn’t a bus strike I can be there at ten.”
The ma’am was a little over the top, but she had that prissy, snobby voice that gave me flashbacks to Mrs. Sydney-Smith’s science classes where we had to call her ma’am or do detention. I’d chosen the detention every day after school for four weeks before caving in to her demands. I would’ve gone longer, but my little sister was sick, and I wanted to get home so I could take care of her.
“Good.”
“Would you like me to bring anything with me?”
“Determination and brass balls.” And then she hung up.
Well, fuck me. Obviously Mrs. Martha West wasn’t as snooty as I first thought. No problems, though. Me and my brass balls were pretty inseparable.
I grinned to myself as I pictured a matronly woman instructing me to drop my pants for inspection. I’d bring my brass balls as long as she didn’t ask to see them!
MRS. MARTHA West was exactly how she sounded on the phone. Her hair was liberally sprinkled with gray and had been ruthlessly pulled back into a bun and secured with a dozen pins. Her suit was gray too—a gray knee-length skirt, an ugly gray jacket over a spotless white shirt buttoned to her throat, and a gray-and-red silk scarf wrapped around the collar for a bit of color. She didn’t smile, she didn’t chitchat, and she didn’t offer me a glass of water. She just took a seat behind a massive but immaculate desk and waved me to the chair on the other side.
My resume was centered directly in front of her, and she picked it up and flicked through the pages before skewering me with a glare from her surprisingly bright blue eyes.
“Mr. Manning, I see you have had a variety of jobs in the past, none of which you have stayed at for very long.”
“Yes.” Well, it wasn’t like I could refute that. My sad and colorful employment history was noted in black and white in front of her.
She pursed her lips. “Any particular reason for that?”
I sighed. “Not really. A combination of personality clashes, better opportunities opening up, and some plain bad luck.” I did try to be a little diplomatic. This was a job interview after all.
Two well-plucked brows rose skyward. “Personality clashes? As in you didn’t get along with your coworkers? Or was it that you were unable to take instruction from your supervisor?”
Yes and yes… sometimes, anyway. “I refuse to do anything illegal, ma’am. That got me fired a couple of times. I’m gay, just so’s you know. So, if that’s a problem, I can leave now. But don’t go giving me a job and then giving me grief for my lifestyle later. My orientation has gotten me into trouble a number of times. And sometimes my bosses have just been real meatheads. I don’t tolerate idiots. It’s a personality flaw I’m working on. Sometimes biting my tongue gets a little painful and I end up telling people how to do the job better. Not everyone appreciates efficiency and good practice.”
Mrs. Martha West’s expression didn’t change. I wondered idly if she was Botoxed up? I’d heard that stuff can make changing your expression a little hard. But Mrs. Martha West didn’t look down or away. She just stared at me. I suspected this was the end of my interview.
“Mr. Manning, you sound like you have a smart mouth on you.”
Hell, yes. “I’m sorry. I’m working on that too. And please call me Jake. I know that sometimes my mouth runs away fr
om my brain, but I’m a good, hard worker, Mrs. West. I can do the shit jobs without complaining, I turn up on time, I don’t call in sick unless I’m dying, and I’m desperate for a job.”
My inner smarty-pants was laughing at me. Desperate was an understatement.
Mrs. Martha West pursed her lips again. “Do you have any sort of cleaning experience at all?”
I gave a small cough. “I’ve been cleaning up after my sisters since I was old enough to use a flannel, ma’am. I’m the oldest, Mrs. West. My mother was a single mum, so I was left in charge a lot. I can do any sort of household chore you want. I’ve done cleaning in my jobs, too. Not houses, but I’ve cleaned bars and shops and offices and trucks and even pets. You tell me what you want done, and as long as you’re paying me and it won’t give me AIDS or rabies, I’ll clean it.”
That seemed to meet with her approval. She shuffled aside my appalling record of employment and picked up a manila folder. The folder seemed to hold only a couple of pieces of paper, but whatever was inside was unpleasant from the looks of it. I tried to see what the label on the front said, but I could only make out the word “Stanford.”
The file was closed and put neatly on her desk, perfectly aligned with the edge. Mrs. Martha West leaned forward on her elbows and addressed me earnestly. “Mr. Manning—Jake. I started cleaning houses when I was fourteen. I grew up in an orphanage and there wasn’t much else that was available to a girl in those days. I’ve cleaned houses for the rich, for the famous, for the obnoxious, for the prejudiced, for the offensive, for the crude, and even for royalty. I’ve put up with attitudes and rudeness my whole life. Don’t get me wrong, most of my employers were extremely nice. Those people are now my clients and they are unfailingly polite and lovely. But there are some out there who are just… angry with the whole world.”
She tapped the manila folder and leaned back in her seat. I was confused and unsure how to answer. But the woman continued her story without input from my side of the desk. “I’ve worked hard to get where I am. I’ve been an honest employer to those who are easily taken advantage of and I’ve built my business with a reputation for excellence. I have over two hundred women on my books who can clean for me—some men too, but mostly women. And not one of those women will take on this client for me.”
