Dark Moon Falls: Jaxson

by S. J. Pierce

  As a seven-time gold medalist in the Sex Olympics (and a bachelor who keeps decent food around), he really deserves more than this, but it’s all I have for now. I’m throwing in a pack of bacon for good measure.

  When the crepe is ready, I flip it onto a plate and fill it with the cream cheese and strawberry mixture, fold it over on itself, and then top it with fresh strawberries and powdered sugar. Grin at my creation.

  Kyle would be proud. Rooming with a culinary major in college had its benefits.

  I look through the back window, which is pretty much the whole back wall of the house, as I stir the crepe mixture before I pour more into the pan. Kyle would be extra proud at the man I nailed last night. And a whole lot of jealous. He’s a sucker for dark hair and blue eyes.

  I’ll make sure to rub it in at our next brunch.

  As I stir, my hand pauses when I see Jaxson jogging up through the woods. The top half of his hair has been tied back. His grey ball shorts hang low on his hips and something white drapes over his shoulders. A towel? Or maybe it was a long-sleeved shirt he was wearing and had to take off when he got too hot.

  I bite my lip when he stops and pulls the hair tie out of his hair, dark strands falling around his face. His chest heaves to catch his breath. Something about a sweaty, chiseled man does it for me. Something about him does it for me.

  His eyes don’t rake across the back of the house to see if I’m up, and I realize I have a moment to watch him when he doesn’t think I’m looking. I turn off the stovetop, set down my coffee, clean my hands on a dishrag, and approach the window to see him better. Like I’m observing a jaguar in his natural habitat.

  He heads for something to his right, kicking off his shoes on the way, and slides his shorts down. Throws them toward the house. I involuntarily wrap my arms around my torso with a moan at the sight of his dick. Even in the morning chill, it’s magnificent.

  If only I could have him one more time before I leave.

  He continues to the right, wiping his face on the white thing around his neck, and then tosses it in the same direction as his shorts. I have to press my face against the window to see what he’s after. My jaw drops.

  A pool.

  Of course, he has a pool. With an adjoining hot tub. And a fire pit, an outdoor kitchen, and rows of padded loungers.

  He dives into the deep end and sprouts up near the other side. When he emerges, he slicks his hair back and out of his face. Pinches the water from the end of his nose. Something etches lines between his eyebrows as he stares blankly into the woods around us. Concern? Sadness? This man looks more serious than the guy I knew last night. Something heavy weighs on his shoulders.

  I watch for a couple minutes before I can’t stand it anymore and pull away from the window. Time to go down and—

  Shit.

  I left a greasy faceprint.

  Scrambling, I manage to find some glass cleaner in his hall closet and use a paper towel to wipe it off.

  Such a spaz, Rhee. I should have really committed and drooled down the window for effect.

  Now, if I can manage to make it down to him without falling or something equally embarrassing.

  He doesn’t see me when I appear on the back deck above him, the wood cold and slick beneath my feet. He’s lost in his dark and broody thoughts.

  Slowly, I descend, not wanting to startle him (or slip), and wait for him to notice me at the bottom of the stairs. His back is now turned, but a quick jerk of his head to the side tells me he senses something.

  He turns to face me.

  And suddenly, as if the darkness in his features never existed, he lights up from within.

  I like it more than I’ll admit.

  “Morning, beautiful,” he says.

  My stomach flutters at the sentiment, but I’m still unsure how to react to him calling me that. So, I stand there like an idiot. Funny how liquid courage gives you just that…courage. Today, I’m just a mid-twenties girl who’s out of my element with a man I know hardly anything about.

  “Morning,” I finally say, my breath pluming. The morning chill bites against the tip of my nose. “You’re a morning person, huh?”

  He laughs. “Did you find the coffee?”

  “I did.”

  I start to shiver from lack of clothes, and he moves closer, the water rippling around his waist. Steam curls toward the heavens. Heated pool. A quick motion of his hand. “Come, take a dip with me.”

  I grin. The sunrise colors the horizon behind me in vibrant shades of orange and pink, and I’m sure it’s filtering through his white shirt and carving the shape of my naked silhouette. He’s ready to get his hands on me again. “Is it warm?” I say, already knowing the answer.

  He playfully grins back. “It is. Come.”

  I start toward him and descend onto the first step. Feels like bath water and makes the tips of my cold toes burn. Wiggling them, I watch the water flutter out to him.

  He closes in. Holds out a hand.

  I take it and descend to the bottom, the water enveloping me in a warm hug, the surface barely brushing the bottom of my breasts. The hem of his white shirt floats around me. “Good morning,” he says again, flashing his perfect teeth.

  I think I gasp. The way his skin glows from the sweat, the way his eyelashes glom together from the water and frame his blue eyes (which have gold flecks in the sunlight), I’m temporarily stunned.

  He leans down and fuses his lips to mine. A warm, gentle kiss laced with saltwater. He smells musky and sweaty…and fucking delicious.

  My sex clenches tightly, and I suck in a sharp breath through my nose.

  When he pulls back, his pupils are momentarily dilated. His eyes search mine as his hands find their way to my bare hips.

  God, I want him inside me again.

  He guides me closer.

  “I need to behave this morning,” I caution. “Still out of commission.”

  A quick smirk.

  My heart skips.

  He leans down again, and this time kisses my neck, one of his hands snaking up my back. “I’ll behave,” he says, low and full of need. He inhales the scent of my skin. “You smell like…strawberries.”

  His lips make their way across my collarbone, leaving tender little flames as they go, then kiss down my sternum.

  My sex opens involuntarily, wanting more of him.

  He pauses a moment to soak in my breasts beneath his white shirt, and his hands run up my sides, grip my rib cage under my arms. Thumbs swipe over my nipples to feel my arousal.

  A shiver races through me, and I moan.

  He releases a guttural sound and continues kissing downward until he’s submerged, and I just stand there, open and vulnerable. Pliable in his hands. I’m not up for sex, but after last night, I trust this man’s intuition with my body.

  His lips find their way down to my clit. A soft kiss.

  I spread my legs wider for him.

  He drags his tongue along the length of me, and I grab into the floating strands of inky black hair in front of me. Grip them at his scalp. The sensation of his tongue, the warm water, against the soreness of my opening is welcome and almost orgasmic.

  He lingers there a moment, kissing and licking in a way so that his stubble won’t poke into me, and then finally comes up for air. The intensity in his expression is enough to almost make me say, “Screw it. I want you to go ahead and have your way with me again.” Almost.

  Water sluices down the angles of his face as he takes me in, chest heaving. My cheeks are flushed, and I’m unraveling. He then pulls me against him, one of his hands grabbing my nape. His lips hover close to my ear. “Come back before you leave town?”

  I don’t hesitate. “Well,” I say with a rasp. “How can I say no now?” I’ll be recovered by then.

  He pulls back, his eyes a pair of wild blue flames, and a smirk carves into his stubbled cheeks. He has me and he knows it.

  15

  Dick and Bacon

  While he washes off
in his outdoor shower, I head inside to find his laundry room (it’s a long, narrow room tucked between the kitchen and the garage) so I can change into my clean panties and t-shirt. When he comes inside, he’s wearing nothing but a white towel, his semi-hard erection pressing into it from our morning make-out session, and he heads to the laundry room. When he emerges, he’s wearing a fresh pair of shorts and meets me at the stove, his arms wrapping around me from behind to watch as I cook.

  “Strawberries,” he murmurs over my shoulder, remembering what he smelled on me in the pool. I like his strong arms around me. They make me feel…safe. “Thanks for doing this. You didn’t have to.”

  I smack the crepe with the spatula. “I know I didn’t,” I quip. “Just thanking you for good dick.”

  His chest bounces against my back with a chuckle.

  It then dawns on me how this would appear from the outside looking in—sleeping over. Cooking him breakfast. Cute banter. Affectionate embraces. This is definitely more than a one-night stand. Or, it would seem to be.

  It is…despite my attempts to keep it labeled that way last night.

  I allow the thoughts to linger and then shove them aside. I don’t want to think too hard about it, but I’d be lying if I said the cold barrier around my heart wasn’t already crumbling away.

  And it’s a tad unnerving.

  It’s been a really long time since that’s happened. And that time, it was with someone who had no intention of taking care of it.

  I fill, fold, and garnish the last crepe, and then toss the dirty batter bowl into the sink. My finger is coated in the pale goo, so I reach for a paper towel, but he snags my hand. Slowly lifts it to his lips. He makes sure his eyes catch mine as he sticks it in his mouth and then slowly drags it out against his tongue to taste every drop.

  My heart jumps, chills racing over my arm when the pad of my finger grazes his bottom teeth, and I stand breathless as I await his reaction.

  “Really sweet,” he says.

  I cock my head. Crepe batter isn’t supposed to be sweet.

  “I meant your finger.”

  I give him an eye roll. Yeah, yeah. “You trying to give the finger-licking good guy a run for his money?”

  “I guess I am,” he says thoughtfully, then turns to collect one of the plates I made. Hands it to me. “But something tells me you didn’t mind.”

  He’s right. I didn’t.

  “And I’m not saying he’s right or he’s wrong, I’m just saying I understand why he did it.” He punctuates it with a wink.

  “But he was totally wrong,” I remind him. He grabs his plate and we settle onto the stools along the island.

  “Totally. Unsolicited licking is a serious thing.”

  I playfully swat at him as we cut into our food. The cream cheese oozes out and my stomach rolls with hunger in response.

  “Is that worse than a dick pic?” he asks.

  I nearly choke on my first bite.

  He’s amused that he caught me off guard. “Unsolicited finger-licking,” he clarifies. “Is it worse than an unsolicited dick pic?”

  I just look at him for a second. Another thing I really like about this guy—he has a sense of humor. Dammit. Killer smiles and humor. “I dunno,” I quip. “It’s like asking if the stomach flu is worse than food poisoning. Both are horrible and unwelcome.”

  He nods while he shovels the first bite. “Noted.” A small moan tells me he loves it.

  “Have you ever sent one?” I ask, and I immediately want to take it back. I don’t want to know. Or maybe I do. There must be something about this guy that’s typical or unattractive.

  He makes a face. “Not my style.”

  Thank God.

  Didn’t seem like his style. The man has aged wine and cigars in his basement. I can’t see him sending some poor, unsuspecting victim a pic of his dong while sipping aged merlot.

  He takes another bite, then closes his eyes a moment to savor it.

  I thrill at him enjoying my cooking.

  “God,” he growls. “And you can cook.”

  “My college roommate was a culinary major.”

  “Thank her for me.”

  I don’t correct him.

  A comfortable silence settles around the kitchen island. I’m the first one to break it. “You had all the ingredients I needed, so I thought why not.” I say it more defensively than intended. “Hope you don’t mind.” I can tell he doesn’t, but it feels like the polite thing to say considering I rummaged through his fridge and cabinets without asking. Not that I needed permission last night to give myself a tour of his house.

  “Rhee,” he says, his eyes glinting with humor, but then something more serious replaces it. “You can fuck me and cook for me anytime.”

  Anytime. I ignore the somersaults in my stomach and change the subject immediately. “So, you like to woodwork, huh?” Before the words make it into the space between us, I realize my mistake, and my cheeks flame.

  I just told on myself.

  He doesn’t flinch. “I do.” He wipes the powdered sugar from his upper lip.

  Just when I think he overlooked how I would know (maybe he thinks he already told me? Or put two and two together between his necklace and decorative bowls around the house?), he says, “What did you think of my area in the garage last night?”

  I cringe. Look to his front door. Is it too late to run away in embarrassment? Not wearing pants might be a problem. It definitely wouldn’t help with the embarrassment piece.

  “It’s fine,” he says with a chuckle and takes another bite. He smiles as he chews to make sure I know he’s not cross about it. “Did you think I didn’t hear you?”

  “Well, I….” I offer a sheepish grin. “No?”

  “Baby, I think Zenesha back at the bar heard your fumble with the bottles in the bathroom last night. It probably woke the whole mountain.”

  Gah! I release a long breath. Could I just die now? “I’m sorry, Jax.” About waking him. About snooping. About everything. Man, I feel like a dick.

  “It’s fine,” he repeats, and places a strong hand on my bare leg for emphasis. “You were curious.”

  “Well, that’s one way to put it. I was thinking more like rude.”

  “Nah,” he dismisses.

  He’s too kind. Way too kind. If some random guy I brought home snooped through my house when I was sleeping, I would have confronted him and threw his ass out.

  And then it hits me—he knew this whole time. Last night. This morning. And he still wants me around.

  He must really…like me.

  “But I do like woodworking,” he continued.

  “And paintings,” I add. Everything was out in the open now anyway.

  “And paintings. You like any of them?”

  I squirm against my stool, still a little uncomfortable with my rudeness last night. “The one of the angel with the black wings.”

  “I like that one too. Art is…otherworldly to me. It’s why I have so much of it.”

  I perk. Talking about art is my most favorite thing. Well…besides fucking Jackson-with-an-x. And eating crepes with him the next morning. “Otherworldly?” I take another small bite.

  “Yeah.” His eyes go distant, then find their way back to mine. “It represents our acknowledgement that there’s something other than ourselves.” A thoughtful pause. “An expression of selflessness.”

  “I agree,” I say, and I can feel my heart picking up speed. “You’re sharing a piece of yourself with others.”

  “Yeah,” he says with understanding, his eyes searching mine. And for the first time since last night, I felt like he was looking at me, really looking at me. Into me. “Do you paint?”

  “I used to. In college. But I’m a graphic artist now.” When I say it, a pang of self-consciousness strikes. Like he’ll somehow judge me for selling out by being a t-shirt artist instead of painting cool and interesting things.

  Not that I have to justify what I do to him…to anyone, but designi
ng t-shirts is more than that for me. It’s an outlet. To channel my free spirit and have a safe place for self-expression. My boss basically gives me free reign. Some of the graphics are like tiny pieces of art. They just aren’t on a canvas hanging on someone’s wall.

  “Can I see?” he asks, and it isn’t patronizing. He really wants to see what I do.

  “Sure. I’ll pull it up on my phone after we eat.”

  He beams, excited, and I have to say, this Jaxson, the half-naked, loving-my-cooking-and-talking-about-things-that-make-us-tick Jaxson, is a Jaxson I really, truly dig. This goes beyond the magic of his dick.

  He must feel the same, because he says, “When will you be back again?”

  We have a connection.

  I can’t help but smile. “Like back in town or back before I leave?”

  He thinks about it a moment. Matches my smile. “Both.”

  The barrier around my heart cracks and crumbles some more. “I can come back Sunday evening. Stay till Monday?” I don’t address the coming back in town piece. The only thing I feel comfortable entertaining is the near future.

  He nods thoughtfully, then smirks. “Guess that means we’ll officially be breaking the one-night stand rule thing?”

  “That was shot to hell in the pool.” He knew that.

  He laughs.

  Of course, he knew that. That was his plan.

  Another stint of comfortable silence. My eyes rake over the mess I made on his counters. They stop on the bacon. “Shit.” I’ve been a little…a lot…distracted this morning.

  He gives me a questioning look.

  I motion toward the unopened package. “I meant to cook bacon.”

  A shrug. “Guess we’ll have to make that when you come back over.”

  Now, I’m the one laughing. Dick and bacon before I head out of this hell hole town?

  I can deal with that.

  16

  Unexpected Visitor