by Roxy Sloane
My mouth went dry. My pulse raced. My clit throbbed.
This could possibly be the worst decision of my professional life. Or the best. But there was only one way to find out, and I could no longer deny that the attraction blazing between me and Jackson wasn’t going anywhere.
I stretched out on the ottoman, parted my thighs, and said, “I choose you.”
“Good.”
Then he placed his hands on my knees, pushing them apart so he could kneel between my legs. I looked up at him, and with his eyes on mine, he reached over and pulled open the top of the robe with an aggressive tug, exposing my breasts. His gaze traveled over my body, drinking me up, and he let out a low groan.
My breath quickened, my chest rising and falling more rapidly. My nipples were dark and hard, aching to be touched, my breasts full and round. I searched Jackson’s face: did they meet with his approval? I didn’t have to wait for an answer as he cupped me in his hand, running a thumb over the pebbled nipple with a sharp intake of breath, barely audible. I gasped at the feel of his skin against mine, the rough pad of his thumb stroking my delicate areola. “Fucking perfect,” he whispered.
He leaned down and took my nipple into his mouth, sucking and biting softly, then harder. I tilted my head back and moaned. He did the same to the other nipple, leaving the first glistening with his saliva. He pushed two of his fingers into my mouth to suck on as he devoured my breasts, one and then the other, gently and then rougher, making me ache with need. My hips began to rock toward his.
I reached out to undo his fly, but he grabbed my wrist and murmured, “Not yet, you don’t.”
He pulled his fingers from my sucking mouth and untied the belt of my robe, tugging it open to reveal my naked belly and thighs. Then he trailed his mouth from my chest down, alternately biting and kissing my ribcage, my belly, the insides of my thighs.
“You’re bruised,” he said gruffly, his fingertips tracing the purple marks that had already appeared along my outer thigh and calf. More tenderly than I would have ever expected, he kissed the marks. Then he put his hands back on my knees and spread my legs even wider, dipping his head down to breathe softly against my wet, open pussy.
“Don’t move,” he instructed. I obeyed.
And then he entered me with a thrust of his tongue. I cried out, and my hands went to my face, my breasts. Every inch of me was on fire.
The touch of his tongue was exquisite torture. Each delicate flick and long, deep stroke building, building. Licking, sucking, biting, tasting. More than any other man I’d ever known like this, he knew exactly where to touch me, exactly how to touch me. I could hardly breathe.
As my moans intensified, he slid two fingers into me, massaging my G-spot so deeply that I tensed up, overwhelmed. “Shh,” he soothed, easing up until I relaxed back into the rhythm of his strokes, grinding up and down against his strong, steady fingers. The speed, the pressure, his instinct was perfect.
As his fingers pumped in and out, he kept up the pace with his tongue, tracing circles around my clit. The pleasure was reaching that point of pain again—no matter what he did, it made me lose control. Sensing the shift in me, he stopped licking and then gently bit and sucked my swollen clitoris. I groaned, “Fuck. Jackson. God.”
“Don’t stop,” he commanded. I was there, and he knew it. He flicked his tongue against me again quickly, so quickly, over and over again as he thrust his fingers faster, deeper, so deep, and with one last helpless groan I braced my hands against the back of his head and held him tightly against me as I crashed into orgasm, crying out, my body shuddering.
When I was finished he gazed up at my face, watching until my breaths slowed. “You’re beautiful when you come,” he said, looking satisfied.
I laughed, feeling relaxed around him for the first time. “Maybe. I’d like to see what you look like.”
“You will,” he said, his eyes flashing, causing my stomach to do a little flip. “But not now. I have guests arriving shortly.”
“Guests?”
“Yes. Some friends are coming here for dinner and I’ve got cooking to do.” He draped the robe back over me, stood up, and turned toward the doorway. I followed his movements with my eyes, still feeling hazy from the earth-shattering orgasm I’d just had.
“Cooking?” I said, somewhat dazed.
“Yes. That’s a thing that I do sometimes.” Jackson looked over his shoulder, amusement playing across his features. “I’m making paella.”
I sat up, trying to force myself back to reality. “Let me help you,” I said. “I can cook.”
“Better than you ski, I hope.” He laughed and I smiled. “I guess if you’re going to help me, you better get dressed. I have Epsom salts in the upstairs hall closet; you should treat yourself to a bath and some ibuprofen before you come back down.”
“That’s a good plan,” I said, gingerly pulling the robe on.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said, watching me tighten the sash at my waist with a satisfied look on his face. “Maybe we were both acting a little stupid out there.”
“That sometimes happens when you’re headstrong and uncompromising,” I chimed in.
He helped me stand up on shaky legs and then walked me out into the hallway, where we parted ways at the foot of the stairs. I wasn’t completely sure what I’d just gotten myself into, but if the consequences of my actions included Jackson Ford cooking me a delicious meal and promising me more hot sex, I guess I hadn’t made out half bad.
Upstairs, I drew a steaming hot soak and gingerly lowered myself in. The embrace of the water made me crave Jackson’s touch all over again. I lay there wondering where I would sleep that night, if he’d slip under the covers with me or carry me into his own room, throw me onto the bed, and give it to me long and strong until the sun came up.
Out of the bath, I pulled on my jeans and a white button-up shirt and added a touch of lipstick before I headed back down to the kitchen. When I entered, Jackson was already prepping the paella, chopping up a fragrant pile of garlic, onions, red peppers, and tomatoes. “What can I do?” I asked.
He shot me an assessing glance. “Can you handle cleaning the shrimp?”
I smiled, glad he’d tasked me with something at which I knew I was a pro. “No problem.” When I crossed to the sink to wash my hands, Jackson set down his knife and turned to me.
“Here, let me help,” he said, taking my sleeves and rolling them up to my elbows. His touch set me buzzing, but when he was finished he turned back to his work and I washed my hands quickly and followed suit.
As I stripped away the shells, washed and deveined the shrimp, and tried to banish all thoughts of Jackson’s tongue, he finished his chopping and opened a rosé, pouring out a couple glasses for us.
“Thank you,” I said as he handed me a glass. I took a long sip and he watched me with a quirked brow, trying to gauge my reaction. I nodded appreciatively, taking another drink. “Where did you learn to cook? Paella is not for the faint of heart.”
“My mother was a wonderful cook,” he said. “And I have friends in the city who are chefs. You hang around and watch, lend a hand here and there, you pick up a few things. How about you, shrimp master?”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said, pausing to take another sip of the wine. “But honestly I work so much that I don’t get out very often, so I have to pick up the slack in my own kitchen or else I’ll lapse into a coma of ramen and take-out. I cook for myself a lot, living alone.” I quickly tried to cover the admission that aside from my two year disaster with Luke, I was pretty much perpetually single. “Are you making appetizers?”
“I have some manchego and brie in the fridge,” he said. I smiled at him and silently prayed I hadn’t eaten it all the night before. “And there are marcona almonds and honey in the cupboard and some figs. And someone’s bringing fresh bread. What were you thinking?”
“Do you have any more olives? We could marinate them.”
Jackson draine
d half his own glass and then nodded. “Have at it, then.”
“Great,” I said, warming at his evident approval. “I’ll see what you’ve got.”
He put on Coltrane as I rummaged through his pantry and fridge. I found some fresh oranges, so I marinated the olives in wide swaths of orange peel, white balsamic, fresh thyme and thinly sliced hot pepper.
“That looks amazing,” Jackson said, glancing over to check on me.
“It’ll taste even better,” I promised.
He went back to work and I toasted the almonds in a skillet, then dressed them in olive oil, coarse salt, and rosemary. As we shared the kitchen, we talked about the kinds of foods we love and laughed about our recipe disasters. It was so comfortable, I could hardly reconcile this version of Jackson with the intense, demanding sex monster I’d come to see him as.
Once or twice I caught myself just watching him cook. Enticing aromas filled the air as he went about confidently preparing his dish, never once consulting a cookbook.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this all by memory,” I said, impressed by his skill. “Your mom must be a really great teacher.”
“She was,” Jackson said, his eyes going distant for a moment. “Her house was the one where everyone would drop in, knowing they’d always be welcome. She always had an ear to listen or some piece of advice to give, and she’d always keep something going on the stove or in the oven—fresh baked bread, apple crumble, her famous raviolis. After we lost her, a lot of the family just. . . grew apart.” He turned away and resumed his work, trying to shrug away the memory of his loss. “She really held us all together.”
“That’s so hard,” I said. “She sounds like a really wonderful person.”
“She was,” Jackson said, his voice gone gruff. “How about you and your mom?”
“Oh. She’s. . . she’s not been well. She has Alzheimer’s and she lives in an assisted care residence. I visit her a few times a month, but she hasn’t remembered me in a while. Most of the time I take turns playing an old friend or another relative, but no matter who I have to be, honestly. . . the time I get with her is everything to me.” I stopped, my throat constricting with emotion. “She’s an amazing person. So determined. . . and strong.” I couldn’t go on. I dropped my eyes and cleared my throat, trying to get the lump to go away.
“I guess we know where you get those traits from.” Suddenly Jackson was behind me, his warm hands resting lightly on my shoulders. “She’s lucky to have you,” he said, gently squeezing the base of my neck.
“Thank you,” I whispered, desperately needing to steer the conversation elsewhere. I picked up a handful of almonds and turned, lifting a few to his lips. “Here, try this.”
I let him sample the almonds, fragrant and salty, and the touch of his lips on my fingertips made them tingle.
“Mmm. They’re just what we needed,” he said.
Together we set his long wooden dining table with paprika-colored ceramic bowls, cloth napkins in autumnal colors, saffron tapers in low brass holders and glistening stemware. As we did, he told me a bit about the friends who would be joining us: Mark, an architect; his oldest friend Olivia, a jewelry designer with an extensive celebrity clientele; and Jeff and Susie, a married couple who ran a nonprofit devoted to ALS research.
“I’d better go get dressed,” he said. “Olivia’s always early.” Together we headed up the stairs.
I’d brought one dress with me—an oatmeal-colored knit that clings to all the right places, flattering my curves. I love its sophisticated sexiness, the mid-calf length and long sleeves offsetting the body-conscious fabric and scooped neckline. I dressed it up with Maggie’s boots and my antique gold cuff, and gave my light makeup a quick freshening.
As I descended the stairs I could hear laughter coming from the kitchen. I entered to find Jackson in animated conversation with a woman whose features evoked a young Grace Kelly, her pale blonde hair pulled back into a chignon. She wore navy leggings and a long navy asymmetrical sweater that shimmered with tiny dark sequins, her fingers sparkling with delicate stacked rings.
My appearance in the doorway seemed to stun her, and I had the distinct impression that I’d interrupted something. But then she smiled and it was as if the sun had broken through clouds.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Ellie. Jackson’s editor.”
“I’m Olivia,” she replied, accepting my outstretched hand. I could feel Jackson’s eyes on me. “Jackson’s friend. Longtime friend.” At this, she winked at Jackson.
“You look great,” he said to me, smiling. All my curiosity about Olivia’s wink suddenly vanished.
“Oh yes, I’m in love with your boots!” Olivia raved. I dashed upstairs to get one of Maggie’s business cards out of my bag and ran back down, handing it to Olivia and proudly telling her about my best friend’s custom shoe company and all the hard work she put into hand-making each pair. Olivia said she was often in Brooklyn and would definitely check out the shop—her celebrity clients were always looking for unique pieces.
“Why don’t you ladies bring the appetizers into the living room and we’ll relax in there?” Jackson suggested. Then he leaned in toward me and added, “I knew you two would hit it off.”
Olivia had brought bread which she was warming in the oven. We put all of the appetizers and the bread on a tray and carried it down the hall and into the living room, setting it out on the glass table near the fire.
As we were doing so, the doorbell chimed and Olivia left to go and welcome a tall dark-haired man, Mark, who had arrived on skis, and a bright-faced older couple—they were Jeff and Susie. There were greetings and introductions and then the new arrivals gravitated to the kitchen to pour wine and catch up.
Olivia sat with me on the living room sofa and we talked easily about our work. “Your rings are exquisite,” I told her. “Did you design them? Jackson told me you’re a jewelry designer.”
She accepted the compliment gracefully. “Yes, I did,” she said. “Thank you.” Turns out she’d started her career as the assistant to a fashion stylist, dressing celebrities for awards shows like the Oscars and the Golden Globes. She still maintained those relationships, and she’d been able to parlay them into jewelry sales. She described some delicate necklaces that she’d made, and I realized I’d seen them on more than a few New Yorkers.
Soon the others joined us, and the conversation quickly devolved into a heated debate over the qualitative difference between reading a hard copy versus reading on a device.
“I love taking an entire digital library with me on vacation,” said Susie. “Technology just keeps expanding our world!”
Her husband nodded in agreement and topped up her wine glass. I held my own empty glass out with a puppy-dog look and Jeff grinned and refilled mine, too.
“Does it expand it in the right ways, though?” challenged Mark, helping himself to another handful of almonds. “As the father of a teenage son, I think that today’s technology is shutting us down. I see my son and his friends in a room together, and half the time they’re not even talking to each other! They’re texting or emailing or watching some video. There’s no connection.”
His declaration was met with a round of playful jeers and Jackson calling Mark a “technophobic old man,” though Jackson himself was probably the oldest person in the room. I caught his eye over the rim of my wine glass and our gaze held until the heat in my cheeks was too much to bear and I had to look away.
“There’s a study,” I said, “where they found that when teenagers have a lull in conversation, they immediately fill it with social media. I wonder what that does to deep thinking? I mean, a lull in conversation can lead to a change of topic, but it can also lead to deeper conversation. To interpersonal risk-taking.”
“Great point,” said Mark. “And the anonymity of the web frees us from accountability. It unleashes our basest instincts. Look at cyber bullying. Online dating.”
Everyone groaned good-naturedly at that. Guess I wa
sn’t the only one who’d ever had online dates from hell.
“Those are a few examples of tech gone wrong,” said Jeff, “but it’s impacted our workplaces for the better. And worldwide, we can share information with research communities across the globe with the click of a mouse. That expedites our efforts to cure ALS, cancer, AIDS.”
“Yes,” said Olivia. “And the internet connects loved ones over long distances. It allows friends to find each other after decades.” She glanced at Jackson meaningfully and then reached over to top a slice of baguette with a smear of brie and a spoonful of honey. I followed her lead and she winked in approval.
“It also allows predators to track kids,” argued Mark. “Look, I’m no Luddite,” he continued. “I use computers in my work; I utilize design software. But I think that being online does not equal being connected. Technology has taken the place of face-to-face interaction. Online relationships are usurping real human exchange. Sexting and phone sex and skype-sex, these are replacing physical contact.”
“Skype-sex,” repeated Jackson, mouth quirked in amusement. “You think people actually want to replace the real thing with video chats? Why not just do both?”
“They’re neat diversions,” Mark continued, ignoring Jackson’s questions. “And God knows, we all need our diversions. But is it intimacy? Diversion leaves the human spirit hollow; intimacy nourishes the spirit.”
“And on that note,” said Jackson, “dinner is served.”
“Hear, hear! Let us go be nourished,” Olivia proclaimed, grabbing my elbow and pulling me down the hall with a giggle.
We gathered in the dining room; Jackson steered me away from Olivia and guided me to the only seat to his right. The paella sat as a glorious centerpiece on the table; the wine glasses glittered in the candlelight. The paella was passed around, and there were moans of gastronomic ecstasy as everyone dug in.
