She glanced down.
“Don’t look.”
She sucked in a breath, his huge erection straining the denim of his fly.
“The door. Now.” A soft command, rigid with constraint.
Quickly complying, her emotions as raw, Jillian spoke in a breathless rush, pointing toward the rooms lit by pumpkin glow. “Diningroomtabletoyourright.” Her voice shook, a shiver of longing raced up her spine, and it took all her will power not to throw herself at Jack and declare her undying passion as he brushed past. So not cool, she warned herself and took a step back instead. A quick check of the local respond-off-list discussions had made it abundantly clear that Jack didn’t sleep alone. He had groupies galore. Including the woman, Zoe, who’d done the females of the world a favor with her post link.
So don’t make a fool of yourself, she cautioned. But it wasn’t so easy after all her recent Jack-inspired, sexually explicit day dreams. Although a modicum of pride kept her silent briefly before lust bulldozed good judgment and she blurted out, “Do you mind if I attack you? Don’t answer that because I’m going to”--Jack spun around, his sudden smile dazzling--“whether you like it or not.” Really, she could see why so many women adored him; that smile.
“Definitely a like.” He nodded at the flowers he was holding. “Gimme a second, then I’ll attack you or we can attack each other,” he said over his shoulder, striding toward the table, “or whatever battle plan you have in mind—I’m in.” With lightning speed, the vase was deposited and he was back, standing before her. “In, literally, if that’s all right with you,” he said, softly. “Sorry, too crude?” She’d gone still. “I apologize, but I’ve been thinking about you, this”—he smiled—“various forms of attack pretty much since I last saw you. But if you’d rather talk”—
“No.” She was trying not to tremble; the memory of Jack’s unforgettable, truly awesome forms of attack vibrating wildly through her pulsing sex.
“I was going to say first.”
“No, first, last, no.” Tense, wired, an unbearable desire flaring through her senses, she clenched her fists tightly against the very real possibility she’d embarrass herself by coming before he even touched her. “Look”—she dragged in a breath of restraint—“I don’t want to scare you off, but I don’t know how to pretend this is just a game when I’m so close to losing it…”
Her voice trailed off and even in the shadowed room, he saw her face flush. “I’m not here to play games.” He wondered if he should stop talking before it was too late. But he didn’t. “And I don’t scare,” he added softly, his gaze flicking downward to her hands, then up again, lingering a fraction of a second on her world-class tits before moving to her heated gaze. “You need help?”
A nod, a tiny shudder. “Freaking hurry,” she breathed. “Oh jeez, sorry, I shouldn’t have”—
“No problem.” Damn, that was breathless impatience. Wide-eyed, pink-cheeked and his for the taking. “Here or somewhere else?”
“Anywhere,” she whispered, beginning to shake.
The word anywhere was like crack to his libido. In two strides, he’d pushed her up against the wall and was untying her pajama pants with one hand, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans with the other. “Whenever you want me to stop, tell me.” His voice was a low rasp. “Cause stopping’s not on my agenda tonight. Clear?”
She nodded, slipped her hand into his open fly, slid her fingertips up the velvety length of his huge, thick cock, and as an unbearable hunger streaked through her sex-deprived senses, every seething nerve in her body lit up like a Christmas tree. Half-breathless, frantic, she panted, “Don’t—stop…”
He smiled, remembering her like that, hotter than hot: her gaze incandescent, her voice quivering. “Maybe next week.” Brushing her hand away, he shoved her pajama pants down her hips and legs in a sweep of his palms. “Or next month.” His previous concerns with obsession cavalierly dismissed, he wanted what she wanted.
He probably wanted it more.
And if his wild, raging horniness was a betrayal of a lifetime of circumspection, he thought, picking her up by the waist and lifting her to free her feet, he’d debate the troubling mysteries after his dick gave out. Although, the way he was feeling right now, it was gonna be a long, fucking time before that happened.
“Oh God, please!”
Her fevered plea broke into his introspection and he flinched. He wasn’t introspective; never had been. It fucked with getting things done.
So stick with the program.
Quickly sliding his hands under her ass, he cupped her soft bottom in his large palms, lifted her effortlessly and pressing her back against the wall, smoothly wrapped her legs around his waist with a seasoned finesse. “Hands up. You gotta hang on.” When she didn’t respond other than whimper, he dropped his head, brushed her cheek with a kiss and taking first one hand, then the other, placed them on his shoulders. “Got it?” She was panting hard, so he wasn’t expecting an answer; he was expecting a five second fuck with him doing the heavy lifting; although he’d make it last for her if he could. Opening his fly wider, he freed his entire erection, guided the head of his cock into her slick, tighter-than-tight pussy, and sucking in a breath at the high pressure rush, hesitated. Seriously, either she was smaller than he remembered or his dick was crazier than usual. “You okay? Want to slow down?”
“Everything’s perfect…” Her voice trailed off in a soft, sumptuous moan.
Stellar. He smiled and supporting her weight with both hands again, pushed deeper, experiencing his own kind of perfection as he forced his dick in another few, cautious, heart-stopping inches.
Her eyes narrowed with pleasure and he felt a moment of deep, dark, total conquest too strange to process. Predatory, brilliant, morally flawed. Then she softly murmured, “Oh. My. God,” in a low, throaty purr and back in a familiar reality, he dismissed issues of strangeness. A hot, willing woman; that he knew.
Lost in a carnal haze, Jillian gently shifted her hips to enhance the taut, silken, flesh to flesh friction that was leaving an indelible stamp on her consciousness: scorching ripples, tiny star bursts, a sensationally compelling pressure, beautiful and addictive. “Don’t ever stop.” A sleek, fluid stirring of her hips, a new thickness to her voice. “Not ever.”
“Gotcha.” This from a man who rarely did sleep-overs and viewed intimacy with restraint. But after two long days of imagining Jillian, here, like this, he was wading neck-deep into a warm, joyful, tantalizing world. “This is me not stopping,” he whispered, adjusting his grip on her silken ass, slowly pressing upward, waiting each time for her tight flesh to yield to his small, incremental invasion. Until finally, his erection was deeply lodged, she was filled completely and they both felt the delicate, frenzied, fast-beating ecstasy, the lavish, racing pleasure hovering almost within reach.
Looking up, pleasure spilling from her eyes, she choked out, “Now!”
“Wait.” He dipped his head, met her hot gaze, began to withdraw. “I’ll make it better.”
“No, no, no!”
A raging urgency rang through her voice, her fingernails were leaving deep marks in his shoulders, she was squirming on his palms in unmistakable, monstrous need. Best of all, her pussy suddenly offered him smooth, sleek, full-stretch access.
Taking advantage of her extraordinary suppleness, he spread his fingers wider to secure his hold and bracing his feet, gave her what she wanted in a powerful, hard driving thrust so deep and raw they both gasped.
A second later, struggling for breath, her heart thudding, a torturous, untamed desire flaring wildly through her senses, she moaned, raggedly, “More...”
“No.”
“Yes.” Eyes shut, breathless.
Jesus, as if his libido needed any more incentive . “I shouldn’t.” Equivocation in every syllable.
Her entire nervous system within seconds of complete melt-down, she grabbed handfuls of his hair, jerked his head down and hissed, “You’re not listening.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” A quick, slippery undulation of her hips, a sorceress’ smile. “See?”
He was flexing his quads before she’d finished speaking and leaning in, whispered, “Don’t say I didn’t try.” Then with hurtling speed he straightened his legs, shoved her up the wall a good six inches, and rammed his dick in so far the shock of impact was like a bomb going off in his brain.
She squealed; he uttered a low animal sound. Sensory overload lit up their nerve endings and for an instant the world disappeared in a blast of pure, sharp, glittering wildness.
Too fucking wild, Jack noted a racing heart-beat later, dragging himself back from the brink, marginally relaxing his hold on her ass. Regardless what she said, he had no intention of ruining the rest of the night with some slam-bang sex that left her bruised. “Let’s take it down a notch,” he murmured. “Hey, look at me.” As her eyes slowly opened, he ducked his head and held her gaze. “Whadda you say?”
She gave him a small grin. “You want an honest answer?”
He laughed and kissed her nose. “Fuck no. How about I make you come in two seconds instead. You good with that?”
“God damned mind reader.”
“Yeah, that’s me.” He was smiling as he slowly withdrew, then entered her again, even more slowly so they felt every lush, tantalizing sensation, so their bodies strummed instead of shuddered, so every nerve shimmered and glowed. “Everything okay so far?” he murmured, withdrawing leisurely.
“It will be in a second.”
“Orders?”
“You betcha.”
He was laughing softly as he plunged back in tenderly, gently, and as he reached the ultimate, exquisite depth, he moved slightly, exerting an expert, perfectly placed pressure on her G-spot—there…there, right there. And with unimpeachable predictably, her first orgasmic tremors began to flutter up his dick.
“Mommie, who dat?”
Jillian went rigid.
Jack lifted her off his erection in a blur, dropped her on her feet and zipping up, whispered, “Get dressed.” Turning, he said loudly, “Hi Zeke. It’s Jack. Do you remember me?”
Grateful for the dimly lit room, he walked swiftly toward Zeke. The little boy was standing midway down the staircase in his pajamas, his thumb in his mouth, a blanket clutched in his pudgy fist.
Smiling around his thumb and blanket, Zeke said, “Me amember you. Want some grab crackers?”
Knotting the bow on the waistband of her pajama pants, Jillian moved toward her son. “Not now, darling,” she said, gently. “It’s late. You should be sleeping.”
The boy frowned, took his thumb out of his mouth. “You not sweeping.”
“Big people stay up later. Maybe Jack will have crackers with you in the morning?” Not sure whether she’d over-stepped, if Jack avoided morning’s after, Jillian added, “If he has time.”
“Me want grab crackers now!”
Jack recognized the tantrumish tone and knew better than to get into an argument with a two-year-old at midnight. “Would you like to play the guitar with me?” He pointed to an acoustic guitar hanging on the wall. “You can meet my dog, Sam, too. He likes kids.”
Sam was curled up in a quiet corner, but obediently came to his feet when Jack beckoned.
Zeke’s face lit up. “Me sing to big doggie!”
Jack shot a glance at Jillian. “If it’s okay with your mom.”
Before Jillian could answer, Zeke was running down the remaining stairs, his blanket balling up between his feet.
Racing for the stairs, Jack reached Zeke just as he fell. Catching him mid-air, he swept the boy up in his arms and gave him a grin. “I’ll bet your mom told you not to run down the stairs.”
“Me forget. Me sing now.”
So much for fear of consequences in a two-year-old’s world, Jack noted, wryly. “Tell me your favorite song,” he said, setting Zeke on his feet and taking his hand. “Then we’ll play it for Sam.”
“You my sunshine, only me sunshine,” Zeke piped up, singing off tune. “Can play dat?”
“Sure.” As they moved past a visibly pale Jillian, Jack gave her a reassuring smile. “Come sing with us.”
“The guitar’s probably out of tune,” she warned, having found her breath again. “Mother played, but it’s been sitting idle the last few years.”
“No problem. Here, Zeke, sit here.” Jack lifted him up on the sofa, turned on a nearby floor lamp, then held his hand out to Sam who was approaching with obvious reluctant. “Sam likes to be petted real softly.” As the pup reached the sofa, Jack demonstrated first before taking Zeke’s hand and placing it gently on Sam’s head. “There you go, that’s the way. You pet him while I tune up the guitar. Your mom can sit beside you. I’ll sit on the other side and we’ll figure out your sunshine song.”
It turned out the song was You are my Sunshine. Jack adjusted the guitar strings, humming softly under his breath until he was satisfied with the pitch. Then he patted his lap, helped Zeke climb up and began playing You are my Sunshine while Sam retreated a safe distance from toddler-style petting.
Everyone sang in a credible harmony, Jack’s baritone blending with Jillian’s soft soprano, Zeke’s fragile young voice lending a sweet poignancy to the occasion.
It was a moment of rare tenderness for the adults, as if the world had slowed for a moment and they were alone in the universe.
Jack was surprised he felt no alarm at the novel bewitchment. Maybe later, he decided, not a romantic by any stretch.
Jillian was trying to ignore the tenderness; it wouldn’t do to have expectations beyond the most casual with a man as popular as Jack. “You know a lot of children’s songs. I’m impressed,” she said, her voice deliberately neutral.
Long conditioned against undue emotion, Jack spoke with equal restraint. “Younger siblings—what can I say. They all have favorites.”
“You play well.” An understatement; he played with masterful skill, his intricate chording effortless.
“Part of the culture here. Music, art, yoga. You know that.”
She grinned. “Yoga, you--really?”
“A little. Not very much.” He didn’t say he’d learned three different forms of yoga from a woman he knew. She was a goddamn artist with her body.
As Zeke’s eyes began to close, Jack played more softly and keeping their voices low, they talked in mundane terms--about mutual acquaintances, the need for rain after years of drought, local activities that interested them.
“Not that I’ve been participating a whole lot.” Jillian shrugged. “Considering well—finances and a two-year-old who likes my company. Although Larry and Em have been generous about watching Zeke when I need a sitter. Still…”
“Zeke can come with us wherever we go. I like kids.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
He gave her a look from under his lashes. “I’m not much for BS.” He smiled. “Just a head’s up.”
“Quite a few of your lady friends are on the local discussion list. Zoe’s photo in particular is a winner.” She smiled back. “That’s my head’s up.”
“Speaking of gossip,” he said, not responding to her comments about his lady friends, “my boss said we’re about to become the latest item of discussion. I suggest you ignore it. If you can’t—fuck…I don’t know,” he muttered. “This is all new to me.”
“Seriously? Don’t you ever go on the discussion list?”
“Why would I?” He looked pained, then remembered his manners and altered his tone. “You do, I guess. Sorry.”
“I never looked at them before I met you. You can consider me you’re newest groupie.”
“I don’t have groupies and if I did you wouldn’t be one of them. Can we drop this subject?”
“Certainly. Whatever you say.”
His gaze narrowed. “You’re just playing me, right? You better tell me you are. I hate that submissive shit.”
“Yes, sir
, you got it, sir.”
He relaxed. She was grinning. “Not that you can’t do whatever you want, but me--I prefer no drama.” Particularly after his afternoon with Megan; he’d had enough game-playing for a while.
“I like to come. That’s it. Any way, any how. Your choice.”
“God damn. I must live right.”
“Hey, dude.” She winked. “Soul mates.”
“No shit. And I never thought I’d say that.” He did a little flicker with his brows. “Weird, but good, that’s all I know.”
“What I know,” she said, careful to keep her voice teasing because it would never do to become involved with a sex god after such short acquaintance, “is that after my recent curtailed orgasm, coming once or twice is high on my list of priorities.” She gave him a playful grin. “So I’m going to get some chocolate-covered graham crackers and bring them upstairs. Then if Zeke wakes up he’ll see them on his bedside table and maybe won’t disturb us. At least not right away.”
“Good plan. Need help?”
She put out her hand to stop him from rising. “You can give me all the help I need later”—she grinned—“and often. Be right back.”
Coming to her feet, she waved and walked away.
Returning from the kitchen a few minutes later, a plate of graham crackers in her hand, she came to a sudden stop.
Jack lay in a sprawl on her faded blue velvet sofa, fast asleep. His head was propped against the high back, his long jean-clad legs stretched out in front of him, his booted feet spread wide. Wrapped in the curve of one strong, muscled arm, Zeke looked very small against Jack’s powerful body, his cheek resting on a Save the Whales logo. Jillian smiled. Jack had worn a whale t-shirt for Zeke.
With Jack’s free arm draped over the guitar, his entire tattooed sleeve was on full display, the design a sumptuous array of swirling demons and dragons, sinuous arabesques, strange floral motifs, all exquisitely detailed. Rare pastel shading lent a delicate, surrealistic quality to the artwork. She’d never seen such a complex tattoo. Nor such a beautiful man.
Touched by the tender warmth in Jack’s protective pose, she was suddenly misty-eyed at what was commonplace to many, but never to her; a father holding his child.
A Fine Balance Page 20
