Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“You say that like you mean it,” I tease, but the words stick in my throat as he kneels, spreading my legs and kissing up my thigh.
The first touch of his tongue makes me wail. It feels so good as my fingers move through his dark locks, his lips fusing to my clit as he sucks that sensitive spot.
“Oh Daddy,” I pant. “Yes yes yes!”
Jack doesn’t reply, merely eating me out with the same intensity he brings to everything: focused, relentless, determined to break me. His tongue circles my clit, his fingers working inside me, and I fall apart for the umpteenth time, my curves shaking and legs spread as I give everything to this man.
When Jack stands, his chin slick and shiny, his cock is hard and leaking. I reach for it, guiding him in, and he fucks me slow, tender this time, like he wants to savor every second. The table creaks, the sauce bubbles on the stove, and the world narrows to this moment: hot, desperate, and so alive.
Jack comes with a groan, hips jerking, as hot reams of seed pulse into my insides. I love it and croon while stroking his hair, welcoming that huge dick as it pumps and sprays into my fertile fields.
“Yes,” I murmur softly, looking into my man’s eyes. “Give it to me all.”
Jack spurts once last time and collapses onto me, crushing me to his chest.
“Fuck baby,” he rasps, panting hard. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
I giggle.
“But don’t die just yet because we need to finish the sauce,” I whisper, and he laughs, kissing my forehead.
We clean up, finish the sauce, and eat it straight from the pot, sitting on the kitchen floor with our backs against the cabinets. It tastes like heaven, or maybe just like happiness.
After lunch, Jack shows me his “secret room,” which turns out to be a converted garage lined with model airplanes and framed photos of his squadron. He walks me through each one, telling stories about the men he flew with, the places he’s seen. There’s a model of a C-130, his favorite, and he lets me hold it, careful not to break the delicate wings.
“You ever think about going back?” I ask, tracing the plane with my finger.
He shakes his head. “Naw, twenty years is enough. Besides, I have better things to do now.”
He looks at me when he says it, and my stomach flips.
We spend the afternoon reading, dozing, and making out on every available surface. Around six, Jack orders Italian from a place across town and sets up a picnic in the living room: plates on the floor, a checkered blanket, a bottle of wine. We eat and talk about everything: childhood injuries, embarrassing crushes, the time he accidentally set his friend’s mailbox on fire with a homemade rocket.
He asks about my hobbies, and I freeze for a split second, heart thumping. I want to tell him about my camming, but the words stick in my throat. How can I, when it’s so wrong and obscene? I feel like I’m lying by omission, but banish the thought from my head. Instead, I go on about my old swim team, my obsession with crossword puzzles, the art history class I loved in college. He nods, listening, and I can see he wants more, but doesn’t push.
After dinner, we end up on the couch again, watching a documentary about deep-sea explorers. Jack sprawls, arms out, and I curl into his side, breathing in the smell of soap and sun and something uniquely male.
He turns to me, tracing my jaw with his thumb. “You’re quiet, baby girl,” he says.
I shrug. “Just happy.”
He smiles, kissing the tip of my nose. “Me too.”
We make love slow this time, the movie forgotten in the background, his hands everywhere, patient and gentle. He touches me like he’s memorizing a map, every inch a new discovery. I come undone in his arms, and after, we lie tangled together, hearts beating in sync.
As I drift off, I feel a weight in my chest, equal parts joy and terror. I’m falling for this man, and it’s not just about sex anymore. It’s not just about the thrill of being with an older alpha male, nor the thrill of doing this behind my parents’ back. I want this—want him—more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
And I know, deep down, that I’m going to have to tell Jack the truth about my secret job.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I let him hold me, let myself believe that this is real, and let the world disappear outside his walls.
The morning after two days of non-stop sex and carbs, the human body enters a weird stasis. It’s too lazy to be horny, too content to be hungry, but too restless to go back to sleep. I stretch out on Jack’s bed, basking in the scratchy perfection of his heavyweight sheets, and listen to the sound of his voice drifting in from the kitchen. He’s on the phone, talking low and serious. Something about a memorial, or a reunion, or maybe both. I try not to eavesdrop, but his voice is gravel and honey—impossible to ignore.