by Remy Rose
“A client I had today for a showing. Sydney. Blonde, big boobs, big butt.”
“Ah, yes.”
“Let me guess...she wanted a bigger deck?”
“Ha! Impressive, Callaway.” He nods appreciatively and chalks up a point for me.
“She’s very attractive.”
“Yes.”
“Have you done any...work for her, lately?”
“Nope. She’s in the past. History.”
“Just like I’m going to be.” Shit. Did I really just say that?
He holds me with those crystal-blue eyes until I drop my gaze. “Ground rules, Callaway, remember?” His expression is soft, almost rueful.
I nod, even though inside my head I’m stomping, burning and burying the fucking ground rules. His eyes are roaming over me now, and my body responds almost as though I’m being caressed. “Come with me,” he says, his voice edged with huskiness as he takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom.
My heart is a wild bird fluttering in my chest. He sets his empty glass on top of my bureau and holds out his hand. “Can I take your drink?”
“Yes,” I whisper, giving it to him. You can take my drink, my mind, my soul, and most definitely, my body. Right now. Any way you want.
“I’m thinking of calling it a day with the bathroom. That okay with you?” He traces my jawline with whisper-soft fingers, a hint of a smile toying with his lips.
I nod.
“Just want to make sure that I keep on schedule with the project,” he says, with feigned, wide -eyed innocence.
“There is absolutely no rush with the bathroom,” I tell him. “Take all the time you need.”
“So generous of you, Callaway,” he chuckles. “It’s almost as if you don’t want me to leave.”
There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, then.
His hands on my shoulders, he guides me to stand at the edge of the bed. I watch as his broad chest expands with each deepening breath.
I have to touch him.
I trace his pecs, running my fingers lightly over his glistening skin as he bends forward and captures my mouth in a slow, deep kiss. I am drowning in his lips, and too soon, they leave mine to kiss my neck and nuzzle behind my ear.
He laughs softly as I scrunch up my shoulder in a shivery protest. “I know firsthand that other parts of you are even more sensitive.”
Thinking of what he will do to me—what I hope he will do—makes me ache.
“Take off your clothes, but leave on those sexy shoes.”
I shudder again at his commanding tone and the rasp in his voice. The idea of him wanting me in my black high heels is a tremendous turn-on.
I unbutton my professional silk blouse and step carefully out of my professional black skirt, letting both slip to the floor, so that I’m standing in front of him in my cream-colored bra. And matching lacy thong. I planned this, of course, with him in mind, and from his expression, I did a good thing.
“Jeeesus,” he breathes. “You look fucking amazing, Callaway. All professional on the outside, but underneath, a different story. I like that. But a thong...that’s a little risqué, don’t you think?” His voice is husky with want.
I swallow.
“There may need to be a little consequence for that. Just sayin.” He arches a playful eyebrow, but his eyes are smoldering as he begins to unbuckle his belt, working it free from the loops.
Holy fuck. I can feel my chest heaving, and he’s staring at my breasts as they rise and fall.
“I’ll never ask you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, Madeline,” he assures me gently. “But I think you might like it.”
I think I might, too. I think I might like anything you do to me, Jack.
Holding the belt in one hand, he slides off his jeans and briefs. His erection is enormous, and even though I’ve seen it before, I can’t stop staring at it, at him—at this beautiful, statuesque, muscle-rippled man that’s hard in all the right places.
He takes his cock in his free hand and slides it along the shaft. “Do you see what you do to me? How badly I want to fuck you?”
I cannot speak, so I just manage a small nod. My thong is already soaked. I am so ready for him.
“Do you think you can take a little consequence?”
I nod again. I’m a little fearful, and this adds to my arousal. But even with the apprehension, I realize that I trust him, and the awareness of that creates a bloom of elation in my chest.
“Lean over the bed,” he murmurs. “Get on your elbows, and keep that beautiful ass up in the air.”
I obey him, my heart thudding wildly. I’m trembling as he steps closer to stand directly behind me.
I have never felt more vulnerable or more turned on in my life.
“First, my hand,” he tells me. There is a pause, and then I feel the sharp slap of his palm across my buttocks. The sound and the sensation make me drip with desire.
“Again, for my naughty girl.” His use of the word my sends thrills coursing through my body. Two more spanks, and I bite my lip. I am throbbing, burning, and I silently beg myself not to come.
“Last one—this time with the belt. All right?”
“Yes.” I’m practically moaning.
“God, Madeline...I can’t wait to fuck you.”
I feel the cool leather of his belt as he drags it across my ass. Unexpectedly, I feel his finger slip inside the thin strip of material between my legs and stroke along my opening. I have all I can do not to explode.
“You’re fucking saturated. Such a naughty girl.” One more drag of the belt across my butt, and then it comes down to strike me, and I gasp—not so much because of the pain, but because of the pleasure.
Jack’s voice is heavy with desire. “Got to fuck you now, sweetheart.”
I hear the tearing of a wrapper behind me, and then everything happens fast—pulling down my thong, a quick fingering of my clitoris which almost sends me into climax, rubbing the head of his cock against my opening...putting his hand on the back of my neck and pushing me down on the bed.
And then he’s inside me...grunting, pushing, filling me up. The angle allows him to penetrate me deeper, and there is some pain with the very first thrusts, but like the brief spanking, it’s a hurt that I welcome. It is sexy, it is primal, and I raise myself up on the bed, parting my knees even more so he has full access to me. This seems to put him over the edge. He says my name in a ragged groan, and hearing him like that sends me into my own glorious release, my very being shattering into a million tiny shards of ecstasy.
“Take my big cock, baby,” he rasps. “Take all of it.”
Clenching the comforter in my hands, I brace myself as he thrusts harder, deeper, his exhales hot on the back of my neck as he comes.
His breathing slows. He kisses the back of my neck once, twice, nestling into me while fresh pleasure courses through me at this unexpected display of tenderness. He is still propped up, his hands on either side of my face. I look at the long, strong, tanned fingers and marvel that everything about this man is beautiful.
A final gentle kiss on my upper back as he sighs deeply and pushes himself away from me. I climb off the bed, post-climactic high still thrumming in my veins, and retrieve my thong. Jack is looking at me almost in bewilderment. “Callaway…” he trails off, raking a hand through his hair. “That was—I don’t even know how to describe it.”
“I know.” I manage a smile, blushing. “I feel the same way.”
The silence is soft between us—comfortable, like two people who have known each other for years instead of a few weeks. We both begin to dress. I sneak glances at him, ignoring the flash of despair at the realization I am not going to be able to look at him like this for many more times. I swallow down the words climbing to my throat—will you stay with me tonight?—because I know what the answer will be.
He’s putting on his jeans now, sliding his foot crisply into each leg with speed and purpose. He bends down to pick up his belt—Go
d, the belt—threading it through the loops with deft fingers. He wants to leave, fast, and this pushes hot tears into my eyes.
I know why. I am so sure of why that it stuns me. He’s feeling the intimacy of what we just shared and realizing it was more than just sex. For him, it is obviously too much. But for me…
It’s just right.
Chapter 19 ~ Jack
August 3
Let me just say very clearly that roofing sucks. You’re climbing up and down a ladder, carrying heavy rolls of tar paper and bundles of shingles. Your ankles hurt because they’re always at weird angles. It’s dirty work, and when you’re on top of a house in the middle of summer, you feel like you’re going to melt into the shingles. For some houses, especially a Cape like this one, you have to take the extra step of using roof jacks since the pitch is so steep. So for all these reasons, I rank roofing right up there with root canals.
But...this is Ed King’s house, and since Ed has become the king in my book, I’ll gladly do it. And it’s not that bad, really—it’s almost like my mind needs to do something orderly like [line up shingles—lay, staple, repeat--], to counteract the snarled thoughts in my brain stemming from the house on Newbury Neck—or more accurately, from the owner of the house on Newbury Neck.
Callaway wanted me to stay Friday night. She didn’t say it, but she didn’t have to—I could feel it, just like I could feel my own similar wish rising up in me till I was practically choking on it. It put me into panic mode, because it was so close to spilling over into need, and I can’t have that. So I left.
And felt like shit about it.
Man, I’ve got to get her bathroom done. Which will mean the end of my alliance with her. But, as I keep telling myself, it’s better that than the end of Big Deck as we know him.
Right?
I’m nailing down the last row of shingles when I hear a voice from below.
“Mr. Decker. I’ve made lemonade.”
“Okay, sir. Thank you. Be right there.” I climb down the aluminum ladder and walk into the side entrance, unlacing my work boots and leaving them on the doormat before walking into the sunny kitchen. Ed’s in his standard plaid shirt—this one navy and white and short-sleeved, the top button undone—and tan pants, his sparse, silver hair parted and neatly combed. He’s got a tall, oscillating fan whirring in the dining room, and it’s lifting the edges of the stacked newspapers on the table. There are clear plastic tubs, and blue ones, on the oak floor.
Opening a cupboard door, Ed takes out two tall glasses and turns to see me looking into the dining room. “I’ve been putting off the inevitable. Got to start packing up the things I don’t need. Which is most everything.” He gives a dry laugh. “Thought I’d ease into it, bit by bit. My son’s coming to help me this weekend. I told him I didn’t need it—he’s an accountant in Boston and has a family to take care of—but he insisted.”
“That’s good, Ed. It’s a big task, packing up a house.”
“I’ve accumulated a lot. I’ll need to weed through things since I can’t take it all to the retirement home.” He nods toward the kitchen sink as he walks stiffly across the linoleum floor with the glasses and a couple of white napkins. “Clean up if you’d like, Mr. Decker.”
I wash my hands, drying them with a paper towel so I won’t get his kitchen towel dirty, and sit down at the small antique table in front of the sliding glass doors that lead to the deck. Even without AC, it’s cool in this house, due to what I’m guessing is a solid insulation job. It’s a very well-made Cape; Ed shouldn’t have any problem selling it, if he prices it right.
Walking stiffly, Ed carries the pitcher of lemonade over to the table, his hands shaking. I want to jump up and take the pitcher, but he’s independent and proud, and I don’t want to insult him. So I sit while he fills my glass, and we both ignore it when a little lemonade splashes on the table. As he starts to take the chair across from me, he seems to remember something. He goes over to the pantry, takes out a blue tin and brings it to the table. Royal Dansk butter cookies—a classic old person treat. I have to hide my smile. I remember them, from when I was young. With trembling fingers, he lifts the lid and offers the tin to me. I take three while memories of my grandparents pour into my brain.
“Ever have these, Mr. Decker?”
“Yes, sir. They were a staple at my grandmother’s house.”
“Marian and I would have them with tea in the afternoons, and she used to tease me that I liked them better than her homemade ginger snaps.” He takes a sip of his lemonade, his eyes brimming. “She was wrong.”
It hits me, as we’re sitting here, that Ed is no longer the first part of Impatient Perfectionist Hoverer. He hasn’t been pressing me to get things done like he was, and he’s encouraging—sometimes insisting—that I take drink breaks with him. It’s like he wants me to take my time on this project.
Like another client I have.
“Do you have family in the area, Mr. Decker?”
“My father and brother live in southern Maine.”
“And your mother?”
“She passed away about eight years ago.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t mean to pry...I was just curious.”
“No worries, sir.”
“Do you see your father and brother often?”
“Uhh...” I gulp more of the lemonade, which is a little too sweet and probably a mix, but it’s cold and refreshing, and Ed made it. “Not much. Unfortunately, we had a falling out a couple of years back. My father is what you’d call a difficult man.”
And then I find myself telling Ed King the whole story. It shocks me, how easy it is to talk to him. He doesn’t make any judgments, just sits there nodding and eating butter cookies as he listens. He smiles when I tell him James’s latest update about my father ignoring the doctor’s recommendation and working more hours than he’s supposed to.
“So you’re in communication with your brother.”
“Only about my father’s health, but yes.”
“It’s a start. How does your brother act towards you?”
I haven’t really analyzed this, but I tell Ed that James has been keeping me informed on Dad’s progress without my needing to ask, and he’s seemed interested in how I’m doing.
“It sounds like he’s trying to open a door. Are you going to let him?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. Not sure if I’m ready yet. Or if I ever will be, after all that happened.”
Ed nods, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “That’s quite understandable. I would just hate to see you with regrets, Jack. There’s an old proverb that says, ‘a bitter heart eats its owner.’ I would hate to see that happen to a good heart like yours.”
There are lots of sayings about bitterness and forgiveness, and I’ve always considered them kind of cliché, until hearing this in Ed’s gravelly voice. Somehow, his advice hits home. There is a pause in our conversation, so the only sound in the house is the clicking and whirring of the fan.
His pale eyes soften and take on a shine. “When people get near the end of the road like I am, they want to pass on their wisdom, because they realize how precious life is. And how fleeting. So I’d tell you, Mr. Decker, that opening doors can lead to other doors opening. A good heart like yours shouldn’t be closed.” He stands up and takes my empty glass. “Of course, you can tell this old man to go fly a kite.”
“I’d never tell you that, Ed. I respect you and appreciate the advice. And by the way, I don’t see you at the end of the road. I think you have a few more miles left in you.”
He’s smiling as we clear the table. I’ve pleased him, but I have to think that I’m the one getting the most out of working for him.
* * * *
Later that night, I’m celebrating our men’s league softball win with Drew at Louie’s, a dive-y little bar with plank trestle tables, dollar drafts and stale popcorn. Drew’s on vacation and came to see me for a few days, so I roped him into playing tonigh
t since our shortstop’s hurt. We kicked ass in the game—9 to 1, and yours truly went two for three with a two-run homer and a double. So I’m feeling good after a few pints of Sam Adams and hardly notice the little pocket of hollowness that the beer hasn’t been able to fill.
Drew raises his glass of Coors Light. “To Big Deck, who crushed it tonight.”
“You did all right yourself, buddy—turning two double plays.” I clink the top of my bottle with his glass. “To Maritime Energy, the greatest bunch of glory-days athletes ever.”
The waitress comes by with our order, a heaping plate of Insanely Hot wings. She takes a stack of napkins from her apron and sets it on the table. “Something tells me you might be needing these,” she says, winking before leaving.
Drew dips a wing into the container of bleu cheese. “Is there a phone number written on one of those napkins?”
“What?”
He rolls his eyes. “Buddy. You’re going to pretend you haven’t noticed that she wants you?”
“I haven’t noticed.”
Snorting, he bites off a piece of celery and chews in exasperation. “She wants you. They all do. I need to stop hanging out with you if I wanna get laid, because all the chicks want Big Deck.”
“Stop.”
“It’s true.” Drew’s on a roll. His eyes are mischievous as he picks up a chicken wing, dripping with sauce, and a small stick of celery. “This is you and me. I’m the sidekick, the celery...the thing you don’t really need. But you...you’re the meat. You’re the delicious, juicy, finger-licking meat that everyone wants to put in their mouths.” He waggles his eyebrows at me as he takes a big bite of the wing and chews vigorously.
Shaking my head, I snort with laughter. “Go to hell.”
“Just speaking the truth, Deck.”
I eat another wing. My mouth’s on fire, and I swallow the rest of my beer. I catch our waitress’s attention and signal for another. She nods and smiles back at me. She’s cute—small and athletic-looking, with bright eyes and delicate features—and it’s kind of surprising that I didn’t pick up on her looks when she first came over, or that she was (as Drew says) into me. Somehow, it doesn’t matter.