by Loki Renard
“I thought you were gone forever...”
“Never forever,” he says, holding me close. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner. I was... rearranging my face. And I thought they might be watching you. I had to be certain everyone had moved on. I’m sorry I was gone so long. I’m sorry I let you think I was dead.”
I press my ear to his chest and listen to his heartbeat. “It’s really you,” I whimper, tears beading in my eyes. “Where have you been? What have you been doing?”
“I, uh, got a new identity. It’s Jack now.”
“Wow, super different name.”
“Yeah,” he smirks. “And I have a real estate business. And a decent house. And a dog.”
“And a... girlfriend?” I look up at him, wondering if this is just him coming to say goodbye to me one last time.
“God, no. There’s only one girl for me, Jazz, and that’s you.”
“You don’t want me. I almost got you killed. And I’m fat now, and...”
He silences me with a kiss, a deep, passionate, full-blooded kiss that drives all petty thoughts from my head and leaves me melted against him. He’s maybe a little heavier through the waist as well, but it suits him.
“I missed you so much,” he says. “I thought you would have moved on.”
“Never. Not even if you were dead. I would have waited until the next life for you.”
“God, I love you,” he growls, kissing me again. This time, our locked lips ignite with something much more powerful than mere tearful reunion. The passion that has been dormant inside me for more than a year, suppressed with misery and dampened with the depression that has dogged me incessantly, ignites in a hungry roar.
We’ve never known how to take sex slow. We tear at one another’s clothes, desperate to be joined again. There’s no time to get fully naked. There’s just enough time for me to hike up my skirt and pull my panties to the side, for him to pull his cock free of his pants, and then he is inside me, reclaiming me over a keg of beer, my hips jolting with every thrust. He might not look the same, but he feels the same, his hard cock ravaging my sensitive sex. It has been a long time since I let anyone touch me. I would have gone the rest of my life without intercourse. I am his. Only his, and he is reclaiming me as roughly and passionately as I remember.
Nobody fucks like Jake. Nobody holds me like Jake. Nobody makes me cry out like him, my legs shake like him. Nobody makes my pussy cream with desire, or clench with desperate need like him. I am wailing to the heavens as he fucks me with a hard, rutting motion that puts us back into total connection.
Bam!
Jake is balls deep inside me when the door slams open and my manager staggers in underneath a box of nacho chips.
“Jesus Christ!” he curses, his round face blooming red with shock. “Jazz! You’re fucking fired!”
“Or fired for fucking?” I quip with a laugh. I don’t care. At all. I feel no shame at being found with... Jack, was it? I’d fuck him in front of a thousand angry shift managers just to feel him again. Nothing could spoil this day, not after all the days that came before it, the months of loneliness, the complete absence of all hope, the relentless misery of thinking that I’d lost the only man who ever mattered.
“Sorry,” Jake says, tucking himself into his pants. “We couldn’t help ourselves.”
“Getoddahere!” my manager says, waving us off. “Goddammit, how hard is it to get staff who don’t fuck around on shift?”
I grab Jake’s hand and the two of us stroll out of the storage room with big smiles on our faces, and an even longer life ahead of us.
“I’m never letting you go again,” I tell him. “I mean that. I am going to stalk you every day for the rest of your life. You are going to have to peel me off your dick just to leave the house in the morning.”
He lets out a laugh. “Good. Because I was thinking you might want to go into business with me, showing and selling houses.”
“We’re going to be realtors?”
“Sure. You don’t like that idea?” He looks concerned for a moment. It is really going to take me some time to adjust to that new face of his. Whoever did his work really knew what they were doing though, he’s fucking hot as hell.
He hands me a business card. The tagline makes me snort-laugh: Hammer Realtors. We’ll get your house nailed!
The name at the bottom reads: Jack Hammer.
“You did not choose Jack Hammer as your new name,” I laugh.
“Sure did,” he smiles. In that smile is all his daring and bravery and, yes, even recklessness. He’s a fighter. Against all odds, he fought his way back to me. I can’t believe it. Just like I can’t believe that fucking name.
“You know that’s going to make me Jazz Hammer if we get married.”
“I was thinking you could change your last name to Hans.”
“Jazz Hans?” I groan. “Did that new face make you goofy?”
“No. Seeing you has made me more fucking happy than I knew was possible,” he says, sweeping me up off my feet into one of those crazy sexy hot kisses that leaves me spinning.
“I love you so fucking much,” I say when he breaks that kiss. “Now tell me how you faked your death and got a whole new face. And do it over dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, saluting me with the business card, then dropping it down between my breasts. I laugh and skim it back at him and together we walk into a future I never thought was possible.
I have a lot of questions, but none of them matter. The only thing that matters is him. Having him. Being with him. And selling houses under a totally goofy moniker, and probably banging in a lot of them.
I can’t wait to get his clothes off, but more than that, I can’t wait to live this new, white picket fence life he’s set up for us. This is what we’ve both been fighting for all this time, and I can’t wait to be boring with him.
“What are you smiling about?” He swats my bottom lightly.
“I’m just thinking how boring we’re going to be,” I grin.
“Oh, god, yeah, we are going to be tedious!”
“We’ll eat kale.”
“What about juice cleanses?”
“Definitely juice cleanses,” I say. “And matching sweaters at Christmas. We’re gonna send out holiday cards with the dog I haven’t met yet, but already love.”
“Good, because I’m pretty sure he loves you too,” Jake smiles. “Maybe we can have a couple of kids who think we’re totally lame?”
“And they’ll be right. We’re going to be so goddamn lame! I’m going to join the PTA. Maybe you can become president of the local HOA, and we can police the color of letterboxes.”
“Blue or green,” he agrees. “No garish reds or oranges. Definitely no yellow.”
“Maybe red at Christmas.”
“Maybe,” he says, picking me up again and squeezing me like I’m a toy.
God, I can’t wait to be a suburban housewife. It’s going to be epic.
The End
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