by Elise Faber
“Oh fuck,” she moaned. That hot, roughened palm sliding under her underwear, fingers slipping through her wet pussy was the best ever.
Well, until his thumb circled her clit and pressed.
Hard.
She arched off the desk, nipples beaded and aching, moisture pooling between her thighs, which kept trying to spread but were hindered by the stiff material of the denim. Jackson slipped his hand free, and she made a noise in protest, but just as the sound passed her lips, he reared back and yanked off her sneakers.
They hit the floor one after another, were followed by her jeans, by her underwear.
And then Jackson was on his knees, shouldering her thighs apart, mouth descending . . .
“Fuuuck,” she breathed, head clonking back against the desk.
No one could tongue fuck her like Jackson could.
He slid his tongue through her labia, stopping to suck at one spot on the right side that never failed to make her squirm and groan, to ratchet her arousal to epic proportions before continuing up, kissing and licking . . . and sucking her clit like it was a hard candy he was determined to finish before the principal caught him with the sweet treat between his lips.
I can’t wait to get my tongue on your sweet treat.
What should have been the cheesiest, worst line in the history of all lines, sent heat skittering down her spine for a second time.
He had his tongue on her and when he murmured, “So fucking sweet,” against her pussy, Molly imploded.
Just that easily.
Because with Jackson, it had always been heat and speed, ease and comfort, allowing herself to be swallowed by the wave of his presence.
Pleasure exploded from her center, flying through her limbs, pulsing outward, filling her with fire. She moaned loudly and found his hand covering her lips to stifle the sound, even as his tongue coaxed her through to the other side, gently caressed her down from the precipice.
That wave covered her, comforted, even as it sucked her under.
It was only when he reached for her panties and started to tug them over her feet that she realized what he was about.
Stopping.
“Jackson,” she said.
“I’m going, baby.”
Was he fucking kidding? He was going to blow back into her life, eat her out like it was his fucking job, and then leave her wanting him?
No.
Not this time.
She was driving this.
And she wanted the man’s cock inside her.
Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was using him. Maybe she was pissed and hurting and overwhelmed and this was the stupidest thing she could do.
But fuck it all.
She’d spent too long being unselfish with this man.
For once, she could reach for what she wanted.
For once, that could be okay.
Molly moved, kicking off the underwear, pushing off the desk, and grabbing the front of Jackson’s button-down. She yanked him against her and rose up to slant her lips across his.
He kissed her back and it was all teeth and tongue, nipping and stroking, sparking her sated desire back into an inferno. He grabbed her hips, pulling her snuggly against him, grinding the hardness of his cock against her.
She reached down, opened the button of his slacks, yanking at the zipper, fighting with the material until . . . finally.
His cock was hard and scorching her hand.
Molly shoved at his pants, getting them past his hips before lifting a leg and wrapping it around his waist, angling him until he was positioned just right.
“Baby—”
She tilted her pelvis and took him inside.
Fuck. Yes.
They both hissed out a breath as he stretched her wide, the burn of him amping up her pleasure. It had been so long, and this felt so fucking right.
She jumped slightly, wrapped the other leg around him, taking him deeper.
“Fuck me, honey,” she moaned, arching back, feeling him bottom out, a harsh guttural curse vibrating through her.
Then there were no more words. No delays or hesitations.
His hands came to her ass, and he spun them, pinned her between the wall and his chest.
And then he moved.
He pounded into her, a little hard, a little rough, not smooth and sweet and gentle in the least. It was fast and intense . . . and it was the best fucking ever.
Literally.
The. Best. Fucking. Ever.
The hard circles of his shirt buttons were digging into her chest, the strap of her apron was abrading the skin of her neck, his zipper scratched her thighs . . . and those little pains didn’t take anything away. In fact, they heightened the experience, elevated it. He kept thrusting, hard and thick and hot, his scorching breath puffing against her skin, his groans vibrating through her.
“Fuck, baby,” he gritted out. “Baby, tell me you’re there with me.”
“Almost,” she panted. “I need—”
He knew what she needed even before she finished the sentence. He altered the angle of his thrusts, so that each time he bottomed out, he rubbed against her clit, and then he shifted one hand, fingers sliding along the crease of her ass, moving in, pressing against her with his thumb until he was fucking both of her holes, finger and cock moving in unison.
“I’m—” She broke off. “Jackson— Fuck!”
She was there, her orgasm exploding through her.
He ground into her once, twice, a third time and groaned, holding deep, his cock pulsing as he came inside her.
They stayed like that for a long time, Jackson still hard and planted deep, their breathing rapid and staccato, their skin sticky with sweat.
But the longer they stayed like that, the harder it was to keep her mind focused on just feeling. Memories kept creeping to the forefront of her mind. How she’d felt when he hadn’t shown up at the church. The panic of searching the hospitals. How broken she’d been after the scene in the police station.
Her breathing had been slowing, but now it started to speed up again, horror washing through her.
This was either her getting swept along with the tsunami that was Jackson or it was her taking advantage of a man’s guilt just so she could have a couple of orgasms. “You—”
Jackson moved without her finishing the sentence, slipping out, steadying her as she found her feet.
Then her panties.
She slid them up her thighs, made a grab for her jeans and yanked them up her legs.
“We shouldn’t have done that.”
He’d stolen her words, taken what she should have said.
“You’re right,” she agreed then added, “You should go.”
At the very least, she could say that.
Because if she told him to go then she wouldn’t ask him to stay.
Jackson’s eyes drifted up, moving to lock with hers, holding for a long, drawn-out moment. But he didn’t ask to stay either.
He just finished doing up his pants, straightened the cuffs of his shirt, and headed for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “For what it’s worth, I know that I did the wrong thing, and I’m sorry for that.” He turned the handle, opened the door. “But I’m not sorry it kept you safe.”
He stepped out into the hall, closed the wooden panel behind him.
“Not sorry,” she muttered, doing up her own pants, smoothing her apron. “That sounds about right.”
But she didn’t mean the words.
Of course, she didn’t.
And anyway, she was too wrapped up in the conflicting thoughts in her mind to really mean anything.
Was she the user or the usee?
So, instead of thinking about it further or the fact that she’d had to go to the bathroom to put in a tampon, rather than spending the remainder of the day with the reminder of Jackson dripping out from between her thighs, she took care of the problem, washed her hands, and deliberately ignored the random pulses of pleasure that continued
to crop up as the hours passed.
Instead, in what was probably a sick circle of events, she spent the rest of the day making apple turnovers, the same ones she’d been making in the photograph that had torn them apart.
Only this time, there wasn’t anyone around.
Or at least there wasn’t anyone around who had the urge to shine a bright red laser on her forehead.
Molly was wrong about the last.
She just didn’t find out how wrong until much later.
The next day she woke up early, got dressed, and stumbled through her morning, the early hours feeling all that much earlier because she’d hardly slept the night before.
Jackson Davis.
Not the bad guy she’d made him out to be.
Especially when, shortly after five in the morning, as Molly was finishing up loading the case in the front of the bakery, the bell chimed over the door and a young male in an expensive suit strode inside.
“Molly Miller?” he asked, approaching the counter.
“Yes?” she replied, confusion drawing her brows together.
“These are for you from Mr. Davis.” He extended a manila envelope in her direction.
“What—?” she began to ask.
But by then she’d opened the flap and recognized what was inside.
The papers she’d had couriered to Jackson—signed, although with an addendum saying she’d bought Jackson out for a dollar instead of the fair market price she’d offered previously.
Signed.
Done.
Out of her life.
Perfect. That was exactly what she wanted.
And if she thought that perhaps, deep down, she might not actually want Jackson out of her life for good, if it were the sliver of a thought, the barest thread of a wish, Molly was great at pretending she didn’t see or feel it.
She was excellent at pretending.
She’d made it her life’s work.
Eight
Jackson, A month later
He strode out of his office after nine at night and bit back a curse when he saw the man waiting in the reception area.
“Dan,” he said, shoving his cell into his pocket and coming to a stop. “Do you take some pleasure in sneaking into my office?”
This late at night, the building was locked down, the floor to his office doubly so.
Dan shrugged. “Gotta keep your security on their toes.”
At the mention of security, one of Jackson’s expensive as hell security team members appeared in the hall, his body tensed and readied as though he were heading into battle. Jackson caught the man’s gaze and shook his head. “We’re fine.”
Dan waited until the guard left, who backed slowly down the hall with a glare at the sneaky agent, before he turned to Jackson and gestured the opposite direction.
Jackson took the hint, led the way to the corner office that had become his home away from home. His company had recently taken over the top five floors of this building, retrofitting and modifying the space, and moving in just a few weeks before.
All at prime San Franciscan prices.
The location was more about the perception of power rather than actual power, but Jackson had managed to secure some truly reliable—and not criminal—investors in the last few years, ones that didn’t want to use his product to conduct corporate espionage or to unleash an army of bots to try and divide the American people online.
He’d gotten better at discerning, and his business had grown.
But old problems persisted.
Case in point, the man in front of him.
“It’s good to see you, Davis.”
“I wish I could say the same, Plantain,” he muttered, because apparently they were switching to last names. He strode through the door to his office, leaned back against his desk and tried to ignore the memory of doing the same on Molly’s desk . . . and what had happened after. “What are you doing here? Pretending to be in town to watch your sister play again?”
Dan’s sister was a goalie for the San Francisco Gold, the newest expansion team in the NHL.
But hockey didn’t run in the family.
Dan was part of a nameless government agency, a member of a team that had shown up about eight hours after Jackson had called the FBI to report the threats and the dirty investors in his company.
He was also part of the team that was supposed to have already taken down the investor and dismantled the criminal organization, a clan of the Russian mob called the Mikhailova, that had provided it.
“You’re clearly not a sports man,” Dan said. “It’s not even hockey season.”
Jackson sighed, didn’t take the bait. Truth was, he wasn’t much of a sports man. He was too busy saving the business he’d almost torpedoed and then doing his limited part to root out the bad guys involved. “Why are you here?”
Dan sprawled into one of the chairs and announced, “We’ve had a setback.”
Fury tore through him. “This shit was supposed to have been done two fucking years ago.”
No sympathy on the agent’s face. “Sorry to be the one to tell you this, but life doesn’t always work out the way you want it.”
Jackson cursed and thrust a hand through his hair. He knew that. He’d lived that life for the last four years, had tried to stop himself from having to live it for the previous year before that. All for nothing. In the end, he’d had to give everything important up anyway.
Molly gone.
His business in tatters.
“You are not going to tell me to make lemonade out of lemons.”
“How about lemon cake?” Dan said, still sprawling though he smacked his lips. “Fuck, I love lemon cake. In fact, I could go for—”
“What’s the setback?” Jackson said, interrupting him before he could go full soliloquy on the merits of lemon cake. Having heard more than a few of Dan’s tangents over the years, he knew they were neither short nor particularly meaningful.
“You.”
Jackson frowned. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You shouldn’t have gone to see her, man,” Dan said, and that one sentence twisted Jackson’s stomach into knots.
He pushed up from the desk and got in Dan’s face. Probably not the smartest thing, especially when he could see the outline of a weapon on the other man’s hip. But fury had overshadowed common sense, at least for the moment “What. The. Fuck. Are you talking about?”
“They saw you go to her.”
Jackson’s heart seized and his throat constricted. “It’s been four years.”
“They saw.”
“It was only a couple of hours.” Hours riddled with both pleasure and guilt.
“Time doesn’t matter with these guys.”
“Fuck.” He leaned back, paced the length of his office. “Fuck!” He turned back. “What are we going to do?”
“I’ve got protection on her.”
Jackson snorted. “The same protection that resulted in her having a fucking gun pointed at her head?”
Dan sighed. “My advice is to continue staying away. Leave her to her life, make sure these guys know that she doesn’t mean anything to you, make sure they don’t use her to get to you. Leave her alone so she can be safe.”
“I did that already, and it didn’t work.”
“You went back.”
“I—” Jackson cut off his excuse. He’d been about to say he’d had to talk to her about the papers, but that was a lie. He could have signed and been done without seeing her. He could have left when she’d so clearly wanted him to. He could have not fucked her against the wall in the single best sexual experience of his life before finally abiding by her wishes and leaving. He’d ruined so much, taken so much—
“Just stay away.”
How could he? He’d tried that for four years. Then one morning in her presence, and he was right back where he’d begun. Obsessing about Molly, thinking of her every waking moment, fighting with himself to not go back to the ba
kery, to not beg and plead and make her understand that his life without her was meaningless.
Maybe if he hadn’t seen her, he could have continued to resist. Maybe the urge to go back wouldn’t be so acute.
But he had gone back.
And now Jackson was in agony.
“You can’t stay away, can you?” Dan asked quietly.
Silence.
Then, “No.”
“Fuck.” Dan pulled out his cell, considered for a few seconds then began typing. Within a half-minute of him hitting the final key and placing it on his thigh, there was a buzz, signaling a response. He nodded. “If I told you to give me three more months, could you do it?”
Jackson stifled a curse. No, he couldn’t do it. But could he also risk Molly just because he might be in agony for another ninety days?
Also, no.
“Fuck, no, you can’t,” Dan muttered, typing on his cell again. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. This is no longer your office. Your office is the bakery. Your ass is in a chair at Molly’s place anytime she’s there. Your presence is known and expected and constant.”
Jackson frowned.
“It’s not a deterrent so much as a declaration. Molly is yours. If you’re always there, they’ll see she belongs with you. That they have to fuck with you to get to her.”
More frowning. “They’ve made it pretty clear they don’t mind fucking with me. Isn’t this going to just unleash more shit onto her?”
“The shit’s already coming, Jackson. But we can just use this to our advantage. Push them to make a move sooner than they’re ready.” Dan shoved his phone in his pocket. “It’s not foolproof. It’s dangerous. But the whole situation is dangerous. So, if you really can’t give me a few months then you have to be prepared to be all in.”
“I’ve been in. Fuck, Dan. I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. I left the woman I loved. I stayed away from her for years.” He paced away again. “I gave you access to my company, to every document and email and bank account. I did everything—”
“And you’ve got nothing to show for it,” Dan said quietly. “I know, brother. I know what that’s like.”
“Fuck,” he hissed, knowing that he had to make a decision.
Knowing the decision was already made.