He kept his eyes open as he leaned toward her. His lips pressed against hers in a quick, dry brush of softness, and it – it wasn't anything. Nothing spectacular, nothing dramatic. He was being so careful; it was as if he thought of her as a sister.
He pulled back a little, and Faith closed her eyes for just a moment. When she opened them, Jackson was watching her carefully. He was still close; he hadn't pulled away, and he hadn't dropped his hand, but his eyebrows were tightly furrowed. "That wasn't what you wanted," he said.
She shook her head.
"Tell me what you want, then."
Her cheeks were red hot, all of a sudden. She'd never learned how to ask for what she wanted. She'd never really bothered to try. But he was watching her carefully, and she dug up some strength she hadn't known she possessed. "I want you to kiss me."
The corner of his mouth quirked up. "I just did."
She could see a sparkle in his eyes, and she made herself laugh, just enough to justify lifting her chest so that her breasts brushed against his chest. His reaction was subtle, a catch in his breath, a slight tightening of his fingers – but it was there. She felt it, and she loved it. "Not like I'm your sister."
"Not my sister," he said. His fingers tightened, then slid up into her hair, teasing at her, and she felt her breath quicken, her breasts tightening into sharp peaks. "A friend. A friend who is in pain and – who could put me in some danger if she changed her mind later." There was a touch of regret in this eyes. "I know you're saying yes right now. I'm – making sure your yes won't change later."
Yes, there was that aspect, wasn't there. Her stomach twisted at the realization that Roger could take this away from her, too. And not just Roger. Society. Society said things about a black man and white woman, even now. Not as many things as they might have in the past – but still.
"I understand," she said. It hurt to say it, but she had to. "If you want to go, I understand. Take whatever Roger wanted. I don't care."
His jaw was tight for a moment, and his words, when they came, were strained. "The only thing I want is you," he said.
Enough, Faith told herself. Enough. She slid her arms around his neck, and when he didn't stop her, she lifted herself up to press her lips against his.
It had been a long time since she'd initiated a kiss that was about more than just saying good-night or good-bye. She felt as awkward as a teenager, trying for a moment to understand where her nose was supposed to go, and how to move her lips against his to show him that she was fully here, completely present in this moment. "Just for today," she said. "If that's all you want. But please. Please, kiss me."
He made a sound like a whispered groan, and then he pulled her tight against him, staring deep into her eyes for one more moment before he pressed his lips back to hers.
It was nothing like that first brush of lips on hers, that kiss between friends. It was nothing like her kissing him while he was passive, not resistant but not sure. It was something else entirely. She'd always loved romance novels, that heated moment where two bodies crashed into each other, but it had never felt entirely real.
And this wasn't a moment out of a romance novel. This wasn't two bodies crashing together because of an inevitable attraction. This was two people, getting something they needed from the other. She didn't know what would happen next, but she didn't care. She'd forgotten what it felt like to be held against another body, to be wanted. To be more than needed.
For several moments, it was just the kissing. It was his tongue teasing at her lower lip, then tracing her mouth when she parted her lips. It was his fingers pressed into the nape of her neck, and his hand tracing an idle pattern over the small of her back. She didn't feel an insistency from him, an urgent need for more. Well. She could feel his insistence at his thigh, but not in his hands, not in his mouth. It wasn't what she expected. But it was lovely. It gave her time for her body to slowly heat, warmth coalescing deep in her cells and coming together in the space between her thighs.
Almost delicately, he brought the kiss to a close and leaned back a little way from her. His pupils were blown wide, and he was smiling. "Better?"
"Lovely," she said. And then, without letting herself take enough time to think it through and find the fear, she said, "More."
She expected – maybe even wanted – him to crash towards her like an ocean wave smashing into the beach, but that wasn't what happened. He moved slowly, inexorably, but steadily. He caught her lips again with his mouth, his tongue smoothing its way back into her as his hand took her back again, but this time slid down to cup the curve of her ass, the lift of her hip.
She waited for some shame to rise up about the way that her body looked. She'd started finding that she was losing muscle over the past few years, clearly moving towards becoming one of those old women who looked like a skin bag of bones instead of old lady plump. Roger had found it delightful to jeer at her, commenting that she could poke his eyes out with her shoulder blades. But if Jackson thought anything of it, he didn't say anything. And, shockingly, the disgust didn't come. Yes, she was 50 years old. Yes, her breasts sagged more, and her skin was thinner, and there were places where she'd had extra padding and no longer did. But she was still herself, and he had found her interesting exactly as she was.
It was a heady feeling. Heady enough that she wrapped her arms around his neck and lifted herself to kiss him back with more force and more interest.
Finally, finally, his control cracked just a little bit. He inhaled sharply, and then his hands lifted her, setting her butt down on the edge of the table. Her thighs spread to make room for him, and he didn't waste a moment taking up that space between them. "At this moment," he breathed against her mouth, then slid to the side, kissing her jawline and tracing a heated path up to her earlobe, "do you have an idea how far you might like for this to go?"
"As far as you're willing to take it," she whispered, and he froze for a moment. Just one, and then he was pressing against her even more firmly. She wore leggings on bottom, and she could feel every line of his hard, rigid body against her.
He pulled back just a little to look her in the eye. "How long has it been for you?"
She felt her cheeks flush. "Years," she said. There was the shame. She'd known it would make an appearance, sooner or later.
He nodded, his eyes closing for just a moment, and then he was smiling. "It's not like I have a condom in my back pocket anyway. I'm sure," he said, and took a brief moment to press his hand against her butt, letting her feel his eager heat against her body, "that we can come up with something."
She shifted her hips, and his eyes all but rolled back in his head. "I'm sure we can," she said, and pride followed her words. She was making him feel special. She was making him notice her. It was unbelievable.
He pressed her down so that she was lying on the table, her legs splayed open for him. She heard the sound of breaking crockery as he pushed at her, and she didn't care. There was nothing he could break that she couldn't replace, except for this moment.
His mouth followed down her neck to the vee of her sweater, and then when he nodded, pressed her sweater up to pepper kisses over her belly. He pushed the sweater up higher and licked at the space between her breasts. Through her bra, he kissed her nipples, and she heard a soft cursing whimper that she was surprised to realize was coming from her.
It was lovely, but it wasn't what she wanted.
"Your mouth," she murmured, running her fingers over his soft, close-cut curls. "Can I have your mouth?"
He leaned up and looked down at her, that laughing sparkle back in his eyes. "And where do you want my mouth?"
She blushed furiously. "You know where."
"I'm pretty sure," he said, and his hips rocked against her, setting up a slow and steady burn deep inside of her. "But what if I'm wrong? I could hurt your feelings. Or offend you! I don't want to do that. I need to be sure I'm not making a mistake."
His fingers slid between them, brushing along th
e opening of her, and she gasped in shock at the flurry of sensations. She hadn't been completely uninterested in sex, and she'd still enjoyed an occasional, luxurious bath, and she had been born in a time when girls were encouraged, at least a little, to explore their bodies and figure out what felt good. She'd cut her teeth on Our Bodies, Our Selves, after all.
But she'd forgotten the difference between touching herself and being touched. Even with her panties and her leggings between them, the sensation of another human hand touching her was heady enough on its own. "My pussy," she gasped out, suddenly not caring how profane she was, "I want your mouth on my pussy."
He moved fast, cupping her with his mouth without wasting time taking off her clothes. The heat of his breath burned through her and she cried out, her hands gasping for anything, something to anchor her to the present, to keep her from shattering into tiny shards and vanishing into some magical other world.
"Like that?" He asked. His tone was conversational, but his breath was far too tight for her to even pretend to believe him.
"More," she said. She suspected it was the only world she knew.
He tugged at the waistband of her leggings, and she lifted her hips. The wood of the table was cold on her ass, and it had been a very long time since she'd felt cold air on her body unless she was in a doctor's office. Before that thought could take hold, though, how undelicate she was right now, splayed across the table like a side of meat, he came down to her again, his breath leading the way.
When he latched onto her clitoris, the world all but ended. She drew in a breath so great and sudden that she thought she would rear off the table, fly up into the air, and bring him with her. He was murmuring against her skin, his fingers tracing delicate little patterns over her hips, and it was the most amazing thing she'd felt in ages and ages. It was more than just the feeling of sexual pleasure. It was the feeling of another body this close, another person paying such careful attention to her.
He lapped at her gently, swirling the hot flat of his tongue over her, focusing on the small bud of nerves for a moment, then touching her more broadly, then circling in again. She'd never had a man touch her this way without feeling like he was just waiting for her to spasm so that he could get his own release; this felt entirely different. Entirely amazing.
"More," she whispered, and she would have sworn he caught fire in that moment. He let out a tortured groan. She felt his fingers shift from holding her lower lips open to pressing delicately at her center. She flinched for a moment, sure that pain would follow – that was why she'd been grateful when this stopped being a concern before, honestly – but his motion was so slow, and frankly, she was so wet from his attention, that it was fine. It was better than fine. He twisted one finger delicately into her, and she had to grab for the edges of the table again. He moved slowly, his rhythm matching that of his tongue, and she felt the heat that she'd almost forgotten beginning to gather in the cradle of her hips. She began to move, her body a little less than under her control, and he kept pace with her, devouring her, adding a second finger to her body when she was ready for him. She heard the noises sliding out of her mouth, soft and eager and needy and almost kittenish. She couldn't form the word "more" but she said it with her body, her breath, her almost desperate need.
When the orgasm came, it came slowly, almost hesitantly, rolling over her body in careless waves that stole her breath and flushed her skin and made her heave and writhe against Jackson. Her mouth was open, her throat tight, and whatever sounds she made were eclipsed by his groans of encouragement against her heated body.
As it passed, she sagged back onto the table. He left her gently, kissing back up her body until he could press a soft kiss against her mouth. It was odd, the spicy-sweet taste of her body on his skin. She liked it, but it was odd.
Faith reached back down between them to cup the iron bar that she could feel pressed against his thigh, but he moved carefully out of her reach. "This is going to sound funny," he said, his voice careful, "but if we're going to go further than this, I'd much rather take you out to dinner first."
She lifted an eyebrow and casually cast her glaze around at the disaster they'd made of her dining room. "This doesn't count?"
He laughed with her as he leaned back and lifted her up to sitting. "Yes and no, I suppose," he said, and then he was quiet for a long moment. "You and Roger – was there ever anyone else for you?"
She tried not to let her lips tighten. "Not intimately, no."
Jackson nodded. "I find you intriguing, Faith, I have since I first saw you. But I'd be a bastard of a man if I slid right into the spot he left. You deserve a chance to explore. To see what you might like, what you might want. It might not be me, after all."
It was strange, a man protesting that he might not be the right choice for you when his chin was still damp with fluid from devouring your pussy while you writhed. "So what do we do, then?" She asked, keeping her voice as quiet and neutral as she could. He wasn't rejecting her; she was sure that would sound very different. If anything, he was accepting her, exactly as she was. Which was both a kind and somehow a sad thing.
"You go about your days. You get that sad sack of a husband out of your life, and you do whatever you choose to do about him. And maybe I take you out on a date. Maybe we get some dinner. Maybe we come back here, and we – come up with all sorts of ways to enjoy each other. But at the same time, you don't tie yourself down to me. Maybe you should explore those dating sites Roger was so fond of. Maybe you go out to a bar and meet someone new. Maybe you – god, I don't know how women do it, Faith, but I know you deserve a chance to figure that out."
"So selfless," she said, pushing her voice to sound like a purr, and watching his reaction as she slid her hand down past his waist. He didn't shift away this time, but he didn't lean into her. Just touching him left her feeling – not light-headed, not like she was going to faint, but a little bit delirious. She'd never been this woman before, this brave and courageous and wanting woman.
"Tell you what," he said, his voice far more level than she thought she would have managed in his position. "I want to give you a week. A week to see whatever you want to. After a week, call me. If this is something you still want?" He took her hand away from his cock and brought it up to his mouth, planting soft kisses on each of her fingers, and then on the center of her palm. "Then I'll give you everything I have."
He kissed her once more, delicately, and then he showed himself out.
She sat where he'd left her, bare ass on the dining room table, pussy still wet from his attentions, and thought about what to do next. She glanced at Roger's laptop, still open next to her, and for the first time since she'd opened it, her heart didn't clench at the image of the secret life he'd chosen to live without her. It had been his choice, after all. Now it was time for her to make hers.
She pulled her leggings back on, then went to find her phone. It was far too embarrassing to make this phone call, but conveniently, her primary doctor was far more tech savvy than Faith herself, and had told Faith plenty of times that if she had any questions or concerns that were easier to address through email, to just send a message. For a minute, she thought her cheeks would burst into flame, but then she remembered how it had felt to have Jackson's mouth on her, and how much she wanted more.
I'm ready to talk about the cream, she typed out. Meredith had brought it up at every appointment for five years; she'd know exactly what Faith was talking about.
Chapter Three
Faith sat in the corner of the booth at the bar across the street from her office and tried to remember the last time she'd been out at a place like this. Everything was very gently dingy, though not dirty – just worn. The brass rail at the bar needed to be polished, there were patches on the booth cushions, and the glass tabletops had been turned upside down to avoid making chips or scratches worse.
But when she'd asked the bartender for a whiskey sour, he'd given her a small smile and poured it without glancing poi
ntedly at the wines. She wasn't even sure they had wines. Besides, it wasn't like she was going back to any of their usual spots. It was becoming painfully clear that she would be keeping the money, and Roger would be keeping their friends, when the divorce was eventually settled. Of course, given how many of them had known that he was cheating and hadn't bothered to say anything to her, that was probably for the best.
She had to sigh. If he'd told her what was wrong, that he wanted more sex, or any sex at all, she would have made the appointment with her doctor much earlier. If he'd told her that he was a typical sexist man who only wanted a pair of tits if they still stood up on their own – well, she probably would have given him her blessing, if he'd only told her. But the sneaking around, cuckolding her in front of all of their "friends" - that was what she couldn't forgive him for. That, and assuming that she was a bloodless ice sculpture, just because her needs had changed.
She'd spoken to Jackson every night since their escapade in the dining room. Sometimes they just talked, about movies or TV or books or dinner. Sometimes she listened to him touch himself; sometimes she let him direct her hands. She'd never masturbated as a girl; despite her own mother's insistence that bodies were healthy and exploring them only led to more satisfaction, something about it had always seemed vaguely dirty.
Tonight was the last day in Jackson's self-imposed week of exile. He'd given her instructions for tonight, and just listening to them had left her feeling squirmy and interested on the phone. Go to the bar. Find someone to bring you home. Don't even ask their name. Just tell them that I sent you. That I want them to make you feel good for me.
Billionaire Alpha Romance: The Proposal (Mature Gentlemen Book 2) Page 216