You Don't Know Jack

by G. R. George

  “I’m going to come,” he said.

  “Not yet,” Jack teased. “I want you inside me when you do.”

  “It’s hard,” Dev replied.

  “Yeah, it’s hard.” Jack chuckled. “But your skin is so soft.” Jack held the tip of Dev’s cock to his lips, tracing the curves of his mouth with the silken head. “Does this feel good?”

  “Yes,” Dev said, his voice husky.

  Jack slid his mouth once again over Dev’s length, sucking and swallowing his shaft, stroking his cock with lips and teeth and tongue. Dev squirmed and thrust his hips. Jack closed his eyes, concentrating on the heat of Dev’s skin, the fullness of his shaft, and how fucking turned on he was by Dev’s response.

  Dev grabbed the back of Jack’s head, encouraging him to continue. Jack relaxed his jaw and guided Dev to the back of his throat again.

  “I can’t hold back,” Dev said.

  Jack released Dev’s shaft. He climbed up his body, pausing to nip and lick Dev’s small nipples into hard, little buds.

  Dev groaned. “I want you so much, Jack. So much it hurts.”

  “I don’t want you to hurt, Dev. I want you to feel nothing but pleasure.” Jack straddled Dev’s thighs and grasped both their shafts. He kissed Dev, sipping from his lips as he stroked their lengths together. He leaned forward again and positioned Dev’s cock against his ass. “Are you ready?”

  “Wait,” Dev said, panting his words. “We need lube or condoms—”

  Jack put his finger to Dev’s lips. “Shhh. Remember,” he whispered, ice crystals forming on his lips. “I’m magic.” And without further ceremony, he guided Dev’s thick length inside him. Every hot and hard inch seared him with unrivaled bliss. He welcomed Dev’s heat and begged to be consumed.

  “Jesus, you’re so slick and tight,” Dev said.

  “Yes,” Jack said, letting the glory of desire pulse inside him. “Fuck me, Dev.”

  Dev gripped Jack’s thighs and pulled his knees up to use his feet to lift his hips and began thrusting, creating even greater friction between them. Jack’s dick jerked and his balls drew up tight as heat and pressure pooled to his groin. He reached down to take his cock in hand, his fist sliding up and down his shaft in rhythm with Dev.

  He leaned forward again, giving Dev that little bit more of space to really thrust. “Faster,” he told him. “Yes. You feel so good. So fucking good inside me,” he mumbled against Dev’s lips. He could feel the climax building, a sensual pressure of pure sensation. Dev filled him, completed him, made him feel whole. “You’re everything, Dev. Everything.” He barely got out the last word before the orgasm hit him like an avalanche—hard and all consuming. He shouted, his ass grinding against Dev as ribbons of pearly come shot across his lover’s chest.

  “Oh, Jesus. Shit.” Dev’s eyes widened, his mouth forming a small “o” as his body went rigid. “Yes!” Dev cried out, his body jerking beneath Jack. He flung his head back, hitting the carpeted floor with a thud as he arched his back until his climax was spent.

  Jack collapsed on top of him. “Dev,” he murmured near his lover’s ear. “You are so much more.”

  “That was…that was…”

  “Fantastic.” He leaned back enough to look at Dev’s face.

  “Magical,” Dev said with a smile. The smile suddenly faded. “I feel strange, Jack.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I feel…my head.” Dev’s eyes rolled back and his lids fluttered.

  Jack rolled to the side of Dev. “What’s happening?” He shook Dev’s shoulders, but his lover was unresponsive. That’s when he noticed the spot of blood on the carpet near Dev’s head. “No, no, no. Don’t do this, Dev. Not now. Not when I’ve just found you.”

  As if fate, Dev’s cell phone rang. Jack saw it on the desk, the display flashed the name Shelly Belly. Jack answered picked up the call.

  “Hey babycakes, I haven’t interrupted your hot date have I?”

  “Help me,” Jack said, paralyzed with fear. “It’s Dev. Something’s wrong.”

  “Call 9-1-1.” Her voice was eerily calm. “I’ll be there in less than a minute.”

  Chapter 9

  Every once in a while, Dev heard muted voices. He swore he heard Jack telling someone he couldn’t leave. Wouldn’t leave Dev alone. Other voices were distant and incomprehensible. Where am I? What’s happening? He felt as though he was floating, barely tethered to consciousness. But Jack’s voice kept him from letting go. Always. He kept Dev fighting. Kept him from slipping further away.

  “Dev,” he heard Jack say. “It’s Christmas Eve. Please come back. Don’t leave me all alone. My dad told me once that when a Frost gave his heart, it was a gift that could never be returned. I didn’t know what he meant until you.”

  The words of love sounded clear. He wanted to see Jack, to gaze at his beautiful, shiny silver cheeks and his jewel-toned eyes. He longed to hold him, to tell him how much he loved Jack. That he’d always loved him. It didn’t matter that Jack was magic and Dev a mere human. He fought and clawed his way, invoking his will to move his hand, to open his eyes. He felt fingers twined with his, and he squeezed.

  “Dev.” Jack’s voice was shaky. “Did you do that?”

  He squeezed again and focused on opening his eyes.

  “Nurse!” Jack shouted. Dev didn’t hear the door open, but he heard Jack say. “Call Dr. Marsters. He squeezed my hand.”

  Jack sounded elated, and Dev smiled.

  “He smiled!” Jack declared.

  “You make me smile,” Dev said, his voice a hoarse whisper. He finally managed to blink his heavy lids open. “Hi, Jack.”

  Tears leaked from the corners of Jack’s eyes down his pale, human-looking cheeks. “Hi, Dev.” The glittery skin was gone. His aquamarine eyes, while stunning, no longer twinkled like they carried a million tiny stars.

  “What happened?”

  “You scared the crap out of me.”

  Dev smiled, but he couldn’t help the sudden swell of sadness. He missed the hallucination. For a moment, he had believed it magic.

  “Did you say it was Christmas Eve?”

  “Yes. You’ve been in a coma for two weeks. Your friend Shelly said you had some called a subdural hematoma, basically a brain bruise, from when you hit your head and our…vigorous activity caused it to re-bleed.”

  “That doesn’t sound scary at all,” he said. “Is that why I can’t see you anymore?”

  “What?” Jack’s chin jerked. “You can’t see me?”

  “You know,” Dev said. “All shiny-space man-like.”

  “Oh,” Jack said. “That.”

  “Was it all in my head?” He pulled his hand out of Jack’s grip.

  Jack moved closer to Dev. He leaned in close and kissed him. “I think I love you, Dev.”

  “Think?”

  “I know,” Jack said.

  “I’m in love with you too, Jack.” So much for swearing off romance. He knew he was risking a broken heart. Jack had already said he was just visiting, and soon he’d be gone for work. The swell in his heart—and under his hospital gown—told him that any time he could have with the man who never left his side would be worth it.

  “Even without the sparkle,” Jack said.

  “Even without.” Dev chuckled.

  “I want to be with you, Dev. My life is complicated, but I don’t want to lie to you. My job will take me away from you at times.”

  “Will you always come back to me?”

  “Always.”

  “Then I can live with that.”

  “Good. If you can accept me, Dev Garson. The real me.” He brushed his thumbs over Dev’s eyes, and when he removed them, Dev saw Jack once again as he had when they’d made love. As he had since hitting his head. “I’m Jack Frost.”

  “I knew it,” Dev said. He pulled Jack into an embrace. “I’ve never felt so happy, Jack.”

  “You were wrong, Dev.”

  “I was? When?”

  Jack traile
d his fingers down Dev’s chest, raising gooseflesh on his arms. He wrapped his arms around Dev’s waist, pressed their cheeks together, and whispered in his ear. “You’re the stove. I’m the snowman. I have watched you, longed for you, and no matter what happens beyond tonight, I am the luckiest Frost on earth to have you in my arms.”

  Dev smiled. “Does this mean you want my hot poker inside you again?”

  Jack laughed. “You had to go there.”

  “Merry Christmas, Jack Frost.” He kissed Jack’s forehead and grinned when his lover’s hand slipped over his growing erection. “A merry Christmas indeed.”

  The End

  Preview the next book

  Stupid Cupid

  Holiday Hotties Romances, Book 3

  G.R. George

  Chapter 1

  One year earlier

  Eight seconds, Jordan Beck thought. Eight seconds between me and the state finals. He climbed the gate to the chute. Inside, a 1600-pound agitated bull snorted, shaking its massive head. Jordan’s gaze landed on the bull’s large, blunted horns. His heart raced, as it did every time it was his turn to ride. The bull, Cupid’s Arrow, had a reputation for taking down even the most seasoned riders. Between his fast, whiplash-like spins and wildly high kicks, he was a crowd and judge pleaser. In bull riding, both the rider and the bull were scored. A docile bull could be the cause of a low score. Cupid’s Arrow was Jordan’s ticket to the World Championship He touched his chest, reminding himself to breathe. All he had to do was stay on for eight seconds.

  Mike, Jordan’s older brother, pushed the top of Jordan’s cowboy hat down with enough pressure to secure it to his head. “You got this. You’re the best I’ve seen, and I’ve seen a lot. Cupid likes to spin to the left, so get ready to adjust. Keep your hat on, kid. Make me proud.”

  There was no mistaking Mike and Jordan were brothers. They both had hair the color of wheat, thick, and cut short on the sides, a little longer on top. They both had hazel eyes, though Jordan’s had more blue in his, and they both had strong jawlines and a slightly crooked nose that rose a little at the tip. The main difference was height and build. Mike was over six-feet tall and lean as a whip. Jordan was five-eleven and built like someone who bailed hay for a living—wide chest, large arms, and narrow at the waist and hips.

  Mike was almost a decade older. Jordan had always looked up to his brother, even following in his rodeo footsteps. Their father had died the year before. It had been Dad’s dream to see one of his sons take the championship.

  “I wish Dad was here.”

  “Me, too,” said Mike. “But you need to focus on the ride.”

  Jordan had given up any semblance of a personal life for the circuit. Most of the riders had groupies in every city, but Jordan had known since he was twelve that he was gay. Growing up in rural Texas, he learned quickly that revelations of that magnitude were better kept private. He hadn’t even told Mike, but he’d promised himself that if he won the state and made it to World’s, he would come out. He was tired of hiding, tired of denying who he was to the people he loved, but most of all, he was tired of being lonely.

  “Hey, J.” Mike tilted his head to the side. “You ready?”

  “No worries. I’m set.” Jordan inhaled the sweet smell of hay, the musky tang of animal sweat, and the ripe scent of manure. The odors centered him, helped him focus on this moment. A life-changer, if all went well.

  He handed his brother the rosin covered braid of his bull rope. Underneath, the bell jangled as the bull kicked his back feet. He pulled his leather glove on tight, checked the strap on his safety vest, made sure his chaps weren’t loose and wiggled his spurs. Check, check, and check. He finished by putting in his mouthpiece.

  He took a couple of deep breaths. He wasn’t scared. On the contrary, he couldn’t wait to get on that bull, but less adrenaline meant fewer mistakes. He reached across to the chute gate, holding tightly with his left hand, his right on opposite wall. When he was secure on both sides, he set his booted foot on the animals back. The bull bucked and threw his hindquarters against the chute.

  Running the glove up and down the braid, he heated the rosin until it was tacky. Next, he put his hand out, and Michael gave him slack. He warmed the handle the same way, shook down his bell, rolled the rope over, and then positioned his gloved hand back into the handle. Once the bull rope was tight, Jordan took the braid and wrapped it around his hand to secure his grip.

  Eight seconds.

  He kept his boots forward, keeping his spurs off the bull. The show should happen in the arena, not the chute. After a few more adjustments, he slid up on the bull and gave the nod.

  The gate flew open. Cupid’s Arrow shot out, twisting sideways and bucking hard. Seven seconds. Jordan kept his knees tight, correcting his balance with every kick and spin. Six seconds. He kept his free hand up, fighting to keep his hips over the center of the bull. Five seconds. He jabbed in with his spurs. The bull reacted with a quick change of direction while kicking his back legs out. Jordan nearly lost his balance. Four seconds. Another quick and violent spin to the left, like Mike had warned, jolted him. Still, he held on. Three seconds. Four hard and high bucks put Jordan and the bull nearly vertical, and Jordan’s back slammed into the animal’s hindquarters. He squeezed his legs tighter, never easing his grip on the handle. Two seconds. Stay on, he told himself. Just stay on. One second. Cupid’s Arrow suddenly sunfished, leaping from the ground and throwing all four of his feet to the right as he twisted.

  A horn blew.

  I did it!

  The bull landed hard and tossed Jordan over his side.

  Shit. The bull rope hung up, and he couldn’t get his hand out of the handle. Panic fluttered. He felt like a rag doll, as the bull threw him around. He could hear shouts, but not much more over the clanging of the bell and the deafening roar of his pulse in his ears.

  He could feel his arm tearing from the socket. Pain struck like a lightning bolt. Then the handle came loose. Jordan had a moment to thanked God for releasing him.

  “Get that bull under control!” he heard Michael shout. “Jordan. Jordan!”

  A sharp blow snapped his head back.

  His temples throbbed as he tried to focus. He blinked, rubbing at his gritty eyelids with his left hand. Still, his vision remained blurry.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said. He couldn’t see light or shapes. Nothing but darkness.

  “What?” his brother asked. “Talk to me.”

  “I can’t see, Mike.” Jordan turned his head left then right. His world was pitch black. “I’m blind.”

  Chapter 2

  Present day

  The bar crowd cheered when “Love Stinks” blared from the speakers. The Anti-Valentine’s Day party at the Buck-n-Wild Bar had turned up every single and ready to mingle cowboy and cowgirl west of San Antonio. There was a large wooden floor for line dancing, saddles for barstools, large booths covered in faux cowhide, and a mechanical bull center stage. Applause was replaced by “yee-haws” and appreciative whistles.

  Mike Beck took great pains to describe everything to his brother Jordan, from the wagon wheel chandeliers to the tables with beer barrel bases. It did nothing to raise Jordan’s appreciation. He heard the noise, he felt when people shoved against him, and he could smell the beer, whiskey, and bad aftershave that permeated the place.

  He was still getting used to his blindness.

  The ride the year before, the one that should have made his career, had taken everything from Jordan—not just his eyesight. Traumatic brain injury. He’d had to be watched twenty-four seven for the first several months, and the physical therapy crew had made him wear a stupid helmet. Strangely, there were a few occasions where he would see things—things that shouldn’t exist. The visions appeared to him like glowing shapes of creatures, large and small. Some shapes were almost human-like. Once, a physical therapist named Tom looked like a giant eight-foot blob of blue to Jordan. The doctor said he’d heard of similar ghostings with
some TBI patients, and that it might or might not go away, but it wasn’t, as he’d hoped, an indication he’d get his sight back.

  “How did you talk me into this?” Jordan asked. Hanging out at a bar on Valentine’s Day was the last thing he wanted to do. He’d never told his brother he was gay. There’d been no reason to discuss it, especially not in the past year. It wasn’t as if he could go out and find someone. Dating was a struggle for him as a sighted man but as a blind man? Impossible.

  “Come on,” Mike shouted over the music. “You’re twenty-three years old. That’s too young to be a hermit. Besides, I see some ladies checking us out.”

  He wished his brother would quit trying to push the “finding a girl” agenda on him. He wondered what Mike would think if he asked him to scope out some of the men. Jordan smiled at the thought. “You’re not going to take no for an answer are you?”

  “Nope,” Mike said. “Let me get in a dance or two, and then we’ll go.”

  “You see someone you’re interested in?”

  “Not yet, but I’m hopeful.” He paused. “Maybe I’ll find someone nice for you too.”

  “Don’t do me any favors,” Jordan said.

  “You’re blind, J. Not dead.”

  He felt Mike’s hand on his shoulder. “I’m off to find a dance partner. You okay here?”

  Jordan patted the bar in front of him until he touched cold, wet glass then wrapped his fingers around the fresh mug of draft beer. He took a slow pull from the edge and said, “Yep. Got it handled.”

  The noise and movement around him overwhelmed his senses. He pivoted his stool to face toward the hoots and hollers coming from the dance floor as more than a dozen boots stomped in unison to “Achy Breaky Heart.” He was tapping his toe to the music when he first saw the ghost—a tall, golden, diaphanous creature made of sparkles. Jordan dropped the mug in his hand, beer spilling on his pants and the glass shattering on the hardwood floors. The waitress nearly knocked him off the stool trying to clean up around him, and when he searched the darkness again, disappointingly, the ghost had disappeared.