by Stasia Black
My eyes immediately shoot open and I force myself to a sitting position. My eyes skitter all around the lavish room. Like the rest of the house, all the furniture in the room is antique, but I guess there is a mix of modern. There’s no heavy brocade or outdated dark wallpaper. No, the walls are a warm, textured coffee color. Slatted wooden window shades hang in the windows.
Then of course, there’s the giant four-poster bed that I’m lying smack in the center of. I look over at the indent on the bed beside me and my air catches in my lungs. Tentatively, I run my hand over the spot. Still warm.
Okay, Cals. No more distracting myself from what happened last night by appreciating the man’s decorating taste. Me and Jackson Vale… Oh my God. I flop backwards on the bed and cover my face with my forearm. My cheeks flame remembering some of the things that happened last night.
In the light of day, I can barely believe any of it was real. Except here I am, in Jackson Vale’s giant bed. And when I twist my legs, I feel a soreness there that speaks of a night of… um, well… athletic passions is probably the best way to put it.
I press my palms to my heated cheeks. At least Jackson isn’t here to witness my morning- after face.
Which brings out a slew of other thoughts. Number one: I never washed off my makeup last night and I must look like a scarecrow-freak at this point. And number two: Jackson isn’t here. A glance at the clock beside the bed shows it’s seven-forty-five. That’s sleeping in for me. Charlie wakes me up at five-thirty or six at the latest.
But Jackson. It’s a Saturday and it’s not like he had to slip out early for work. So why isn’t he here?
Don’t be an idiot, I chastise myself as I roll out of the world’s most comfortable bed. I see a door off to the left that’s slightly open. As I pad over to it, I see that my guess was right—it’s an en suite bathroom.
Thank God. I have to piss like a racehorse, in addition to what I’m sure is the Nightmare on Elm Street makeup situation.
Last night things might have felt all mixed up because of the emotions and the nice words Jackson was saying. But I know all about the promises men spout to get into a girl’s pants. In the morning, their words are as empty as the bed I found myself alone in.
It’s fine. It’s all fine. I do my business and then turn the faucet to the hottest setting I can stand it. Last night was a pleasant exchange. For both of us. I don’t feel short-changed. No one was used. I wanted it as much as Jackson did.
I squirt out some soap from a dispenser and scrub my face a little too hard. I just wish guys would cut out the bullshit. All that talk about saying he really wanted me to work for him because I’m qualified. Or how he intimated he was interested in some kind of relationship apart from work.
Ugh. I scrub extra roughly to get off the day-old mascara caked underneath my eyes.
Can’t it be enough to say, Hey, you make me hot, I make you hot. Wanna fuck tonight, just a one off? instead of all the lies and subterfuge of, You’re so special, I want to take care of all your problems bullshit?
“Ow, God,” I say after I all but stab myself in the eye with my pointer finger. I rinse my face and dry it, but when I look in the mirror, I’m still wincing.
I put some toothpaste I find on my finger and use it like a toothbrush. But my hair looks crazy, like sex-hair meets bed-head meets riding-with-the-top-down-in-a-convertible-at-eighty-miles-an-hour. I try to finger comb it, but because of all the goop Breanna put in it last night, it’s a lost cause.
I glance back out the door to the main room. No movement. Duh. Jackson’s obviously long gone even though it’s a Saturday and he doesn’t have the excuse of work.
I smirk in disgust, though I don’t know if it’s at him or myself. God, I wonder if he left me a driver or if he expects me to like, cab it back to the city. What a fuckwad.
The appropriate thing to do at this point is to sneak out and do the walk of shame. Find my purse and cell phone and get an Uber.
But you know what? Screw that.
He didn’t kick me out last night and he took the coward’s way out this morning with his disappearing act. And I’m not walking in my house with sex hair and still with the smell of him on my skin. I close my eyes and fight the sudden fierce urge to run back to the bed and inhale his pillow one last time. I jerk my eyes back open, appalled at myself.
I look around the rest of the bathroom. Everything in here is very modern compared to the rest of the house. The shower looks like it has several rainwater spouts, but also jets of water that come sideways from the walls. I walk closer and inspect the little digital control panel beside the entrance. I only try a couple of buttons without any reaction before backing off.
Genius. I shake my head at myself—that’s right, the shower is too complicated for little ole’ me. I should have known how out of my league I was with this guy as soon as I stepped into that goddamned limo last night.
But when I turn the corner of a small half wall, I see a Jacuzzi tub. It has a few buttons too, but I’ve used one of these before. Okay, so the one I used was only about a third of the size of this one, but still, the principles are probably the same, right?
Last year, Shannon took Charlie and me along to a graphic design conference she went to. We got bumped to this awesome room because of some screw up with the hotel reservations. We stayed at the hotel all day and played in the pool, but what Charlie liked even better than the outdoor pool was the Jacuzzi tub in the room. Unlike a normal Jacuzzi, I could control the temperature of the water so it never got too hot. We put Charlie’s floaters on and he freaked out squealing and giggling every time we turned on the jets and bubbles.
The memory brings a smile to my face as I turn on the tub. It has four taps and they all start flowing at full force to fill the tub up quickly. I always swore that one day I’d have enough money to get a house with a Jacuzzi tub. It could be the ugliest-ass house ever, but it’ll have a top-of-the-line tub for my little boy.
My hand goes to my chest and I realize that for the second day in a row, I’m fighting back tears. Fucking tears. What the hell? I can’t even blame it on PMS, I just got over my period and for once, I’m not running on five hours of sleep so it’s not exhaustion. I don’t know what time it is, but I know I slept like the dead on that too-comfortable mattress.
I shake my head like I can physically shake away the feelings. I pick up the bottles that line the side of the tub. Shampoo and body soap, both very expensive looking.
Great. I’ll end up smelling like Jackson all day after all. Well Christ, at least I won’t have the sex hair. I’m sure I’ll get enough grief from Shannon as it is. I was so overwhelmed with everything last night, I just accepted it when Jackson said he called her and told her I’d be staying the night with him. But knowing Shannon, I’m sure while she was perfectly sweet and sugary on the phone, I’ll get the earful of judgment as soon as Charlie’s out of earshot. Irresponsible Callie showing her true colors again. God, I don’t want to think about any of it.
I’m glad when the water reaches the level indicated on the side and I can switch on the jets. I climb the little steps on the side and it feels like heaven when I sink down into the water. My body relaxes into the bubbling, steaming water.
I submerge my head and just stay there for several long moments, the real world and everything about it completely drowned out. Is this what it’s like when we’re in our mother’s womb? So quiet. All alone. No pressure, no expectation, just existing in silent communion with myself. Or maybe in connection with the whole world? That’s how the monks think of it, right? I’ve flirted with the ideas in some yoga I’ve done. Being connected to the entire world, down through my feet into the ground to the roots of the trees and then up through to the branches and the rain that soaks the leaves, all the way back up into the sky.
I surface and try emptying my mind. I take in several cleansing breaths of the bath-steamed air. Lord knows I could do with some grounding in my life. Underwater jets hit me from all sides,
immediately relaxing my sore muscles. I lazily count to ten, releasing more and more tension with each breath.
Finally I stop counting and just keep breathing steadily in and out, closing my eyes and focusing only on the physical sensations of the moment. The two jets of water at my back massage tired muscles, and the swirl of water pulsing between my thighs eases the slight soreness there. My hand wanders down my body and I gently cup myself over my sex.
I wince—not because it hurts, but just because it’s so obvious that there was some definite activity there last night. After so long going without—ever since David left me before Charlie’s birth—what was it about Jackson that made me surrender? And surrender so completely?
Immediately images and memories of last night come flooding back in. His body over mine. His expert fingers. That mouth of his. My own hand, which had been only investigating a moment before, starts to massage. I keep my eyes closed as I bite my lip. Jackson might be done with me, but what’s the harm in one last little fantasy while I’m here, in his magnificent bathroom, his scents surrounding me?
I shift a little sideways so that the water jet that was hitting my hip is suddenly squarely directed where I need it most. I bite my lip harder to keep back the moan that’s fighting to come out. I’m sure any noise would echo like a motherfucker in this bathroom.
Jackson might be gone, but what if he has, like, a maid or something who hears and comes to inspect? I sink a little deeper in the water, adjusting my body so it’s even closer to the jet. No, this will be my own little secret that no one ever needs to know about.
The water pulses and massages at my lower lips while I stroke my clit. I have to be inside you. Remembering Jackson’s words plus all the stimulation has my back arching. My breasts crest out of the water into the cooler air of the bathroom. I can’t help grasping my nipple with the hand not circling my clitoris.
I bite my bottom lip and try to imagine it’s Jackson’s hand, but the fantasy can only go so far. My palms are small and soft. It’s not the same. The high I was riding loses its fervor. My brow creases and I squirm and rub at myself with more urgency, chasing the high.
All I’ll ever have of Jackson are the memories. It has to be enough, damn it.
But the more I rub, the more elusive climax seems. Which only makes me more frustrated and determined.
I let my clit rest for a second and grab my breasts with both hands, squeezing and rolling the tips in between my fingers. Come on. I can do it. Just sink back into the pleasure. Come on.
Crash.
What the—? I startle so much I take in a mouthful of water as my eyes pop open.
Only to see Jackson standing in the doorway.
There’s a tray of food upturned at his feet where he must have dropped it. A shattered coffee mug’s sprayed brown liquid across the marble floor. A mix of eggs, bacon and pancakes lie scattered beside it.
I cough from the water I unintentionally swallowed and press myself to the side of the tub. Though I feel stupid in the next second. Why? For modesty’s sake? God, Cals, he just found you in his tub masturbating.
Oh God.
He. Never. Left.
He was making me breakfast.
Breakfast in bed, if the tray was any indication.
And then he found me like this—
Even my full-body cringe isn’t enough to express the humiliation I feel in this moment. I close my eyes but what I really want to do is sink back under the water and pretend none of this ever happened.
“That’s the fucking hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
The low growl has me looking up in surprise. He’s not… mad? And doesn’t think I’m like, pathetic or something? The look on his face as he stalks across the bathroom suggests he feels the opposite. He looks hungry, but not for any of the spoiled breakfast scattered all over the ground.
“Why’d you stop?” As always, his voice has the quality of command to it. “Show me how you touch yourself.” As he talks, he pulls off the white t-shirt he’s wearing. The sight of his wide, muscular chest and the blue-black fire in his eyes is enough to make me forget my momentary humiliation. Without another thought, my hand drops back below the water.
He groans, low and throaty as he strips off his boxers and steps over the edge of the tub. The bright morning light and bulbs all around the well-lit bathroom leave nothing to the imagination, but Jackson doesn’t seem the least bit hesitant. I can only stare at his cock. I mean, I saw it last night, but now I have the opportunity to really examine it in the full glory of the morning light.
And damn is it a seriously beautiful cock. It’s the width. That’s what left me feeling so deliciously sore this morning. He’s wide and round and there’s a thick vein that runs underneath the shaft to that beautiful, throbbing mushroom tip. I lick my lip and my breath hitches as he finally drops down to sit beside me.
He groans again and grabs my hand, capturing it in his and wrapping it around his cock. With his hand over mine, he guides me to pump it up and down roughly several times underneath the water.
“See what you do to me?”
For the first time all morning, I hazard to lock eyes with his. His gaze sends my stomach crazy somersaulting, especially looking him in the eye while we pump his shaft together. I barely know this man, but this feels so intimate… I look away and try to pull my hand back, but Jackson doesn’t let me.
Instead, he reaches over and grabs my waist in both his hands. With what seems like little to no effort, he maneuvers me through the water so that I’m sitting on his lap, facing him, my legs spread on either side of his hips.
I try to look everywhere except at those intense blue eyes of his. It’s futile though.
“When was your last check-up?”
What? My startled gaze meets his, and then understanding hits. “I’m on the pill and I’m clean, but—”
“I’m clean, too.”
In the next second, he has one arm around my waist, lifting me slightly in the water while his other hand is on his cock.
I feel him nudging at my entrance. Oh Christ. There’s no condom. That’s why he was asking. There’s a moment when I can pull away. Say that I won’t do this without a condom. That I’m not ready to trust him like that.
But I don’t.
Then he’s got me positioned and is guiding my hips so that I sink down onto him and oh… God… That feels—
I throw my head back and relish every inch as he pulls me deeper down onto his shaft. I clench around him and wrap my legs around his back once I’m fully seated on him. He’s so deep inside me, he’s got to be touching my cervix.
Has any man ever been in me like this? David was never that adventurous and when we did fuck, it was pretty much missionary and in ten minutes, wham bam thank you, ma’am.
Jackson lifts me in the swirling water and then coaxes me back down and any and all other thoughts are driven out of my head.
Like last night, it’s just Jackson. Just this moment.
With how he’s got me angled, I rub against him in a way that makes me crazy with every down thrust. But I still want more.
Without even thinking about it, I wrap my arms around his head and press my breasts toward his face. I get one of Jackson’s rare grins at that and then he gives into my unspoken demand.
He suckles a nipple into his mouth, teasing at first, and then pulling at it with his teeth. I hiss and my body clenches around him at the sensation. Then his hand plucks and pulls at the other nipple. It feels on the edge of too much, with jolts of amazing mixed with pain. Especially when he starts suckling hard and pinching at the same time.
I squirm on top of him as the arm wrapped around my waist continues moving me up and down. My legs like jello, I do my best to assist his movements. But even though I’m on top, he’s the one fully in control of this dance.
I can feel my climax just out of reach. I twist and wriggle on top of him as he continues pumping in and out, never releasing his hold on my nippl
es.
Until all at once, he does.
Feeling floods back and my climax hits in one heady rush.
A high-pitched scream comes out of my throat and Jackson pumps even more furiously before stilling inside me. He clutches me to him, his head buried in my breasts.
I realize once I come back to myself and am breathing again that I’m holding him just as tight, arms wrapped around him, fingers clutched in his hair.
Oh God, what am I doing?
After the incredible rush, my heart pumps a mile a minute. Jackson is still hard inside my body. All I want to do is hold him closer and beg him to stay there forever. Which has me tensing and wanting to push off of him so that I can fucking flee from his home.
As if sensing my thoughts, Jackson’s grip on me tightens. His cock that’s still mostly hard inside me jumps as if it too is claiming some hold on me.
“What are you thinking, baby?”
I absolutely melt against him in spite of myself. Baby. The endearment sounds incredibly foreign coming from the usually stiff Jackson. But it also sounded incredibly perfect and right and natural. What’s happening to me? I don’t go gooey over men. Never. I know better than this. I learned my lesson. Didn’t I?
I try to laugh it off. “Nothing.”
I shrug and smile as I finally pull away from his grasp. “Just that I’m getting pruney, I’ve been in here so long.”
I hold up my hand to show him the wrinkled skin of my fingers. I slide a little further away and finally his cock slips out of me. There’s both relief and a stunning sense of loss at the sensation. Ridiculous. I barely know him, I remind myself. So what if there’s some off-the-charts sexual chemistry? That doesn’t mean anything. Nothing at all.
Just when I’m about to say I should get going, Jackson reaches for me again. “Have you washed yet?”
I should say yes or that it doesn’t matter. I’ll shower when I get home. I’ll just put my hair in a ponytail. It’ll be fine.
Instead, stupidly, I shake my head. And I get another rare Jackson smile. Dimple and all.