“Jeffrí, I want you so bad right now it hurts,” he said, trying not to lean against her or rub the hardness threatening his sanity. “Inside. Now.”
She didn’t argue, but walked through the front door with her boss as he made introductions and asked for the private file room he normally used. The staff at the morgue was familiar with Wyatt, and he walked her through the new files, implying that Wednesday was the best day to come down and pull the records of the Jane and John Does from the weekend.
Jeffrí made mental notes as he led her into the private room with a stack of files from the weekend. She noticed the room had no windows. One way in and one way out. A box of privacy. She liked that idea as he went over the notes, standing exceptionally close to her, wanting to touch her but not getting too near.
“Okay, this doesn’t seem too difficult,” she replied, leaning over the table. The cool air in the room billowed her silk blouse, making her nipples harden to taut buds.
“Shit, I’m not going to make it,” Wyatt said, stepping away from the table and locking the windowless door.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“If I don’t kiss you soon, I’m going to explode,” he said, making short distance of the space between them. “Hell, once I kiss you, I may still explode. Jeffrí, I want you so much I truly can’t think straight. Say yes. Give me your consent so that I can have you right now on this fucking desk.”
“Hold up,” Jeffrí said. “You can’t seriously say that you want to have sex with me in a morgue, Wyatt.”
“No, this is an office. The back rooms are the morgue,” he said, reaching for the lady.
“Yes, it’s an office in a morgue,” she told him, holding him off with her palm in the center of his chest. “I’m not having sex with you in a morgue office.”
“I’m not planning to have sex with you,” Wyatt said, moving her hand down low. Her fingers touched the arousal. The thickness of it made her nearly moan as the heat from his body radiated through the fabric of the pants.
“Then what do you plan to do, Mr. Miland?”
His mouth was near her throat, planting small kisses along the column of her neck. Anxious hips moved against her hand, greedily encouraging her to massage his need while his restless hands roamed down her hips.
“What I plan to do, my lovely lady, is fuck you so good that you’re going to come to my office six times this afternoon just to look at me and say thank you,” he said, finally finding her mouth. His tongue darted inside, stifling any protest she had as he yanked at his belt buckle, unfastening his trousers and unzipping the pants.
Caught in the moment, Jeffrí started pulling up her skirt. Her hips rested against the corner of the table; her legs eager to spread to allow him in between her thighs. The pencil skirt shimmied up her hips until it was above her butt cheeks, and she took a seat on the table.
“Oh really, Mr. Miland,” she said, reaching down between them, her hand sliding inside of his pants, freeing the rock-hard throbbing erection. “I’m not going to even bother to take off my panties, I’m just going to pull them to the side. When I get going with you, the customers in the back lying on those slabs are going to sit up and say ‘Dayum girl, take it easy on the man.’”
“I’m not even scared, Ms. Jones,” he said, moving forward between her thighs, his erection like a divining rod pointing at the warm spot.
Jeffrí slid her panties aside as he moved closer to connect their bodies, lifting and wrapping her powerful legs around his waist. “Wait,” he said, awkwardly yanking the belt from the loops of his pants.
“What’re you planning to do with that?”
“Bite down on it,” he said.
“Bite dow...oomph,” she said as he thrust hard, impaling the soft flesh with rigid intentions of doing serious damage. Jeffrí’s breath caught in her throat as he filled her, pushing deep within her sugared walls. The tightness clamped around him and she froze, afraid to move and embarrass herself by cumming too soon, and at the same time afraid to move and break the spell. Wyatt wasn’t afraid at all.
“Move with me, Jeffrí. Don’t hold back. Fuck me good,” he whispered in her ear. His mouth found hers as he moved in a steady rhythm, working himself inside of her body until he was fully seated. “Damn, your pussy feels like magic fingers stroking my cock. I like this. It feels good. You feel just like I imagined you would− magical.”
Jeffrí had a mouth full of his belt. Wyatt had a handful of her ass in one hand and her left breast in the other. Half of what he said was gibberish to her as he thrust hard, hitting a sweet spot that made her bite down firmly on the belt and triggered her orgasm. Shaking hands clutched his shoulders, long legs clamped around his hips as she bucked against him, letting go.
“Damn that feels so good,” Wyatt said. “That’s it, baby. Move that ass. Fuck me harder, Jeffrí. Wake those fuckers up in the back room. Wake them up. Move baby. Move that ass.”
“Please stop talking,” Jeffrí said, not believing the eloquent man in the office had become a Neanderthal frat boy. His foul mouth nearly pulled her out of the moment, but his skills as a lover kept her embedded in the action.
“I can’t help it. You feel so fucking amazing, and I’m so close,” he said as she spit out the belt and pressed her fingers to his lips, “Okay, okay, but stop talking.”
The room became silent with the exception of the sound of their lovemaking, which only made it hotter for them both. Strong fingers fastened down on her breast. Wyatt’s tongue dueled with her own while his hips did the rest as she found a second orgasm, clinching down on around him, milking him for all he was worth. His lips moved from her mouth to her shoulder where he bit down, not hard enough to break the skin, as he grunted, groaned and finally growled through his release.
“Shit,” he mumbled into her shoulder, “that was amazing, you beautiful, sexy woman.”
Jeffrí was out of breath, shocked that it was so good, and all she could think about was having a bed and room to do it the right way. Reluctantly, he let her go, stepping back to right his clothing.
“Wyatt, we didn’t use protection,” she said, feeling a moment of panic.
“We can stop and get a pill,” he said. “Don’t worry. The only person I’ve had sex with in the last 8 years is my ex and myself.”
“Pretty much the same here, but in the last three years,” she said, fixing her clothing. “I need the Ladies’ Room.”
“Out the door to the left,” he said, putting his belt through the loops of his pants.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Jeffrí said as she left the room to find the bathroom. Her legs felt like gelatin and her mind was loaded with all the wrong thoughts. The one that came first and foremost in her cognizance was that she wouldn’t be able to work for the man and fuck him as well. “Screw that! White women do it all the time. I’m going to get mine. I’m going to be great at this job and have a bottle of Bordeaux and bath water ready for him tonight and fuck him again.”
In the mirror, half of the woman she used to be stared back at her. The scar he said added mystery to her along with the signature strut she’d mastered in times of entering a room full of men. She wasn’t ashamed of what she’d done, but she was mortified that she wanted to do him again.
“He thinks I’m sexy,” she said, seeing a glimpse of a smile on her face. She hadn’t smiled in nearly three years. The scar, taking away a great deal of her self-esteem and desire to trust men; made her a recluse. Wyatt didn’t pity her and that interaction was definitely not a pity fuck. All he wanted was to come home at night to a glass of wine, dinner and a blow job. She could give him that and so much more.
“He doesn’t know what he’s started. I’m going to spoil the hell out of that man.”
She realized by the time she came back to the office where he sat at the table snapping photos of the papers in the folders that she was claiming Wyatt Miland for her own.
THE RIDE BACK TO THE office was quiet. The traff
ic was not as intense, and he eased off the gas pedal, making decent time. Her hands rested in her lap, and she stared straight ahead.
“Jeffrí, no regrets?”
“Absolutely none,” she said, “but I do have some concerns. I don’t know how I’m going to be able to work for you and not give away to your staff that tonight I spent most of the evening with your dick in my mouth or it planted deep within me.”
Wyatt hit the brakes tossing his passenger forward in the seat, as she looked at him with a WTF look on her face.
“Sorry, I get more tonight and a blowjob?”
“Yes, I even have a bottle of Bordeaux in my wine cabinet,” she said. “If you’re really nice, I may even cook dinner for you.”
“Shit, whatever you want, need, or desire, it’s yours if I get all of that,” he said with a cheesy smile.
“Sir, you’re going to get all of that and more,” she said, opening the car door, only to be halted by his hand.
“Jeffrí, Ms. Jones, I want to be clear on what we’re doing here. In plain words, what are you expecting from me in return?”
“To be my tether,” she said. “I want to be a part of this world. A part of your world. The details we’ll figure out. You have my address. Dinner is at seven.”
She pulled away from him and entered the building. Much to his dismay, she never came back to his office for the remainder of the day. Jeffrí didn’t say goodnight as she was leaving the building. He jotted down her address, and at a little after six, he left the office, looking for a place to pick up fresh flowers and a box of decadent chocolates on the way.
For the first time in several years, he was anxious to leave the workplace and head home for a nice evening. Tomorrow, he would have her over to his house. Tonight, he was anxious to get inside of her world.
Chapter Five – Lettuce Pray
Homey
The stop for the flowers and candy in general was a stellar idea. An off the beaten path kind of place which hand poured Belgian chocolates and confections, creating masterful pieces of edible art was the go to place for a special lady. The candy and flowers cost him a pretty penny, but they were worth every dime of the time he would get to spend with a beautiful, soulful woman. Calculating the fifteen minutes in lost time to run into the chocolatier to retrieve said treats made him fifteen minutes late for the date with Jeffrí. She said he would get a blow job and dinner. That was enough to make him lay on the horn as he sat in the traffic, angry, frustrated, and irritated that the slow drivers were preventing him from getting to the planned evening of activities.
Finally, he exited the interstate and arrived at her neighborhood. He loved the older homes in Adair Park where he located the grey bungalow with the bright yellow entry door. The front porch held two rockers with coordinating cushions and bright, colorful plants in pots. A large welcome mat lay waiting for him in front of the glass storm door trimmed in black wrought iron. Wyatt pressed the doorbell, waiting for the lady to arrive. In the meantime, he looked down the drive that led to a back yard with a two-car garage. He didn’t see a car and wondered what she drove.
“Hey, you,” she said as she opened the front door. “Come on in. Dinner’s almost done. I drew you a bath with unscented bath salts, so start there and I’ll bring you some wine.”
“Seriously?” He said, trying not to look like the Pied Piper showing up with a bunch of rats in tow.
“Yep,” she said. “Unless you’ve already washed our lovemaking away, then you need a bath. Bathroom is down the hall to the left. I left a pair of loose loungers in there for when you dry off. Half hour, no more.”
Wyatt thrust the flowers in her face, blinking several times and trying to make sure he’d heard her correctly. His other hand shoved the expensive box of chocolates at her with the clear container top, showing off the decadent treats inside.
“The flowers are lovely. I’ll find a vase, and the chocolates look scrumptious. Thank you for both,” she told him. “Don’t dawdle, I have a surprise for you after dinner.”
“I’m not sure I can handle any more surprises right now,” he said, reaching out to touch her arm. “A kiss, Ms. Jones, to get the evening started.”
“Hell no! Your mannish ass is going to kiss me and stick a belt in my mouth while you have your way with me,” she said. “Been there. Chewed on that.”
Wyatt’s voice, laced with concerned floated across the space between them, “Was I too rough?”
“The language was, but it wasn’t as if you didn’t warn me about your dirty mouth,” she said. “I’ll admit, it was shocking to me that a man with your vocabulary would resort to using the words ‘pussy’ and ‘cock.’”
“I know, but sometimes, shit can get so good, all that education goes out the window, especially when you come across a magical pussy that feels like a tight tunnel of massaging little fingers,” he said, chuckling.
“Nope. Just go. Go wash your ass and your mouth out with soap,” she said, swatting at him playfully. “I swear this morning you seemed so normal; then your shit got hard and your IQ dropped.”
“Actually, my vocabulary increased and my guards came down so you could experience the real man in me,” Wyatt said chuckling. “Will you come join me?”
“No, my tub is not that big. Go on, hurry and soak so we can get this evening moving,” she told him, humming a familiar tune while she searched for a vase.
“Yes, ma’am,” Wyatt said, wandering down the hall.
Photos of Jeffrí Jones, reporter extraordinaire embedded with troops around the world, lined the walls. She was indeed an amazing woman and needed to share her stories. Maybe, he thought pensively as he located the bathroom, she should write a memoir of her journey as a journalist. Catherine, among other times when she could accidently be right about a matter, had hit the nail on the head. Jeffrí’s skills were entirely too good to be wasted in the obituary section.
He stripped down, dipping his toe in the water, which was the perfect temp, before adding in his entire body. A loud sigh escaped him as the water came up to his neck and the tension of his morning eased away while the waters enveloped his body. A light tap came to the door as she arrived, bearing the gift of a goblet of Bordeaux, perfectly aged and properly allowed to breathe.
“Jeffrí, thank you for this,” he said. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“If this is all it takes to make your day, then by all means, enjoy,” she said, leaving him alone and closing the door to look in on the meal she’d prepared.
The roast beef was nearly done, and she checked on the potatoes and flipped the haricot verts. Last year, her mother had given her an air fryer that she mainly used to cook French fries and chicken nuggets. Tonight, it was the perfect device to toast rolls and slip in a few apple turnovers for dessert.
Satisfied that everything looked and smelled amazing, she took out the good plates and best flatware and even chose cloth napkins. Jeffrí added a pitcher of iced water with sliced lemons, put the rolls in a basket, and the roast on her best serving platter with a carving knife and fork on the table.
“Looks great,” she said, adding the vase of flowers.
“It smells even better,” Wyatt said, coming up behind her and planting a kiss on her temple. “I’m starved since I missed lunch today.”
“We could have had lunch if you weren’t so busy having me for a snack,” she said to him. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”
“This looks fantastic. I don’t even know what to say, other than thank you,” Wyatt said, pulling out a chair for her to be seated.
“In my world, it costs nothing to be kind. So many people look at me, seeing just the scar, not the woman and then look away. Others gawk at me with pity on their face as if my facial scar is some type of deformity,” Jeffrí said. “The past three years have taught me a different type of self-value and self-worth. I’ll admit that I used to get by in this life on my looks, but I still have brains.”
“Amen,” he said, ra
ising his glass for a toast. “Speaking of brains, have you considered writing your memoirs?”
“My memoirs?”
“Yes, you were one of the first African American female journalists out there in war zones with the troops,” he told her. “I even heard you had an 82nd Airborne tattoo, is it true?”
“Sure is,” she said.
“Can I see it?”
“Maybe later,” she said, reaching for his hand. “Oh wait, I forgot the salads.”
Jeffrí rose from the table to get the two salads from the fridge, already plated in matching bowls and lightly dressed. She brought the dishes to the table, looking down and remembering what her father would say before he ate any salad. “Lettuce Pray,” he would say, since he hated the idea of eating anything that wasn’t rolled in flour and deep fried.
“I feel like I won the lottery,” Wyatt said as she sat back down. “Jeffrí, this feels good. Natural even. I truly feel like I’ve been waiting with bated breath for you to walk through the doors and change my life. Am I jumping the gun?”
“No, I guess not,” she said. “My concern, more or less, is that I’ve been so starved for companionship that I feel like I’m doing too much. This scares me. I’m worried that I’m tethering myself to your energy, and I don’t even know you. We’ve had sex already on my second day on a new, temporary job. Hell, I’m cooking you dinner and drawing your bath water, and I even opened my last bottle of Bordeaux for you to enjoy with your dinner.”
Wyatt weighed and measured the words in his head. He sliced off a piece of the roast beef, laying the first slice on her plate then one for himself. She spooned out her mother’s recipe for sour cream mashed potatoes and forked on the haricot verts.
“When a woman prepares an evening like this for a man who can’t appreciate the efforts that went into the details, then yeah, you’re doing too much,” Wyatt said. “When you prepare an evening like this for a man like me, who knows wine, understands this roast had to go on the moment you walked through the door, and the perfected timing required to make sure that bathwater was still hot when I arrived, then no, it’s not too much. It’s perfect.”
Lunchtime Chronicles: A Yummy Sub Page 4