Reaching down, Connor unzipped his fly and freed his cock. It lay hot and hard in his palm. Gripping his shaft tightly in one hand he tried not to focus so intently on the mental picture of a naked Jessa. He tried and failed.
Connor’s hips bucked as his hand slid up and down his hard shaft. A tiny drop of pre cum beaded on the head of his cock. Sliding one thumb through the hot liquid, he spread its silky warmth over the crown. His brain conjured up the image of Jessa. He wanted nothing more than to feel her tongue lapping at the bead of moisture. Her mouth sliding down his shaft as the crown of his cock disappeared into her throat.
Someone groaned. Had it been him? The muscles in his belly clenched as his balls tightened. His other hand gently cupped them. He used his fingers to knead their straining weight while he tightly gripped his shaft. Connor’s feet shifted further apart to give his imagined lover better access to his body.
Did she want him? Did her body crave his as he did hers? What strange thing had happened between them? From the first time Connor had laid eyes on her curvaceous figure he’d wanted to strip her naked and taste every inch of her with his tongue.
Connor’s thoughts intensified, willing her to think of him. To imagine his hands upon her body, his mouth suckling her breasts, lapping the sweet cream of her pussy and spreading her cunt wide before he pressed deep inside and buried his cock balls-deep in her heat.
His cock pulsed as he pumped it quickly with long smooth strokes. His black eyes drifted shut. Balls drawn up tightly, his hips convulsed as a thick stream of white cum shot upward. It smeared across his belly and bathed his hand in semen, but he didn’t stop. The silkiness of his own cum mimicked the imagined feel of Jessa’s hot pussy. His pace increased and his legs went rigid in order to keep his body vertical. Each thrust brought another pulse of hot cum.
Would she want what he wanted? Would she taste his skin, lap up the residue of his cum and then hold him in her hot little hand until he was ready to do it all over again? Uptight and reserved, but ready for so much more. Connor couldn’t have explained it, but he knew that she would suck him dry and demand more. And he’d give it to her. Give her anything she asked, because he would never be able to refuse her.
Chapter Five
It took Jessa four-and-a-half hours to get ready for work on that first morning. The first two hours were spent in bed trying to decide if she was actually going to get up and go. And it wasn’t the mad hangover keeping her in bed, either. She lay there and tried to recall the last time she’d had absolutely no real or imagined reason to get out of bed.
It would’ve been so easy to keep up the pretense of a busy charity worker. But sooner or later, those people would realize that Will had left her. And there could be nothing worse than that. She wasn’t ready for their false sympathy and prying. Hadn’t the charity work always been a cover up anyway? It’d been one of those things Jessa did to avoid the emptiness of her life.
She’d done everything right. She was on the right committees, associated with the right people, donated to the right charities, and said, thought, and did the right things. How had she wound up so utterly unnecessary?
And that’s basically what she was. But if she didn’t go to this new job, she was going to feel obligated to spend the rest of the day searching for another one. If Will was going to stop paying bills at the end of the summer, she was going to have to find some way to support herself. So she might as well make a few tips and see what it was like to be back out in the workforce.
With a thick sigh and what seemed like monumental effort, Jessa levered herself out of a bed that had become strangely unfriendly and padded into the closet. It wasn’t hard to imagine herself hiding under the covers all day. Hard to admit, but not hard to imagine. She was thirty-eight years old. The rational part of her brain was certain she was too old to work in a bar. Whether or not that was the case, she was too old to flounce around in a micro miniskirt and a crop top. Besides, middle-aged society wives did not wear miniskirts.
They wore pantsuits, a wardrobe choice that would not help the tip situation any. It’d been long years since her college days waiting tables. But if memory served, percentage of skin showing directly influenced percentage of check left as a tip.
It took almost forty-five minutes to lay out a pair of snug-fitting, somewhat flattering, trendy low-rise black slacks. The cap-sleeved top was comfy, showed a little bit of cleavage, and didn’t hang over her hips or butt. It was a huge concession as far as Jessa was concerned. But she didn’t want to work all night for no money. Of course, clothing wasn’t going to matter at all if she couldn’t lose the seriously-hung-over look.