"Good morning." Yikes, his voice was sexy first thing in the morning, all low and gravelly.
"Good morning," she echoed, and he loosened his hold enough for her to tilt her head up to see his face. Yep-disheveled and wickedly hot. The sun glinted off his fair whiskers, making them look almost golden.
"Woman, you need a bigger bed." Somehow, they'd drifted over to his side of the bed, and his back was pushed right up against the wall. "You're one of those migratory sleepers, aren't you?"
"Sorry," she said sheepishly, but when she tried to scooch back to her side, his arms tightened again. She'd been sort of half draped over his chest, her own chest and head cradled on his soft T-shirt, but now he hoisted her up so she was lying fully on top of him. He didn't seem to be trying to hide his morning erection, which was apparent even through his jeans and hers. Ironic that they'd slept fully clothed.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
She closed her eyes, embarrassed but resigned. "Yes. I'm sorry you had to see all that."
"You've been paying for your mother's rehab, haven't you? That's where all your money goes."
There was no point in trying to hide it. It was plainly obvious from the exchange he'd witnessed. And anyway, she didn't want to hide it from him anymore. It was too much work. So she nodded. She expected him to have a lot to say, to scold her, to berate Laura as ungrateful. Instead, he merely asked, "What will happen now?"
"Same thing that always happens. I'll hear from her once or twice more in the next few days, and I'll be all tough love. Then she'll disappear for months. When she comes back, I'll have talked myself into believing her when she says she's ready to change for good."
"And then you put her in rehab again."
"Yep. Rinse and repeat." She sighed and let her forehead fall to his chest. If only she could burrow into him for a while and ignore everything-at least until Christmas was over and school started up and life became busy and routine again. It was safe and cozy nestled against his chest, and he smelled good. There was something to be said for a lemon tree growing in a bog. But he would have to get to the office. And she still had a lot of work to do to get ready for the trip.
She pressed against his chest to lever herself off him, but his arms tightened, halting her progress. "Where do you think you're going?"
She didn't know what to say. I'm trying to extricate us from this super awkward situation? I need to remove myself from your person before I jump you?
"I believe I won the race up the stairs last night." The sentence was delivered in a completely neutral tone, and his face did not betray any emotion. But all the same, the declaration made her catch her breath in response to the twinge between her legs.
"Don't you have to go to work?"
One hand wormed its way under the waistband of her jeans and cupped her ass. "I'm the boss. I don't have to do anything." He rocked his hips into hers, grinding his erection against her.
She closed her eyes, allowing herself to revel for a moment in the pure, hot pleasure of her pelvis immobilized between his hips and his hands. Then they flew open at the unexpected sensation of his whiskers against her neck. He was gently kissing down her throat, and when he reached her collarbone he traced the outline of it with his tongue. A day away from his razor had left him with sharp, golden stubble that tickled and tortured and made her nipples harden.
"Waking up in bed with a woman," he rasped against her skin, voice as rough as his face, "should involve far less clothing." As if to illustrate his point, the hand that wasn't on her ass snaked up her shirt and around to her back. He was searching for her bra clasp. Locating it, he expertly unfastened it, and then the hand moved around to the front and gathered a handful of breast. It was a slow assault from all directions-one hand on her ass, the other kneading a breast, while his hips continued to grind against her. "But you're right," he whispered. "I probably should go to work." An evil grin blossomed, and he gave a low, hard thrust that nudged her a startling amount of the way toward orgasm. And they were both still fully clothed.
Which suddenly seemed like a problem. "No way," she said, pushing herself off him, but this time only so she could slide her hands under his shirt. When they made contact with his taut abs he hissed, as if she were burning him. "I want my money's worth on our little arrangement," she said. It was the simple, honest truth.
Sitting up, he shucked off his T-shirt, jeans, and boxer briefs before going to work on her clothing. Then he gently pushed her down so that she was on her back. "I won the race, remember?" Without waiting for a response, he kneeled over her.
And then his hands began to roam. Slowly, languidly, they made their way over every inch of her neck and down to her breasts. He flicked her nipples and then lowered his mouth to kiss away the tension his fingers had wrought. His hungry mouth had the opposite effect, though. As his tongue worked her nipple, she felt it in her core. A coil was twisting inside her, tighter and tighter, and the more tightly she ratcheted up, the more she needed him inside her, to ease the heavy ache that had settled between her legs.
"You like that, do you?" he whispered.
She found his shaft with her hand and stroked it, coaxing a ragged groan from him even as he continued to work her nipple with his tongue and teeth. Shamelessly, she thrust her hips up as she tried to guide his cock toward her, a clear invitation. He moved her hand off, and she let loose an involuntary cry of frustration.
"Not yet," he whispered, letting his hand drift down and tangle in her curls. Just when she thought she couldn't take any more-when she would come from the feel of his mouth on her breast alone, he moved his lips to her other nipple. But the relief was only momentary. As he took the second nipple into his mouth, he parted her folds and dragged a finger from her clit to her opening. "Oh my God, you're so wet," he choked out, sounding half strangled.
"There are condoms in the bedside drawer," she said, hoping to urge him onward.
"Patience," he said, having gained control of his voice.
"No," she said, though she knew it was pointless to argue-he won the race, and he wasn't going to give up control.
And so on and on it went. He would take her to the brink and retreat just long enough for her head to clear so that she was able to fully grasp how totally and completely frustrated he was making her with the ceaseless torture. He'd allow her to touch him, but only a little. Then he'd groan and push her hands and mouth away and renew his measured assault. He wasn't kidding about the "in charge" business. He wasn't being stereotypically dominant, though. In fact, it was all very disciplined and controlled and slow-unlike their past couplings. But he was definitely playing her like a violin.
Then, finally-finally-after it seemed hours had passed, he had two fingers inside her, stroking her. She lifted her head up from the pillow, enough to make eye contact. He nodded a little, as if acknowledging a message she wasn't consciously sending, and pressed his thumb down on her clit. The cry that ripped from her throat sounded otherworldly to her own ears, like it was coming from someone-or something-else.
The aftershocks were still quaking though her when she became dimly aware of him rolling on a condom, and then he was pushing inside her with a guttural cry of his own. She surged up to meet him, closing her eyes tightly and wishing she never had to leave this nest, this cocoon where nothing else mattered.
…
It was a long time before Jack came back down to earth. He'd intended to give her what she needed-a slow, attentive fuck to take her mind off her mother. A caring fuck, even, if he were that kind of person. He'd wanted to show her that she was worth paying attention to. Because whatever happened at the end of this incredible friends-with-benefits thing, she was a good person. She deserved to be happy and well-treated.
The ironic part was that he'd planned the whole thing out, insisted that he was in charge. And he had been. He'd purposefully resisted when she'd urged him to hurry, drawn it out, a slow, deliberate torture. And yet … he had a nagging sense that a person who was so calculating-a person in charge-should not be left feeling this positively gutted with pleasure.