Page 72 of Our Elliana
Are you the bastard pulling this crap?
How about you?
Only when Jackson asks me something I totally miss do I realize what a basket case I’m being.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I just wanted to know if your beef broccoli is any good.”
“Yummy in my tummy,” I tell him, but that’s bullshit. I’ve eaten half of the dish without even tasting it.
It occurs to me that lunch is customarily our time to literally bang things out, but I haven’t been in the mood. This isn’t my normal modus operandi. I’m consistently horny. Even back when I had a cycle and more hormonal ups and downs prior to having my IUD placed, my libido ran to boiling. Yet I’ve gone three consecutive days without fucking any of my trio of men.
Men I sought out for that specific purpose.
What the hell is the matter with me?
I allow Jackson to finish my leftovers—I’m not hungry—then the second he’s done, rise from the table anxious to get back. I’m bound and determined to return to my regularly scheduled habits. I can’t let the son of a bitch who’s lining up to be my would-be stalker shake me up like this.
So, once we’re back upstairs, I close and lock the door. Then, I seize Jackson by his lapels.
“Do me. Do me right here against the fucking door.”
Jackson being Jackson has zero compunctions about picking up the gauntlet I’ve thrown down. “At your service, sweet thing.”
This particular lover of mine is known for never wearing any skivvies, so as he peels off his shirt and jeans and I see what he has on, I squint at him. “Tightie-Whities, Jackson? You?”
“These button flies have a seam that’s irritating, so sue me.”
“This is just...” I regard him as he pauses long enough to model them for me. Like everything else, he does this with panache. “So old school of you.”
“You don’t think they do nice things for my package?” His hand is over his heart as if he’s faux hurt, and I laugh.
“That they do. But it’s time for them to go.”
He obliges, peeling them off and going full Monty on me. Already, he’s ramrod straight and pointing at me. When I caress him, a clear drop of precum materializes at his slit. In a hurry, I spread it around his head with a finger and feel the space between my legs growing slick.
I reach beneath my skirt about to discard my panties, some simple light blue and navy polka dot bikinis, when he whispers in my ear.
“Leave them on.”
I’m about to protest when he pins my back to the door, slides the cotton crotch to the side, and enters me all at once.
“Sweet baby Jesus, yes,” I groan out softly, all the noise in my head instantly drowned out. This is what I need. It’s what I’ve needed all along as I brace myself on his broad shoulders and feel his hips pressing back and forth as this phenomenal cock of his fills me all the way up.
There’s something delightfully decadent about me being fully dressed—I’ve taken not one single garment off—while Jackson is bare-assed. Maybe it’s the illusion that I could go from his cock buried inside me to greeting the next customer to walk in, but it spurs me on to new heights.
That, in combination with my lack of getting any over the past few days, makes achieving our objective remarkably swift. And in the next minute and a half, I’m coming despite him just having started plowing into me.
“Fucking Christ, that was fast.” Jackson keeps going, and he must’ve been whacking off in the interim because he holds out until I climax a second time before allowing himself to come.
The man is the Rock of Gibraltar when he wants to be.
And that’s... wow.
I have a weak and wiggly lower half that I don’t trust to carry me, so we stay that way for at least a minute as the sensation in my legs returns.
“Better?” he asks, smirking. He already knows my reply, the coy fucker.