July 31

“I wish the granite was a lighter color.” My client Sydney is frowning as she looks at the kitchen countertop, which I personally find gorgeous—a dramatic display of blacks, golds and grays that look like someone scooped up stones out of a riverbed and sprinkled them across the slab. She drums her perfectly-manicured, shell-pink nails along the edge of the counter as her frown deepens. “I suppose I could have it replaced.”

As awful as this sounds, if she had a penis, or at least was plainer looking, matronly or old, I’d consider recommending Jack as a contractor, but given that she’s a smoking-hot blonde with a Kardashian ass, I’ll keep quiet.

Sydney’s heavily-fringed eyes brighten. She appears to be having a light-bulb moment. “Ooh, now there’s a thought...I could hire Jack again.”

Fuck.

There are lots of Jacks, I tell myself firmly. There are men named Jack who work on houses.

I don’t want to know, so I don’t ask. But she confirms it for me anyway.

“My contractor is amazing. He did some really good work for me.” And now she’s smirking—like she has this delicious secret. Even though she’s a client looking at a $400K house and we stand to make sixteen grand in commission, I find myself loathing this woman. The way she said my contractor is the icing on a very bitter cake. Jack Decker doesn’t belong to anyone.

Including me.

Reminding myself helps me hate her a little less. But just a little.

Two more showings and one signing of an offer later, I arrive home at the end of a sultry summer day, which calls for iced tea. One for me, and one for “my” contractor. If Sydney can use that term, so can I.

Jack was gone before I got home yesterday—he’d texted me he was playing in a men’s league softball game and was going to leave a little early. I wasn’t sure he would even work, but his father had been discharged yesterday and doing well. So even though I didn’t see him, I was glad he got to do something fun after the stress with his dad. And the thought of him in an athletic uniform (especially the tight white pants) definitely assuaged my disappointment.

Walking up the stairs with two iced teas, the ice cubes softly clinking against the glass, I try to make myself promise that I will not bring up Sydney from this morning. But the part of me that’s really good at ignoring myself feels like it’s going to win out. Just a hunch I have.

I walk into my bedroom. Murphy looks up at me, curled contentedly on the carpet, apparently wanting to be near the man in the house. He’s not the only one.

The new bathroom door is partly open. He’s back-to me, smoothing out some sort of orange fabric on the shower wall, but that’s not what I’m focusing on. He is shirtless. I take a moment to stare unabashedly at him—the rippling of his muscles as he reaches and stretches, the slight dip running along the center of his smooth, tanned back, his tapered waist. He’s jacked (or maybe it’s Jacked) and muscular, but it’s a natural kind of muscular—not steroid-y. Everything looks good on Jackson Decker.

I’m standing there with the drinks cold in my hands—other parts of me growing warmer—when he turns around. A grin drags across his face, like he’s not at all surprised that I’m watching him.

“I brought you something to drink,” I say, because stating the obvious is all I can do right now.

“Thanks. It’s hotter than hell today.”

“I can see that.”

“I don’t usually work shirtless, but I didn’t think you’d mind.” He winks at me, flashing me another toothpaste commercial grin.

“I see you brought your arrogance with you today. As usual.” I’m trying unsuccessfully not to smile.

He walks over to take one of the glasses from me, leaning down to brush his lips against my cheek and making me shiver involuntarily. He smells delicious, his deodorant mingling with a hint of male perspiration. I watch him tip back his head and drink the amber liquid slowly, and I want to crawl inside him.

“What’s the orange stuff for?” I ask, needing to shift the focus to anything but what is going on in my pants.

“Waterproofing membrane. So when you’re taking your long hot showers and masturbating while thinking of me, you won’t flood the house.”

I open and close my mouth in exasperation as he bursts into laughter and raises his finger to make two imaginary marks in the air. “That one’s worth at least double, maybe triple, points.”

“We’re still keeping score?”

“Always.”

“Speaking of scoring...I met someone you may have done that with.”

“Really.” He arches an eyebrow with interest. “And who is that?”

“A client I had today for a showing. Sydney. Blonde, big boobs, big butt.”

“Ah, yes.”

“Let me guess...she wanted a bigger deck?”

“Ha! Impressive, Callaway.” He nods appreciatively and chalks up a point for me. 

“She’s very attractive.”

“Yes.”

“Have you done any...work for her, lately?”

“Nope. She’s in the past. History.”

“Just like I’m going to be.” Shit. Did I really just say that?

He holds me with those crystal-blue eyes until I drop my gaze. “Ground rules, Callaway, remember?” His expression is soft, almost rueful.

I nod, even though inside my head I’m stomping, burning and burying the fucking ground rules. His eyes are roaming over me now, and my body responds almost as though I’m being caressed. “Come with me,” he says, his voice edged with huskiness as he takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom.

My heart is a wild bird fluttering in my chest. He sets his empty glass on top of my bureau and holds out his hand. “Can I take your drink?”

“Yes,” I whisper, giving it to him. You can take my drink, my mind, my soul, and most definitely, my body. Right now. Any way you want.

“I’m thinking of calling it a day with the bathroom. That okay with you?” He traces my jawline with whisper-soft fingers, a hint of a smile toying with his lips.

I nod.

“Just want to make sure that I keep on schedule with the project,” he says, with feigned, wide -eyed innocence.

“There is absolutely no rush with the bathroom,” I tell him. “Take all the time you need.”

“So generous of you, Callaway,” he chuckles. “It’s almost as if you don’t want me to leave.”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, then.

His hands on my shoulders, he guides me to stand at the edge of the bed. I watch as his broad chest expands with each deepening breath.

I have to touch him.

I trace his pecs, running my fingers lightly over his glistening skin as he bends forward and captures my mouth in a slow, deep kiss. I am drowning in his lips, and too soon, they leave mine to kiss my neck and nuzzle behind my ear.

He laughs softly as I scrunch up my shoulder in a shivery protest. “I know firsthand that other parts of you are even more sensitive.”

Thinking of what he will do to me—what I hope he will do—makes me ache.

“Take off your clothes, but leave on those sexy shoes.”

I shudder again at his commanding tone and the rasp in his voice. The idea of him wanting me in my black high heels is a tremendous turn-on.

I unbutton my professional silk blouse and step carefully out of my professional black skirt, letting both slip to the floor, so that I’m standing in front of him in my cream-colored bra. And matching lacy thong. I planned this, of course, with him in mind, and from his expression, I did a good thing.

“Jeeesus,” he breathes. “You look fucking amazing, Callaway. All professional on the outside, but underneath, a different story. I like that. But a thong...that’s a little risqué, don’t you think?” His voice is husky with want.

I swallow.

“There may need to be a little consequence for that. Just sayin.” He arches a playful eyebrow, but his eyes are smoldering as he begins to unbuckle his belt, working it free from the loops.

Holy fuck. I can feel my chest heaving, and he’s staring at my breasts as they rise and fall.

“I’ll never ask you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, Madeline,” he assures me gently. “But I think you might like it.”

I think I might, too. I think I might like anything you do to me, Jack.

Holding the belt in one hand, he slides off his jeans and briefs. His erection is enormous, and even though I’ve seen it before, I can’t stop staring at it, at him—at this beautiful, statuesque, muscle-rippled man that’s hard in all the right places.

He takes his cock in his free hand and slides it along the shaft. “Do you see what you do to me? How badly I want to fuck you?”

I cannot speak, so I just manage a small nod. My thong is already soaked. I am so ready for him.

“Do you think you can take a little consequence?”

I nod again. I’m a little fearful, and this adds to my arousal. But even with the apprehension, I realize that I trust him, and the awareness of that creates a bloom of elation in my chest.

“Lean over the bed,” he murmurs. “Get on your elbows, and keep that beautiful ass up in the air.”

I obey him, my heart thudding wildly. I’m trembling as he steps closer to stand directly behind me.

I have never felt more vulnerable or more turned on in my life.

“First, my hand,” he tells me. There is a pause, and then I feel the sharp slap of his palm across my buttocks. The sound and the sensation make me drip with desire.

“Again, for my naughty girl.” His use of the word my sends thrills coursing through my body. Two more spanks, and I bite my lip. I am throbbing, burning, and I silently beg myself not to come.

“Last one—this time with the belt. All right?”

“Yes.” I’m practically moaning.

“God, Madeline...I can’t wait to fuck you.”

I feel the cool leather of his belt as he drags it across my ass. Unexpectedly, I feel his finger slip inside the thin strip of material between my legs and stroke along my opening. I have all I can do not to explode.

“You’re fucking saturated. Such a naughty girl.” One more drag of the belt across my butt, and then it comes down to strike me, and I gasp—not so much because of the pain, but because of the pleasure.

Jack’s voice is heavy with desire. “Got to fuck you now, sweetheart.”

I hear the tearing of a wrapper behind me, and then everything happens fast—pulling down my thong, a quick fingering of my clitoris which almost sends me into climax, rubbing the head of his cock against my opening...putting his hand on the back of my neck and pushing me down on the bed.

And then he’s inside me...grunting, pushing, filling me up. The angle allows him to penetrate me deeper, and there is some pain with the very first thrusts, but like the brief spanking, it’s a hurt that I welcome. It is sexy, it is primal, and I raise myself up on the bed, parting my knees even more so he has full access to me. This seems to put him over the edge. He says my name in a ragged groan, and hearing him like that sends me into my own glorious release, my very being shattering into a million tiny shards of ecstasy.

“Take my big cock, baby,” he rasps. “Take all of it.”

Clenching the comforter in my hands, I brace myself as he thrusts harder, deeper, his exhales hot on the back of my neck as he comes.

His breathing slows. He kisses the back of my neck once, twice, nestling into me while fresh pleasure courses through me at this unexpected display of tenderness. He is still propped up, his hands on either side of my face. I look at the long, strong, tanned fingers and marvel that everything about this man is beautiful.

A final gentle kiss on my upper back as he sighs deeply and pushes himself away from me. I climb off the bed, post-climactic high still thrumming in my veins, and retrieve my thong. Jack is looking at me almost in bewilderment. “Callaway…” he trails off, raking a hand through his hair. “That was—I don’t even know how to describe it.”

“I know.” I manage a smile, blushing. “I feel the same way.”

The silence is soft between us—comfortable, like two people who have known each other for years instead of a few weeks. We both begin to dress. I sneak glances at him, ignoring the flash of despair at the realization I am not going to be able to look at him like this for many more times. I swallow down the words climbing to my throat—will you stay with me tonight?—because I know what the answer will be.

He’s putting on his jeans now, sliding his foot crisply into each leg with speed and purpose. He bends down to pick up his belt—God, the belt—threading it through the loops with deft fingers. He wants to leave, fast, and this pushes hot tears into my eyes.

I know why. I am so sure of why that it stuns me. He’s feeling the intimacy of what we just shared and realizing it was more than just sex. For him, it is obviously too much. But for me…

It’s just right.