August 15

Even though it’s Saturday and I usually sleep in (if Murphy will let me), I’m awake at six-thirty. I make coffee, eat half a banana, do a yoga workout, change over my laundry, pay some bills, water my potted flowers, try not to think. I’m still restless at 8:30, so I throw on a tank and shorts, lace up my sneakers and go for a run down past the beach area of Newbury Neck. People are setting up oversized striped umbrellas and staking out their spots with Coleman coolers and beach towels, and all of them look like their only worry is whether they’ll get enough of a tan today.

I wish that was my major source of stress.

Jack is finishing the bathroom today—right on schedule. Most clients would appreciate their contractor getting the project done on time, of course, but most people probably aren’t having the most amazing sex of their lives with the hottest handyman on the planet.

He’s coming over around 3:00-ish, after he helps his friend Owen finish building a shed. He still needs to hang the mirror, put up towel racks, toilet paper holder—things like that. He mentioned paint touch-ups, but I haven’t spotted one blemish. Everything looks absolutely perfect, from the tropical blue wall color to the suede gray shower tile he suggested. The big soaker tub will be heaven on cold winter nights—I have plans for a cozy fringe of Boston ferns, aloe and candles—and the white vessel sink (another one of Jack’s ideas) makes a classy, unique statement.

So I will have my luxurious spa-style bathroom.

But I will lose Jack.

As I’m cooling down from my run, the jangle of my phone jars me from my thoughts. I wipe my sweaty hand on my shorts and look at the incoming call and escalate from depressed into pissed. What the fucking fuck?

It’s Paul. Again.

I decline the call, and seconds later, he tries again. My blood is boiling. I answer with a low, voice, because there is a young mother walking past me with the most adorable baby boy in a stroller, and I don’t want to scare them by screaming obscenities. Even though my ex deserves my full wrath, at this point.

“What is it you think you’re accomplishing with this?” I hiss through clenched teeth. “How much clearer can I make it that I don’t want you contacting me?”

“Linnie.” He uses his nickname for me and my stomach twists, because that was a lifetime ago. “I’m calling to tell you that Corey was in a car accident.”

My heart freezes. Corey is one of our best friends from college—free-spirit, long-haired Corey with his easy laugh and mischievous blue eyes, who moved out to LA after graduation to pursue an acting career. We’ve kept in sporadic touch, but he’s one of those people you will always feel close to, regardless of the distance or the passage of time. As I’m trying to process this, I get a text from Delaney with a sad face emoji: Did you see on Facebook about Corey?

“Oh my God, Paul,” I manage. “Is he...”

“He’s alive. Ended up with a broken leg, ribs, concussion and some nasty road rash. He was rollerblading and got hit by a teenage girl who was texting. I just got off the phone with his sister. He’s going to need surgery for his leg, but fortunately, he should recover fine. I thought you’d want to know.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Of course I would. Thank you.”

“Lin...”

Jesus, don’t use this, Paul. Please be above using this. Don’t go there.

“Hearing about Corey brought me back to those good times we had in college—lots of great memories, with you.”

He went there.

“I’d like to take you out for a drink so we could just talk about things.”

“No. But thank you for telling me about Corey. I’ll follow up with him.” I end the call with a very forceful finger and text Laney back before I walk home, taking deep breaths of the warm salty air to soothe my stress.

At 11:45, I get on Corey’s Facebook, read the encouraging posts from friends and relatives and add one of my own. There is an update from his sister thanking everyone on his behalf and adding that he’s in good spirits, is flirting with his nurse and will be having surgery later today.

At noon, I make a salad with mandarins and cranberries for lunch and discover that I can’t eat it, so I put it in the fridge, pour myself a glass of Chardonnay and sit at the kitchen table with the newspaper while Murphy twists himself around my bare legs.

At 12:30, I walk down to the ocean and wade in to my knees. Today, the water is a rich navy blue tipped with white froth. I wave to a power boat slicing through the waves and watch a pair of cormorants dip down to the sea in hopes of snagging a small mackerel.

At 1:05, I go back up to the house and take a leisurely shower—using the guest bathroom, since Jack made me promise not to use the new one until he was completely finished. Shave silky smooth (everywhere), apply baby powder and generous deodorant because my sweat glands will be working overtime given my nerves, then put on a casual yet romantic summer dress—white cotton, off-the-shoulder, above the knee American Eagle—and neaten up my bedroom.

At 1:40, I call my mom to wish her a happy birthday and see if she got the blueberry jam and Maine cookbook I sent, and then because it’s her birthday, I tell her that I am having someone over for dinner tonight. Judging from her reaction, she likes the male better than the mail.

At 2:00, I tell myself not to keep checking the time.

At 2:05, I check the time.

And then, at 2:55…

Jack is here.

His big black pickup rumbles into the driveway. I’m watching from the upstairs window, like a giddy high school junior waiting for her prom date. Climbing out of the truck, he peels the sunglasses off his face and leans into the vehicle to place them on the dashboard. As he does this, I am unabashedly focusing on his ass—his muscular, just-right ass that I will most definitely be groping later tonight.

I have become a slut of the highest order, and I have no shame.

He’s wearing a black t-shirt and faded jeans. There’s a bottle of water in his hand, and he raises it to his lips. I watch that, too. I can see, even from the second floor, that his face looks somber—almost tense. I don’t like seeing him upset, but maybe this means he is also sad about today? My heart does a hopeful little leap and then starts to throb with ache, because sadness on Jackson Decker’s face is like a cloud across the sun.

I want to run down the stairs, yank open the door and throw my arms around him like he’s a returning war hero, but I wait in my bedroom, trying to rein in my galloping heart. I’m being a bit of an idiot, I know, because he has to work on the bathroom. (Kind of the whole point of him being here, Mads.) Then, it will be play time.

Although it’s so much more than play.

I look down on the top of his head and his broad shoulders as he goes up my walkway and toward the side door. I will miss his rumpled, boyishly-sexy hair.

I will miss everything about this man.

Hearing his heavy footsteps coming up the stairs makes me feel both comforted and wildly excited. I take a deep, shaky breath as Jack Decker walks in my bedroom, my throat closing knowing that this will be the last time.

Our eyes lock. His sober expression softens, lightens as a smile spreads across his face, and inside my chest, my heart crashes and burns. “Hey.”

I can barely find my voice. “Hey.”

“How’s your day been?”

“Not so great. But it just got significantly better.”

“What a coincidence—same for me. Funny how that works, isn’t it?”

“Very funny. You look—really, really good, Jack.”

He laughs, but it’s a kind, warm laugh. “I look the same as I always do, Callaway.”

“And you always look really, really good.”

“Thanks, but you’re putting me to shame here. Man, you are rocking that little white dress.”

Heat flares in my face as his eyes rake over me. “Thank you.”

“Makes you look innocent and pure, despite those dirty thoughts I know you’re having.”

“Presumptuous.”

“Accurate.”

“Touché.” I lift up my index finger and give him an air point.

He walks toward me, his blue eyes deepening with intensity and determination.

I clamp down on the little cry that’s bubbling up in my throat, raising my chin to look up at him.  “Something on your mind?”

“Yes. Kissing you.” He sweeps me into his arms and I arch my back, eager to be pressed against him. My lower half throbs and melts because there is hardness. And there is no better high than to be wanted by this glorious man.

He covers my mouth with his, the warmth of his tongue creating sparks throughout my body. I am instantly aroused, instantly soaked, instantly crazed with desire for him. He’s making soft groaning sounds against my lips. I am undone. All of me, as if he tugged a loose thread I didn’t know I had, unraveling what was once Madeline Callaway into a pleading, helpless heap of want and need.

He pulls away from my lips, his warm, sweet breath on my face. “Touching you is also on my mind,” he mutters. “And fucking you.”

My.

God.

“I couldn’t sleep last night, thinking about it.” His left arm wraps around my waist as his right hand slides down to cup and grope my ass, practically lifting me off my feet. He nuzzles my neck and I shiver, little thrills cascading through me. We kiss again, deeply—he tastes so incredibly good that I cannot bear to think of stopping—but we do.

“Callaway,” he says breathlessly. “You’re going to fucking destroy me. And I can’t let that happen, because I need to finish your bathroom.”

I’m trying like hell not to pout. “Okay.” I take a reluctant step back, straightening the top of my dress across my shoulders. “Do you want me to leave you alone, or...”

He grins. “I don’t want you to leave me alone, no. But today, I need you to, or I’ll never be able to work. You’re too goddamned distracting.”

“Sorry not sorry. I’ll go find something to keep me busy.” Even though I have absolutely nothing in this house I want to do except you. “You can stay for dinner, right?”

“Absolutely. And I can stay after dinner, too.” He winks, I blush, and I summon all the self-control I have to smile and leave the room.

* * * *

“This is delicious, Callaway.” Jack takes another forkful of his salmon fillet. “What’s the marinade?”

“Brown sugar, soy sauce and rice wine vinegar. I’m glad you like it.”

“Like it? I want to marry it.”

The marry stupidly gets to me. I haven’t been able to eat more than a few bites; the caffeinated pelicans in my stomach won’t allow it. I don’t want to be rude, but if I only have a few hours with him, I don’t want to spend them at the kitchen table. I sip at my Pinot Noir and glance at the clock.

“Do you have somewhere to be?” He’s grinning broadly, teasing me with the same line I’d used on him a week and a half ago.

I crumple up my napkin and throw it at him. “You are going to drive me insane.”

“You won’t have to put up with my shit after today. Just think, Callaway—your house and your life will be back to normal.” He’s still smiling, but his eyes have changed.

I don’t want that, Jack. I want you as my normal.

I force myself to smile back. “And you’ll be rid of me, too—free as a bird. But for right now, I’d like to take advantage of what’s left in my contract.” I make air quotes around the last word and then stand up to clear the table.

Jack drains his glass of wine, picks up his plate. I’m setting my dishes in the sink when I feel his arms go around my waist, and I startle. I’m waiting for one of his clever, flirty lines, but he doesn’t say anything—just leans over me, pressing his cheek against my neck and tightening his hold on me. I draw in my breath. It is so surprising, so sweet and tender that I almost choke on the rush of longing in my throat.

I don’t—can’t—say anything, either, so I slip my hand in his and lead him upstairs, almost like in a dream. I’ve waited all day for tonight to come, yet now that it’s here, I am overwhelmed by how bittersweet it feels. Because it will be our last time.

When we get to the top of the stairs, I turn around and discover that Murphy has followed us. I shoo him back down the stairs. I love that boy, but I don’t want any distractions. I put my hands on Jack’s upper arms. “Wait here for just a minute, okay?”

He nods. His sculpted face looks stonily beautiful, tinged with resignation. I stand on my toes and kiss him lightly on the cheek before I go into the bedroom.

Moving quickly, I grab the lighter out of my nightstand drawer and light the candles that I’ve placed around the room, then step into my closet and slip out of my dress. Earlier this week on a whim, I did something I’d never done before—ordered a black lace bustier with garter straps and matching V-string panty...then took a deep breath, added thigh-high sheer black stockings and clicked place order (thank you, Amazon Prime two-day shipping). It was not me, but it is me, now—the me whom Jack has awakened.

So the new me, quivering in anticipation, hurries to change into my racy lingerie. I flip my head upside down, run my fingers through my hair and stand up again, arranging it so it fans across my shoulders, the way Jack likes it. Quick dab of deodorant under each arm, then flicking on the ceiling fan and opening the Spotify romance playlist on my laptop.

Candlelight, soft and sexy music, a big, comfortable bed, and me—all that’s missing is a man. Luckily, I know just where to find one.

I open the door. Leaning against the wall, he looks up with widening eyes and says exactly what I hoped he’d say, in exactly the tone I hoped he’d say it: “Fuck, Callaway.”

His hands go to his hips as he shakes his head, looking bewildered, astonished. “My God, woman. What you do to me.”

My eyes immediately flick to his now-bulging crotch. I feel almost giddy thinking he will soon be inside me. The small scrap of fabric that is my panties dampens.

Jack’s gaze scours me from head to toe, his lips parted. “You look fucking unbelievable. But you do realize you’re not going to be wearing that for very long, right?”

“That’s okay. This is for you, Jack. It’s all for you. I want to please you, and if you want it off me, take it off.” My voice is low, throaty.

He shakes his head again, still wide-eyed. “Callaway. I don’t know how I’m going to...” He trails off. My heart skips, thuds, leaps. I’ve never heard his voice layered with so much emotion.

Jack steps forward, hooks his thumb under my shoulder straps and slides them off, kissing both sides of my collarbone. I shudder. He dips his head down to kiss my lips, one hand going up in my hair to grip it tightly. His mouth is harder, more demanding—there is a raw urgency in him tonight, and I feel it, too.

Suddenly, he scoops me into his arms as if I were weightless and carries me over to the bed. “I want you on your hands and knees, for starters,” he growls into my hair. Then, in a softer tone, as he sets me down on the mattress: “I’m going to lick you until you can’t walk.”

My. Fuck.

I am shaking. I get on all fours. He grasps my hips, pulling me back nearer the edge of the bed. “On your elbows, Madeline. I want your ass and pussy up in the air.”

I feel his big hands on my bottom, kneading, squeezing, his thumbs just outside my labia. Propped up on my elbows like he asked, I rest my forehead on my fists. My legs are trembling.

“Relax, sweetheart.” Jack’s voice is gentle but firm as he strokes my ass. “Open yourself to me, in all ways. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” My voice is small and muffled. I gasp when I feel his finger slide into the side of my barely-there panties. He drags it along my cleft, sighing when he hears me moan.

“Christ, you’re so wet for me. As always. I love that.” He takes his finger away, and his thumbs return to their position on either side of my vulva. I have to tense up my thighs so I won’t start shaking again, but the feelings building up inside me are so strong, I feel like I will shudder, cry out, lose control.

He spreads me open a bit. I feel his cool breath on my inner thigh, then the tip of his tongue snaking under the fabric to lick my seam. I groan, louder than I mean to.

“Mmm...you taste so good. I want to fucking devour you, Madeline, and I want you to take it. It’s going to be intense, but I want you to take it. Even if you come, I want you to keep taking it until I’m done with you.” He pauses to lift the fabric away and lick me again, barely grazing my sensitive folds. “All right?”

My response is practically a whimper. “Yes. I’ll try. I want you so, so much, Jack.”

“You have me, sweetheart.”

But just for one last night. The burning between my legs clashes with the aching in my heart, and to my dismay, tears spring to my eyes. I’m quickly distracted, though, by Jack sliding my panties down my legs. The draft from the ceiling fan chills my bare bottom, making me feel deliciously exposed.

“Spread your knees apart more, and stay propped up like that,” he orders. I obey him, the throbbing between my legs growing stronger. I want to do as he asks; I want to hold off on my orgasm, but I don’t know how the fuck I can do that, being this turned on. I am already aching for his mouth.

I feel his tongue, soft and warm, stretching out along my slit, the tip swirling around my already-hardened clit. He spreads my labia apart with his thumbs and pushes his tongue inside me, making me gasp his name. He uses his tongue like a cock, holding it firm and pushing it in and out, in and out, until I’m squirming so much he gives me a gentle slap on my bottom and tells me to be still.

“Be a good girl, Callaway,” he croons. “Remember—you’re going to take what I give you.” Flattening his tongue, he begins to lap me firmly from the top of my pussy to my perineum. I have never allowed anyone in the danger zone, and I clench my fists and bite my bottom lip to keep from screaming. Not so much because I want to ask him to stop, but because it feels so. Fucking. Incredible. The very idea of where he is and what he might do to me has pushed me to the very edge of a climax. I’m trying so hard to hold off, but my God, this is Jack Decker, and Jack Decker’s mouth, and I am going to come.

He knows this. He starts eating me, hard—practically buries his face in my pussy—and laps, sucks, nibbles, sucks harder, tongues me, until I am twisting, begging, crying out...splintering into a million jagged pieces, and it’s only Jack that can put me together again.

His breaths are coming in harsh, forceful gasps. “Madeline—I’m not done with you yet. I’m going to make you come again, when I fuck you. Get on your back, sweetheart.”

I crawl toward the top of the bed, feeling the slick heat between my legs. My pussy is burning, my clit is on fire, and I cannot wait to have this man inside me. Settling back against the pillows, I look up at Jack’s face. His eyes are blazing with want.

“Open your legs for me, Callaway,” he says huskily. “Wider, please. Good girl.” Within seconds, his pants are off, and I am looking at his huge, beautiful, fully-erect penis in all its glory.

“I want you in my mouth,” I murmur. “Please.”

Wordlessly, he climbs to the head of the bed and positions his cock near my lips. Eagerly, I take the tip in, reveling in the groans he’s making. His hands reach inside my bustier, fondling my breasts and nipples as I suck him. I keep my eyes open, watching his washboard abs as he fucks my mouth.

“Callaway—” He pulls away from me, breathing hard. “You’re so fucking good at that, but I’ve got to stop you before I lose control.” He climbs off the bed to retrieve his jeans, taking out a foil packet. I watch, my mouth fairly watering at the sight of him rolling the condom down his hard length.

And then he’s on top of me, guiding himself into my wet opening. The only thing better than Jack Decker’s mouth on me is his massive member inside of me.

“My sexy, sexy Madeline,” he whispers, just before he enters me. I wrap my legs and arms around him—I can’t get close enough—and he fucks me hard, giving me the full force of his cock. He’s on his elbows, and we are looking into each other’s eyes as if we’re seeing each other for the first time.

Or maybe it’s as if we’re seeing each other for the last time. There is a filmy haze in his eyes, like he’s intoxicated, and he plunges into me once, twice more before he comes. I dig my heels into his firm buttocks and my fingers into his shoulders, crying out as I feel the ripples of my second release. For just these fleeting seconds, we are one body, one mind, one heart...one soul...and the only thing more powerful than this is the grief I feel at having to let him go.