Stella

Jack’s wrapped himself around me in the night. Or maybe it was me, seeking out his warmth. Either way, I’ve got my back to his chest, my head tucked under his chin, and one huge arm curled around my waist. The first light of dawn’s peeking over the horizon. I close my eyes against it. I’m still in that fuzzy, half-conscious state, where it wouldn’t take much to catch the coattail of a dream and ride it back under.

Sleep... Got to take it where I can get it. Jack mumbled something last night about clearing a room for the birds. Tonight, tomorrow night—some night soon—I’ll be back where I started, ten feet from the real source of my sleepless nights.

Fucking Starkey.

Jack moves against me, stretching mightily. He cracks his neck and squeezes me a little tighter. “Sleep well?”

“Still asleep.”

“Having a good dream?”

“One of those ones where you wake up smiling. Thinking of....” What was I dreaming about? Everything’s gone but the feeling. “I don’t even know. Sunshine, ice cream...swimming in the sea.”

“Nice.” He shifts again. I can feel his morning wood. “Like vacation.”

“Vacation, yeah.” I walk my fingers up his arm. He relaxes into the touch, sighing and pressing his lips to the back of my neck. It’s not quite a kiss—more of a lazy little nuzzle. I can feel him breathing, slow and even—like he’s barely awake himself.

“We should get up,” he says, making no move to do so.

“Ever do that thing where you’re going to get up and go to the gym, but instead you go back to sleep, and, like...dream your entire workout?”

I feel his chuckle all the way down my back, a deep, soothing rumble. His thumb follows the lace edge of my panties down the crease of my thigh, up to my hip, back and forth. “Maybe we’re dreaming right now.”

“So... Anything could happen.”

“Mm....” His palm’s warm and rough, following the contours of my body. He crests my hipbone, lingers in the hollow beneath. I hold my breath as he traces the shapes of my ribs, riding that line between a caress and a tickle.

I fit my hand over his as he finds the swell of my breast. It’s strange to feel both the catch of my hard nipple under our fingers and my answering thrill of pleasure. He pinches and teases; I arch into it. There’s a slow heat building, a catch in my breath, a curl in my toes, rising with every tweak and graze, every hot breath on the shell of my ear.

I tilt my head and he kisses the corner of my mouth. I twine my fingers with his, and he guides our hands back down my body, teasing me through my panties. His heart’s beating faster. Mine’s keeping up, a hot pulse galloping through my body.

He spreads his fingers. Mine move with them. Lace brushes my clit. I bite back a gasp and Jack groans himself. He’s moving against me now, cock throbbing insistently at my back. I move with him, matching his rhythm. His fingers dip lower, spreading me open. It’s embarrassing how ready I am, slick and panting for him, and he’s hardly touched me.

“I’ll be so pissed if this is my dream,” he says. “If I wake up in five minutes, and you’re in the shower.”

I press my hand down on his, deliberately grinding his fingers on my clit. “Then we can fuck in there.”

“Here’s better.” He pushes my panties aside. I reach back to dispense with his shorts. My knuckles snag on a ridge of scar tissue plunging down his side from rib to groin, ending in a messy whorl. Like someone twisted a knife in him and jerked it up and out. Jack shifts away, and his cock springs free. Feels thicker than I thought, heavy and hot against my thigh. I forget about his scar as he guides it to my slit. “Yeah?”

I nod, drawing up my knees to let him in. He doesn’t hesitate, surging against me, powerful as the tide. His cock swells inside me. I can feel every inch of it, every twitch and pull. I’m tingling all over, like my body’s still waking up, nerves coming online in tiny shocks and sizzles.

His thumb digs into my hip and I stiffen, certain he’s going to shove me on my belly, pound me into the mattress, but he just gathers me closer, rocking more than thrusting, peppering my neck with kisses.

“You got freckles here,” he says, nipping my shoulder to show me just where. “Cinnamon sprinkles.”

I think about kicking him, but I’m too blissed out to muster a proper head of steam. I take his hand prisoner, instead. He groans as I tease his fingers, swallowing two of them to the knuckles, flicking my tongue at the tips. I let my teeth catch his skin, here and there—can’t let him sink too deep into whatever this is, this quiet intimacy.

When I let his hand go, he flattens it to my chest, like he’s holding me in place. I concentrate on matching his rhythm, pressing my thighs together to feel more of his cock inside me. Eddies of sensation ripple through me, and I can feel myself fluttering around him.

“If you kept doing that—” I tilt my head back, catching my breath. “—just that angle, that rhythm, I think I could...mm...think I could ride the edge all morning, that moment right before you....”

Jack stills for a moment, and keeps going. “You that close?”

“Mm....”

He hisses and pulls out all the way, right to the tip. “How about this?” He snaps his hips, hard and sharp, once, twice...and settles back into that slow, easy grind. I squirm and buck, denied my peak.

“Oh, you tease!”

“Complaining?”

Wouldn’t say that....

Jack presses even closer, till we’re shoulder to shoulder, cheek to cheek, not a breath between us. He trails his fingers up and down my thighs, across my lower belly, between my legs, teasing my lips, my clit. I hardly even notice he’s steadily picking up the pace till my excitement’s a boiling whirlpool at my core, sucking everything into itself, till my whole world’s pleasure and light.

I come back to myself panting, lightheaded. Jack’s still inside me, barely moving now. He’s rocking me in his arms in a way that could easily lull me to sleep. Can’t say I’d mind if it did. Nothing so decadent as a mid-morning nap.

Jack yawns and buries his face in my hair. “Y’know, we could close our eyes right now. Sleep the morning away. Wake up in a few hours, like... Was that even real?”

“Your dick still inside me might give us away.”

He pulls out, flopping onto his back with a groan. “You remind me of my first grade teacher.”

“You’d better be saying she was hot.”

He nudges me with his toe. “He was sixty years old, bony as a chicken, and covered in moles.”

“Oh, you—”

“Wait!” He’s laughing. “Wait, though! Here’s why you’re him: picture this. It’s my first week of school. I’m finally one of the big kids—no more kindergarten baby. Mr. Tuttle gives us our first homework ever. Actual, real homework, not like... Go home and find a cool rock. We have to bring in a poem and read it to the class.” Jack props himself up on one elbow. There’s a wicked glint in his eye. Something tells me I’m going to hate where this is going. “So I’m like, okay, I’m hitting this shit out of the park. Going to write my own poem. Kick these other kids’ asses.”

“So far, so good?”

“You’d think, right?” He’s waggling a finger, getting right into the story. “So, I make it just like the ones in Ma’s books, all...flowery and weird, where you don’t really know what it means, but you’re like ‘yeah, that’s some great poetry, right there’.”

“Uh-huh....”

“I remember it to this day: ‘Crocuses and daisies die. Sparrows go by in the sky.’ Genius, right?”

“You’re a regular Wordsworth Jr.”

Jack scoffs. “Pff—like you could do better. Anyway, I turn it in, and I can’t wait for Tuttle to see it. And when we come in from recess, he calls me up to the front of the class. Asks me to read it out loud. And I’m bursting. Proud as fuck. And then—then, y’know what he says? You know what that motherfucker says?”

“Ah...the meter’s a little off?” I jerk my ankle out of the way before Jack can kick it.

“He says, ‘You wrote that, didn’t you?’ And I’m like, ‘Hell, yeah, I did.’ And he turns to the class, and he puts on his teacher voice, this world-weary, condescending, sick-of-this-shit drone, and he goes ‘Class, when I hand out assignments, I expect you to do them. Not decide you’re too busy playing hopscotch or lighting farts, and scribble down your own thing five seconds before the bell.’”

I raise a brow. “Okay, so you look at me, and you see the teacher who squished your creativity like...like a dead crocus?”

“Yup.”

“Seriously. That’s got to be the most words you’ve said to me since I got here—and you use them to make fun of me?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Can I at least ask why?”

Jack pulls me back into his arms. “’Cause you can’t let me have my little fantasy, where we have this hazy, fuzzy memory of a sweet first time, and we’re never quite sure it really happened. You have to beat me with the reality stick.” He taps me on the top of my head. “You’re a cynic.”

“Says the man who rotates girlfriends like the rest of us rotate tires.”

“Well, that’s....”

“Yeah?”

“Hmph.” He pushes me away and sits up. “Let’s grab a shower.”

I tug my panties back into place and roll out of bed. Not sure how I feel about being Jack’s cynical, chicken-legged first grade teacher, but a shower sounds good.