Page 60 of Open for Negotiation
He moves his hands from my waist to my breasts, one in each hand, using them and me as leverage to pound his hips forward, fucking me into near oblivion.
Skin slapping skin, moans and grunts escaping our lips, and the wet sounds of sex surround us, but there’s another sound vaguely in the distance. I hear it, but the pure, animalistic need of the moment takes hold, and I ignore it.
The next sound though, neither of us can ignore.
“WHOA, WHOA, FUCKING HELL!” someone shouts from the doorway, and I look over long enough to see a figure jump back around the corner and out of my view.
“Jackson! Fuck!” Max exclaims before pulling away from me, shielding me from view while I scramble to my feet.
“Sorry! I knocked but you didn’t answer,” he yells from the hall. “I figured you were still sleeping so I used the key you gave me to let myself in.”
“Call next time you, dick,” Max says, and I bury my face in his back.
“I need to go get dressed,” I whisper.
Max reaches back and places a hand on my hip. “Stay where you are, Jackson. Don’t move. We are going upstairs to get dressed.”
“Take your time. I brought breakfast.” He holds a box of doughnuts around the corner for us to see. “Hi, Scarlett,” he says.
“Hi,” I reply before realizing that he said my name. My eyes go wide and I mouth “What the fuck” to Max, and Jackson laughs his ass off from his hiding spot.
“I fucking knew it,” he says proudly.
***
Forty-five minutes, two doughnuts, and a cup of coffee later, Max and Jackson took off to the gym as Max had made that plan with his brother a couple of days ago.
When I tried to leave to head home so they could get going, Max insisted I stick around his place and take my time, showering and such if I wanted to.
I obliged because that shower of his looks like it could be heaven on earth, and who could say no to that?
The water is hot, nearly too hot, but I don’t care. I let it wash over me like a scalding rain from the showerhead in the ceiling. There are three glass walls and one tiled wall creating the perfect steam shower experience. I wipe the water from my face, sliding my hands up and over my head, slicking my hair back then looking over at the small inlet in the tile wall that houses his soaps and shampoos. There are a variety, and honestly, they look expensive. I take my time, smelling each one and every single one just transports me back to a moment in time where I’ve smelled these scents on him. I finally settle on a small, black bottle that houses a clear body wash inside that smells of mint and tobacco, like an expensive candle from the fancy store that makes their own candles in house, then charges you sixty dollars for one.
I squeeze some of the liquid into a sponge that he had hanging on a hook at the back of the shower and lather it up between my hands, delighted at the amount of suds making an appearance, and wash the sweat and sex from my body.
Regardless of where he and I thought this was going, and regardless of parameters we set openly, or even with just ourselves, we are clearly taking leaps toward something serious. That should scare me, and I should be running the other way. My life has taught me that feeling serious about a man who is older, more experienced, and in an authority position can only end badly. I am finding myself thinking of him more often than not. If something funny happens, I want to tell him. If something sad happens, I want to tell him. I want to be with him during the good parts of the day and the bad parts of the day.
I feel at home with him. I feel like I can release the tension that resides permanently in my shoulders and take a welcome breath. He makes me happy by simply… being. As much as it scares me to admit, it’s impossible to deny while I’m standing here, lathering myself in something that smells like he does, the very essence of him.
I feel like I could be falling in love.
