The pressure has been building between us for months now. A possibly pneumonia-inducing blowjob might just be the thing we need to break the tension.
Or not.
When it comes to Jackson, I lose all my bearings. I try to do something nice, like give him his choice of cabins, it blows up in my face. I make an effort to turn the sanctuary around, and he ends up trying to sabotage me. I go down on him, and who knows, he might just live up to his end of the marry, kill, fuck bargain and end up murdering me in my sleep. If nothing else, it’d make for an awesome true crime podcast episode.
I finally throw the door open, and we rush in headfirst, desperate to escape the cold. The heat of the house settles over my pebbled skin. But my fingers and toes are almost numb. We’re going to need more than a warm living room to make sure we don’t get sick.
I trudge a wet trail to the bathroom.
“What are you doing?” Jackson yells after me, rubbing his wet hands up and down his soaked arms.
“Running you a bath.”
I step into the bathroom and begin filling the tub, kneeling on the tiled floor to adjust the water pouring through the faucets at full blast to something that’s hot without being burn-your-balls hot. Don’t want anything to hurt those because he has got aspectacularpair. Accompanied by a great cock, too. Long, meaty, and so fucking tasty.
“If I’m getting in, so are you,” he declares, standing behind me, the defiance unmissable in his voice.
I swirl my hand through the warm water, absorbing as much of it as I can into my freezing body. “It’s not big enough. We won’t fit.”
“We will.”
I turn around and peer up at him. His lips are fucking blue. “Are you going to fight me on everything? You forgetting we’re meant to be in a truce?”
“I think we’ve well and truly blown that.” He smirks. Then shivers. Then smirks again.
“Get your butt in here,” I say, standing. “Now.”
His icy-cold hand clasps mine. “Only if you come in with me.”
“We won’t fit.”
“We’ll make it work.”
I fling my wet hair back in frustration. “I am not getting in, Jackson.”
Three minutes later, I’m in the bath.
So is Jackson.
It’s borderline comical, two full-sized dudes crammed into a bathtub from an era where people were either a lot shorter or didn’t bathe in couples.
Not that we’re a couple.
At least not in the romantic sense. As much as I’m open to the idea of something more with Jackson, I’m neither that stupid nor dickblind not to see this for what it is—awhat happens on a hostage weekend stays in a hostage weekendsituation.
“See? We do fit,” he says smugly.
“Barely,” I retort, even though I’m loving the warmth of the water seeping into my skin. I don’t think I’ve ever been that cold in my life. “You cannot tell me you’re comfortable, though.”
We’re jammed in like pretzels, knees up to our ears, shoulders hunched, and every time one of us moves more than an inch, it triggers a minor tidal wave.
“I’m perfectly comfortable, and keep your legs folded. I don’t want your stinky feet anywhere near me, thank you very much.”
“My feet are not stinky, thank you very much. And besides, I’ve had your dick in my mouth. I think we’re past the point of pretending to be disgusted by each other’s bodies.”
“I’d rather have your dick in my mouth than your feet,” he blurts out, then blanches.
“That so?” I tap my fingers along the edge of the bath. “Is that what you want?”
