He offers me a steaming mug. “Those children”—he smiles, pausing to sip his coffee and observe the photo frames—“are my reason.”
“Your reason?”
Jonathan nods. “Each of them has some form of cancer. Lymphoma,” he lists. “Leukemia. Ewing sarcoma.” He rounds his desk to take a seat and I sit down across from him.
My heart tips. As if he wasn’t smart, and handsome, and sinfully charming. He has a soft spot for little ones? Maybe my intuition isn’t so shabby after all. I’m suddenly very glad we didn’t meet at the lab—his story’s right here, in his home.
I agreed to meeting him here on impulse. But I can’t say I’m unhappy I did.
I take out my notepad and my recorder. “Tell me more.”
Jonathan talks about how hard it was for him growing up. He was a “geek”—scrawny, too smart for his own good, terrible with girls. We joke that it’s no longer an issue for him. What with his great job, nice car, modern house. Amazing body. A little practice goes a long way too, apparently. I squeeze my legs together every time he looks at me. I wonder what he’d do if I reached over to scratch my nails against his beard?
Life was hard for him as a kid, so now Jon works hard to try and make life a little less difficult for other youth. It’s ambitious…then I look at the diplomas again. The man doesn’t lack ambition.
“There was a lot of pressure on me,” he admits. I nod, grinning softly, in solidarity. “What’s that?” he says.
“What’s what?”
“That smile.” He makes a face. “You don’t believe me?”
“No, I do.” I set down my pen and look up at him. “I can relate. I felt a ton of pressure growing up.”
“You?” he muses. “Ms. Homecoming Queen?”
I laugh, mildly. “Lucky guess.”
He chuckles. “I know more about you than you think, Kristin.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He does have those dark, intense eyes. See-into-your-soul eyes. Decimate-your-panties, eyes.
“I want to know more.” Jonathan’s low voice rumbles, and my pussy quakes. I’ve got enough on him to write a killer story. All I can think about now is just being alone with him, talking, not talking, whatever.
“Ask me anything,” I practically purr the words.
I swear he groans.
I shut off the recorder.
Four
Big Jon
I learn more about Kristin in one hour than I learn about most people in a month. I’ve never been as curious about a woman as I am right now. I can’t say I’ve cared this much before. Kristin’s an enigma. Beautiful, controlled. She wears a mask I’d like to see taken off, along with her glasses and inhibition, self-control, and every stitch of her suit.
I do care about her. Quite a lot, in fact.
We shift further and further from the subject of work. She relaxes more as she tells me about her twin daughters. I pour her another cup of coffee.
“You were right.” She smiles, infectiously. “This coffee is fantastic.”
“Hoped you’d enjoy it.” I smile back. “As well as the peace and quiet.”
“Your house is amazing.” Kristin savors a long sip. She arcs her shimmering gaze toward mine, arresting me. I wait for any recollection of me to pass over her face, but it never does. “Can I see more?”
“I’d love to show it to you.” I offer my hand. She stands up, holding on.
Not letting go.
The main living spaces were professionally decorated, but the master suite is simple. I’m an essentialist. I care about getting clean and getting to work in the morning—not so much about fancy towels, throw pillows, or choosing from a hundred shirts. It’s modest bordering bland. I’ve matured into confidence since my awkward teens, but I don’t try to seduce women. Definitely not with my personal spaces.
Not that I don’t love women and sex, when opportunity shows itself. Bringing Kristin Max back to my house felt, at first, like a fist-bump to my younger self. Now it feels like never wanting her to leave. Not only because she’s sexy as hell.
I can’t tell if Kristin’s impressed or aghast at my bedroom’s plainness. “Sparse, huh?” I ask when she’s too quiet.
“I envy the simplicity,” Kristin sighs. Her hand is still cocooned in mine. The contact feels hotter right now, standing over my bed together. “So cozy-looking”—her voice an airy whimper.
More heat journeys south, inflating my cock. “Kristin.” I pivot so we’re face to face, standing close. “Why don’t you stay a while longer.”
“Mmm,” she moans. I let go of her hand to cradle her cheek. She rests her face against my palm. “I’d like that very much.”
Kristin
Jonathan’s ravaging me already. Good listener. Soft heart. Sinful gaze. I’m not even in his bed yet and yet I’m reduced to warm, liquid fibers and bone. Desire zips straight through my core to assail my pussy.
“I never do things like this.”
“I know.” He touches my chin, tilting my face so I’m staring at him. His eyes are the color of darkest midnight. His lips are pillowy-soft, threatening to inspire endless fantasies later.
As if reading my mind again, Jon dips his head to claim my mouth. Gently, at first. I inhale his heady scent, spiked with the rustic fragrance of his cologne. My thighs squeeze together, trapping the onslaught of fires directed there from the pure sensation of his lips on mine.
Just a kiss? But why does it spin my heart in loops? How am I falling fast and hard? For this man I barely know…
“Jonathan,” I say on a breath when he pulls back an inch. With only his gaze, he steadies my breath and any rebellion left in me, so that I just smile at him. “Let’s do that again,” I whisper. Beg.
He smirks, warm and wicked. I close the distance and suck his lower lip into my mouth. Desire overtakes me, and I bounce up to sling my legs around his hips. He catches me, his hands cupping each of my butt cheeks, and he groans in a deep, masculine way that makes my toes curl.
Holding me up as if I’m as thin as air, he glides one hand through my hair, tipping my head back and to the side. He kisses my jaw, my chin, my bare throat, working his way ’round to the slope of my neck in suckling kisses that drain strength from my limbs and any resolve I might’ve had not to let him have his way. My thighs clench around him, and I whimper. I feel his rock-hard sex flex beneath my center of heat, but Jonathan makes no move to separate us or take off our clothes. Instead he lowers his hand to my waist and kisses me gently, indulgently, as if kissing is the reward all by itself, and he hasn’t the slightest intention to go for more.
When Jonathan’s lips have showered my skin and lips to his satisfaction and he breaks from me, he looks up at my face with half-closed eyes and whispers my name in a low voice other men reserve for saying Amen. Amen. I shutter my eyelids, enjoying the vibrations of his reverent tone.
He kisses with lips like soft, supple satin. The erection pulsating against the apex of my thighs makes my core clench hard. I unbutton my suit jacket and shirt, watching his eyes darken to sheer obsidian as the pupils expand over the iris.