Chapter 6: Claiming the Calendar
Sarah's nails dug into Jake's forearm as he pulled out slowly, the sudden loss of him leaving her gasping. His thick cum pulsed out, dripping obscenely down the inside of her thigh, warm against her sun-warmed skin. "We can't..." she breathed, the protest weak even to her own ears. Her body betrayed her completely, hips bucking instinctively when his calloused thumb slid through the mess on her thigh and smeared it back up, pressing it firmly between her legs. A choked whimper escaped her lips.
He leaned down, his sweat mingling with hers, his breath hot on her mouth. "Can't what?" he murmured, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. His thumb pressed harder, circling with deliberate pressure.
Her eyes fluttered shut for a second, overwhelmed by the slick heat and the lingering tremors deep inside. Then she found his gaze. "Next Wednesday," she breathed against his lips, the words barely audible over the thrumming cicadas and her own racing heart. "When Mark’s at the golf tournament…" She pulled back just enough to see his reaction. "I want you to flood me again."
Jake’s grin widened, sharp and predatory. He kissed her, hard and claiming, his tongue tasting the desperation on hers. "Count on it," he growled against her mouth. He gave her a final, rough grind against her hipbone before pulling back completely, standing up with that infuriating, easy grace.
The sudden exposure to the bright sun and the cool breeze made Sarah shiver. Reality crashed back. The lush backyard, the shimmering pool, the house looming nearby – Mark’s house. Her husband’s house. Panic flickered, cold and sharp. She scrambled upright on the teal lounger, grabbing the discarded towel.
Jake was already pulling his shorts up, his movements unhurried, watching her frantic cleanup with amused detachment. He pulled a faded green T-shirt over his head, hiding the lean muscles she’d just been clinging to. "Better hurry, Mrs. Kensington," he drawled, nodding towards a smear she’d missed on her inner thigh. "Wouldn't want any… evidence."
"Shut up, Jake," she hissed, scrubbing furiously at her skin with the towel. Her hands were trembling. The scent of chlorine, sunscreen, and sex was thick in the air. Every rustle of leaves sounded like footsteps. Her eyes darted towards the French doors leading to the kitchen. Empty. For now.
He just chuckled, low and confident, bending to gather his pool net and bucket. The water glistened on his tanned forearms. "Wednesday morning. Nine sharp. Back gate." He winked. "Mean it about the flooding?"
Sarah stopped scrubbing, meeting his gaze. The recklessness surged back, hotter than the sun. "I need it," she whispered, the raw honesty startling even herself. "Make me forget."
Something flickered in his eyes – less amusement, more primal satisfaction. He gave a single, curt nod. "Done." He slung the net over his shoulder. "See ya next week, Sarah. Try not to miss me too much." He turned, heading towards the side gate with that insolent swagger, leaving her alone amidst the wreckage of the lounger cushions and her own composure.
The second the gate clicked shut, Sarah sprang into frantic action. She snatched her flimsy silk cover-up from where it had been tossed over the lounger’s arm, pulling it on with shaking hands. It felt flimsy, inadequate armor. She gathered the damp towel, wincing at the sticky residue, and glanced down. The smear Jake had pointed out was mostly gone, but the ghost of it, the knowledge of it, felt glaring.
She needed a shower. Now. She hurried towards the house, bare feet silent on the warm flagstones. The coolness of the air-conditioned kitchen hit her like a wall, making her skin prickle. She tossed the towel straight into the washing machine, slamming the lid with more force than necessary. Just breathe. Act normal. She moved to the sink, splashing cold water on her face. Her reflection in the window above the sink was wild-eyed, hair tangled, lips swollen. She smoothed her hair, took deep breaths.
The distant, familiar sound of the garage door opener kicking in sliced through her fragile calm. Mark! He wasn’t supposed to be back for hours!
Panic, pure and icy, shot through her veins. The lounger! The cushions were still rumpled, her beach bag spilled open. And the smell… She lunged for the spray bottle of linen scent she kept under the sink, sprinting back towards the patio doors.
Too late.
Mark stood just outside the French doors, briefcase in hand, tie loosened, squinting against the sun as he surveyed the pool area. His gaze landed instantly on the disheveled lounger, the indentation still visible on the cushions.