Chapter 4: Lunch, Lust, and Payback
Blake made it back to the lodge with three minutes to spare.
She slipped through the side door and up the stairs, her legs still unsteady, her thighs slick with the evidence of what Jack had done to her. The room was empty—Craig's side of the bed neatly made, his running shoes gone from beside the door. He'd gone to get coffee without her.
She had exactly enough time to shower again.
The second scrub was angrier than the first. She used the rough hotel washcloth until her skin burned, until the water ran cold, until she could almost convince herself that the morning had been a nightmare. That she hadn't bent over a fallen log in the woods and let Jack Linden tongue-fuck her ass while her husband listened on the phone.
But the ache was still there.
Deep and satisfied and wrong.
She dressed in jeans and a cream-colored sweater, pulled her wet hair into a ponytail, and went to find her husband.
---
The lodge's dining room was all exposed timber and picture windows, the morning light spilling across white tablecloths and steaming coffee cups. Craig was at a corner table, two mugs in front of him, scrolling through something on his phone.
He looked up when she walked in.
"Hey, you," he said, smiling. "I got you the dark roast. Figured you'd need it after your run."
Blake slid into the chair across from him. "Thanks."
"How far did you go?"
"I don't know. A few miles."
"You look flushed."
She touched her cheek. "It was cold out."
Craig nodded, oblivious, and went back to his phone. "So I was thinking—after breakfast, maybe we could drive into town? There's that gallery you wanted to check out. The one with the local artists."
"Sounds nice."
"And then maybe lunch at that place with the patio? The one that overlooks the lake?"
"Sure."
He looked up. Frowned. "You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You seem... off."
"I'm just tired." Blake wrapped her hands around the coffee mug, letting the heat seep into her fingers. "Didn't sleep great."
"Me neither." Craig reached across the table and covered her hand with his. "But hey—we've got the whole day. No meetings, no calls, no—"
"Craig?"
They both turned.
A tall man in a navy suit stood at the edge of their table, his hair graying at the temples, his smile polished and professional. Blake recognized him from the bonfire the night before—one of the senior partners from the Chicago office.
"Richard," Craig said, straightening. "Good morning."
"I'm sorry to interrupt." Richard glanced at Blake, then back at Craig. "But I've got a client in from New York. Big account. He's interested in expanding into the Midwest, and I mentioned your name."
Craig's eyebrows lifted. "You did?"
"I did." Richard's smile widened. "I know you've been doing good work. Thought this might be a chance to show what you can do."
Blake watched her husband's face transform. The fatigue melted away, replaced by something bright and hopeful—something she hadn't seen in months.
"That's—wow. Thank you, Richard."
"Don't thank me yet. It's a lunch meeting. Today. Two hours, maybe three. You in?"
Craig glanced at Blake. "I—"
"Go," she said.
"You sure? We had plans—"
"I'm sure." She squeezed his hand. "This is important."
Craig's smile was so grateful it made her chest ache. "Thank you," he said, and leaned over to kiss her cheek. "I'll make it up to you. I promise."
"Just go."
He stood, straightened his tie, and followed Richard out of the dining room. Blake watched him go—watched the way he walked a little taller, stood a little prouder. This was what she'd wanted. This was why she'd made the deal with Jack in the first place.
So why did it feel like a knife in her gut?
---
She wandered the lodge for an hour.
The gift shop. The lounge. The observation deck that overlooked the mountains, where a group of women in matching parkas took photos of the sunrise. Blake stood at the railing and let the cold wind bite her cheeks.
Her phone buzzed.
She didn't have to look. She knew who it was.
But she looked anyway.
Lunch. The Bellhaven Hotel. Noon. Don't be late.
She stared at the message for a long time.
Then she typed back: No.
His response came thirty seconds later: Yes.
I'm not doing this.
You are.
Why?
Because you want to.
She shoved the phone back into her pocket and walked away from the railing.
---
The Bellhaven Hotel sat at the edge of town, a grand old building of stone and ivy that had been converted into a boutique inn. Blake parked Craig's rental car in the lot and sat behind the wheel for ten minutes, arguing with herself.
She could leave. She could drive back to the lodge. She could pretend she'd never gotten the message.
But her legs were already moving.
The lobby was quiet. Marble floors, fresh flowers, a fire crackling in a hearth the size of a small car. The woman at the front desk looked up with a practiced smile.
"May I help you?"
"I'm meeting someone. Jack Linden."
The smile flickered—just for a second, just enough for Blake to notice. "Of course. He's in the private dining room. Through those doors, down the hall, last door on the left."
Blake walked.
The hallway was dim and quiet, lined with paintings of landscapes she didn't recognize. The last door on the left was slightly ajar. She pushed it open.
The room was draped in deep emerald velvet. Low-hanging chandeliers cast a golden haze over a table set with crystal and silver. The air smelled of whiskey and something else—something warm and masculine that made her stomach tighten.
Jack was already seated.
He didn't stand when she walked in. Just watched her with those storm-gray eyes, his expression unreadable.
"You came," he said.
"You knew I would."
"I hoped. Sit down, Blake."
She sat.
---
The food was exquisite.
Blake barely tasted it. She moved through the courses on autopilot—salad, then soup, then a seared fish that flaked apart under her fork. Jack ate with the same measured precision he did everything else, his attention fixed on her like a spotlight.
He didn't speak.
Neither did she.
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, until it felt like a third presence at the table. Blake could feel her pulse in her throat. Could feel the heat coiling low in her belly, the same heat that had been simmering since she'd woken up in that tent.
She hated him.
She wanted him.
Both things were true.
Jack set down his fork.
"You owe me," he said.
Blake's hand stilled on her wine glass. "What?"
"This morning. In the woods." His voice was calm, conversational—like he was discussing the weather. "I gave you something. Now I want something in return."
"That's not how this works."
"Isn't it?"
"No. You don't get to—" She stopped. Took a breath. "You don't get to keep collecting."
"I think I do." Jack leaned back in his chair, studying her. "You came here. You sat down. You ate my food and drank my wine and let me watch you, and now you're going to repay the favor."
Blake's jaw tightened. "You're an asshole."
"I've been called worse."
"I'm not sleeping with you."
"I didn't ask you to sleep with me."
She blinked.
Jack smiled—slow, predatory. "I want your mouth."
The words hung in the air between them.
"On my cock," he continued. "I want you on your knees. I want your lips wrapped around me. I want to come down your throat while you look up at me with those pretty green eyes."
Blake's heart was pounding. Her hands were shaking. She could feel the heat spreading through her, the slick warmth building between her thighs.
"And if I say no?"
"Then you walk out that door." Jack shrugged. "I won't stop you."
She should walk out.
She knew she should walk out.
But she didn't move.
Jack stood. He walked past her, toward the open door at the far end of the room—the one that led to a king-sized bed with sheets still rumpled from the last guest.
"You have thirty seconds," he said. "After that, I'll assume you've made your choice."
He didn't look back.
Blake stood on trembling legs and followed him.
---
The bedroom was smaller than the dining room, but no less luxurious. The bed dominated the space, its dark linens soft and inviting. A window overlooked the street below, but the curtains were drawn, casting the room in shadow.
Jack stood at the foot of the bed, watching her.
"On your knees," he said.
Blake sank to the floor.
The carpet was plush beneath her knees, soft against her bare skin. She looked up at him—at the man who had turned her life upside down in the span of a weekend—and waited.
Jack unbuttoned his shirt first.
Slow. Deliberate. He knew the effect it was having on her. He let the fabric fall, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the ridges of muscle, the trail of dark hair that led down his stomach.
Then his belt.
He unclasped it with a soft click, slid it through the loops, and dropped it to the floor.
Then his fly.
Blake swallowed.
His cock sprang free—thick, long, already hardening under her gaze. The head was flushed and smooth, the shaft veined and rigid. He was bigger than she remembered. Bigger than she'd expected.
"Go ahead," Jack said.
She reached for him.
Her fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, and she was surprised by the heat of it—the velvety softness of the skin, the steel beneath. She leaned forward, her breath warm against his tip, and brushed her lips over it.
Jack inhaled sharply.
Blake closed her eyes and took him into her mouth.
He tasted like salt and soap, clean and masculine. She ran her tongue along the underside of his shaft, tracing the thick vein that pulsed there, and was rewarded with a low groan. His hand found the back of her head, fingers tangling in her ponytail, but he didn't press. Didn't force.
He let her set the pace.
She licked him like she was savoring him. Long, slow strokes from base to tip, her tongue flat and wet. She circled the head with her lips, dipped her tongue into the slit, and felt his grip tighten in her hair.
"Fuck," he muttered.
Blake smiled around him.
She took him deeper, relaxing her throat, letting him slide further in. Her hand still gripped the base, stroking in time with the movements of her mouth. She could feel him throbbing against her tongue, could taste the salty pre-cum leaking from his tip.
"You're good at this," Jack said, his voice strained. "You've done this before."
She pulled off him with a wet pop. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't ruin it."
Jack laughed—a low, breathless sound. "Fair enough."
She went back to work.
Deeper this time. Slower. She bobbed her head, taking him all the way to the back of her throat, then pulled back until only the tip remained between her lips. She repeated the motion, again and again, until his hips began to move—small, involuntary thrusts that pushed him deeper each time.
His hand tightened in her hair.
"Christ, Blake."
She hummed in response, and the vibration made him groan.
She pulled off him long enough to lick her palm, then wrapped her wet hand around his shaft and stroked him while she kissed her way down his body. She nuzzled into the dark hair at the base of his cock and inhaled—musk and heat and something raw.
And then she moved lower.
Jack's breath caught.
She kissed his balls, one then the other, lapping at them with her tongue. She sucked one into her mouth, rolling it gently, while her hand continued to work his cock.
"You're killing me," he whispered.
Blake released him with a wet sound and looked up. "Shut up."
She pushed his legs apart.
He let her.
She ducked her head lower, past his balls, to the tight ring of muscle behind them. She could smell him—musky and male, the scent of sweat and sex. She hesitated for only a second.
Then she ran her tongue over his asshole.
Jack jerked like he'd been electrocuted.
"Fuck—"
She did it again. Slow, deliberate strokes of her tongue, circling the tight pucker. She could feel him tensing beneath her, could hear the ragged sound of his breathing. Her hand never stopped moving on his cock.
"You little—" His voice broke. "Where did you learn that?"
Blake didn't answer. She just pushed her tongue against him, pressing, probing, working her way inside the way he had done to her that morning.
Jack's hand fisted in her hair.
"Daddy," she whispered against his skin.
The word hit him like a punch.
"Say it again."
"Daddy."
He groaned—a deep, guttural sound that seemed to come from somewhere primal.
Blake smiled and went back to work.
She licked him until he was shaking, until his thighs trembled beneath her hands, until his groans turned into something close to desperate. Then she sat back on her heels and looked up at him.
"Turn around," she said.
Jack stared at her. "What?"
"You heard me."
For a long moment, he didn't move. She could see the war playing out behind his eyes—the need for control battling against something hungrier. Something that wanted to surrender.
Then he turned.
He braced his hands against the edge of the bed, his back to her, his legs spread. Blake stood, kicked off her jeans, and knelt behind him.
She took his cock in her hand again and stroked him while she pressed her mouth to his ass.
Jack swore.
She worked him with her tongue while her hand moved on his cock—fast, relentless, the way she knew he needed. She could feel him straining toward release, could feel the tension coiling in his body.
"Don't stop," he gasped. "Fuck, don't—"
She didn't.
She pushed her tongue deeper, flicking and probing, while her hand pumped his cock with brutal efficiency. She could hear the wet sounds of her mouth, the slap of her palm against his flesh, the broken sounds falling from his lips.
"I'm gonna—" He broke off. "Blake, I'm—"
She pulled back just in time.
Jack came with a roar, his body convulsing, his release splashing across the sheets and his own stomach. Rope after rope of hot, thick cum, until his knees buckled and he had to grip the bed to stay upright.
Blake watched him shake.
But she wasn't done.
She moved around him, dropping to her knees in front of him again. His cock was still hard, still twitching, slick with his own release. She took him into her mouth without preamble.
Jack shouted.
"Sensitive—fuck—Blake—"
She didn't stop.
She sucked him hard, her tongue working the underside of his shaft, her hand cupping his balls. She could taste his cum, salty and bitter, and it only made her hungrier.
"Please," he gasped. "Please, I can't—"
She looked up at him.
His eyes were wild. His chest was heaving. His composure—that ironclad, arrogant control—was completely gone.
She pulled off him just long enough to whisper: "You can. And you will."
Then she took him deep again.
It didn't take long.
Jack's second orgasm tore through him like a storm. His back arched, his head fell back, and a sound ripped from his throat that was almost a sob. His hips bucked, driving himself deeper into her mouth, and she swallowed everything he gave her.
When he finally collapsed onto the bed, gasping for air, Blake stood.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Jack lay sprawled across the rumpled sheets, his chest heaving, his eyes closed. Cum streaked his stomach. His cock was still half-hard against his thigh.
She found her jeans and pulled them on.
"Where are you going?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"Back to my husband."
He laughed—weak, breathless. "You're something else, you know that?"
Blake walked to the door.
"Blake."
She stopped.
"I'll see you tonight."
She didn't turn around.
"I don't think so."
"Oh, I think so." Jack's voice was soft, almost gentle. "You're not done with me yet. And I'm definitely not done with you."
She walked out the door.
She didn't run this time.
She walked slowly, deliberately, past the dining room and down the hall. Past the front desk and the woman who wouldn't meet her eyes. Out into the cold, gray afternoon.
Her phone buzzed.
Craig: Meeting going great. Hope you're having fun. Love you.
She stared at the screen for a long moment.
Then she typed back: Love you too.
And she drove back to the lodge with Jack's taste still on her tongue and the weight of what she'd done pressing down on her chest like a stone.