didn’t try to prove their intellectual superiority the way other women—especially those from Northern California—did. He was perfectly aware that Sally often got what she wanted from him. But she did it with some subtlety.
Tonight, as always, she’d arrived and parked in the back, then made herself as comfortable in his kitchen as she would’ve in her own. She’d prepared one of her superb dinners. “Oh, this is nothin’ but a little fried chicken and taters,” she’d said, spooning that delicious gravy into a cradle of the smoothest mashed potatoes he’d ever tasted.
She’s good. She knows it. She makes no fuss about it
.
She’d kept him at bay while she cooked, slipping out from under his embraces with little giggles and excuses about his getting himself burned. But it was after dinner now, and he knew she was expecting him to make his move.
“Well,” she said. It sounded more like
wail
. “Shall we have some coffee in the livin’ room?”
He considered the coffee idea for a moment, and knew it would be good. But already he had a taste for something else. He pushed himself back from the table, the chair making a loud scraping noise on the hardwood floor. Sally looked up, slightly startled. The faintly alarmed look in her eyes sparked his need.
He stood quickly, closing the distance between himself and where she stood busying herself with silverware. He liked the fact that he could still move with surprising agility for a man his size. In one step he loomed behind her. His arm circled herwaist, and he lifted her off the floor.
She gasped as he lock-stepped her past the sofa and down the hall. “Jack,” she spoke with difficulty, “just hold your horses now.”
He chuckled at her quaint little expression.
“Jack, couldn’t I even take off my apron?”
By then, he’d shuffled her into the bedroom. He threw himself backwards onto the bed, still holding her against him.
“Oooh!” Sally was winded by the fall, and they both began to laugh.
“Yes, you can take off your apron, Sally.” He kept his voice low and seductive, a rasping whisper to tickle her ear, his tone both inviting and menacing. He liked the notion of scaring her slightly, using it to push her over the edge into passion.
He got up and stood over her. Sally lay on the bed looking up at him, waiting. He stared into her eyes while he removed his shirt. Then he started on her clothes, rolling her to untie the apron sash, pulling off her skirt and blouse. Sally said nothing, submitting to the moment, and to the man.
When they were naked, she closed her eyes. “Jack, Jack…” she murmured softly. To Jack it sounded almost like “Jake,” but he liked the sound of it. She arched her head back now, and he could see she was enjoying herself. It excited him further, until he could no longer contain himself.
Sally O’Mally held Jack, understanding, if not sharing, the intensity. She wasn’t surprised when Jack immediately fell into a heavy sleep, still on top of her.
His lovemaking had been gruff, but earnest. She clutched a corner of the sheet and tried to see his face, but it was tooclose, and the room too dark. She enjoyed the excitement of Jack, the raw masculinity. It reminded her she was a woman.
But I still don’t really know how much he cares
.
Turning her head, she looked toward his bureau, a slice of it visible in the moonlight slanting through the window.
That single wooden box still sits on top of it. No pictures. No knick-knacks
.
She lay there wondering how long she could continue breathing under Jack’s weight, and yet she hated to wake him. She remembered the first time she’d slept with him, how she hadn’t felt the weight of a man in so long she’d almost forgotten the sensation, and had welcomed even the discomfort of it.
As quietly as she could, she edged out from under him and drifted into sleep.
Jack Sawyer stirred, unsure how long he’d slept. He pushed up onto one elbow and looked at the angled
Tonight, as always, she’d arrived and parked in the back, then made herself as comfortable in his kitchen as she would’ve in her own. She’d prepared one of her superb dinners. “Oh, this is nothin’ but a little fried chicken and taters,” she’d said, spooning that delicious gravy into a cradle of the smoothest mashed potatoes he’d ever tasted.
She’s good. She knows it. She makes no fuss about it
.
She’d kept him at bay while she cooked, slipping out from under his embraces with little giggles and excuses about his getting himself burned. But it was after dinner now, and he knew she was expecting him to make his move.
“Well,” she said. It sounded more like
wail
. “Shall we have some coffee in the livin’ room?”
He considered the coffee idea for a moment, and knew it would be good. But already he had a taste for something else. He pushed himself back from the table, the chair making a loud scraping noise on the hardwood floor. Sally looked up, slightly startled. The faintly alarmed look in her eyes sparked his need.
He stood quickly, closing the distance between himself and where she stood busying herself with silverware. He liked the fact that he could still move with surprising agility for a man his size. In one step he loomed behind her. His arm circled herwaist, and he lifted her off the floor.
She gasped as he lock-stepped her past the sofa and down the hall. “Jack,” she spoke with difficulty, “just hold your horses now.”
He chuckled at her quaint little expression.
“Jack, couldn’t I even take off my apron?”
By then, he’d shuffled her into the bedroom. He threw himself backwards onto the bed, still holding her against him.
“Oooh!” Sally was winded by the fall, and they both began to laugh.
“Yes, you can take off your apron, Sally.” He kept his voice low and seductive, a rasping whisper to tickle her ear, his tone both inviting and menacing. He liked the notion of scaring her slightly, using it to push her over the edge into passion.
He got up and stood over her. Sally lay on the bed looking up at him, waiting. He stared into her eyes while he removed his shirt. Then he started on her clothes, rolling her to untie the apron sash, pulling off her skirt and blouse. Sally said nothing, submitting to the moment, and to the man.
When they were naked, she closed her eyes. “Jack, Jack…” she murmured softly. To Jack it sounded almost like “Jake,” but he liked the sound of it. She arched her head back now, and he could see she was enjoying herself. It excited him further, until he could no longer contain himself.
Sally O’Mally held Jack, understanding, if not sharing, the intensity. She wasn’t surprised when Jack immediately fell into a heavy sleep, still on top of her.
His lovemaking had been gruff, but earnest. She clutched a corner of the sheet and tried to see his face, but it was tooclose, and the room too dark. She enjoyed the excitement of Jack, the raw masculinity. It reminded her she was a woman.
But I still don’t really know how much he cares
.
Turning her head, she looked toward his bureau, a slice of it visible in the moonlight slanting through the window.
That single wooden box still sits on top of it. No pictures. No knick-knacks
.
She lay there wondering how long she could continue breathing under Jack’s weight, and yet she hated to wake him. She remembered the first time she’d slept with him, how she hadn’t felt the weight of a man in so long she’d almost forgotten the sensation, and had welcomed even the discomfort of it.
As quietly as she could, she edged out from under him and drifted into sleep.
Jack Sawyer stirred, unsure how long he’d slept. He pushed up onto one elbow and looked at the angled
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