Page 90 of Jensen

This would be a lot easier if I had Jack, or maybe the boys from Sovereign Mountain. But I don’t. I’m on my own.

This is my test, I think. Brothers, in all his biblical literacy, would call it my forty days in the desert. I call it figuring some shit out, but it’s all the same thing in the end.

Either way, I’ll have some sons of bitches in body bags, and she’ll have her kid back.

And then, maybe, I get to keep her.

“Please, Jensen,” she whispers, taking me by the front of my shirt just as I’m walking out the door to leave. “I can help. I lived there for five years.”

I pause, looking at her face, knowing she’s right. She’s been less uppity with me since I fucked her on the kitchen floor. Not less sassy, though—I think that’s there for good. But somewhere in the pain and Crisco, we established a new level of respect.

“Beg a little harder, baby, and I might come,” I say.

“God, you’re just the worst,” she snaps.

My dick is hard, riding up on my zipper uncomfortably. I study her perfect face, the curve of her lower lip, down to her t-shirt, to her jeans. Her shirt shows a little bit of her belly, and between that and her waistband, sits a hint of pink lace. There’s a subtle eroticism about her, even when she’s not trying. It drives me fucking wild.

It’s no wonder Leland did everything he could to get and keep her.

“I’m serious,” I say.

Her brow arches.

“Go bend over the table,” I say. “You want to go? Pay up for it.”

“You’re such an asshole,” she breathes.

I lean in, taking the braid falling down her back and wrapping it once around my knuckles.

“You can always say no,” I say, mouth almost on hers. “But you won’t.”

Her jaw works. Her arousal is subtle. It’s in the deepening of her breath. The faint flush on her neck. The little rise of her nipples tightening beneath her shirt. Between her thighs, I know she’s wet.

“Bend over the table and take your jeans down,” I say quietly.

She goes, turning her back to me. My dick throbs as she undoes the front of her jeans. Her thumbs hook in the belt loops. I ache as she hesitates.

“Go on,” I order.

She drags them down to the middle of her thighs, ass wriggling. She’s wearing a pale pink thong riding up the curve of her hips. Slowly, she bends, spreading her ass as she lays her cheek against the table top.

I’m so desperate. I want to fuck, taste, hurt this woman to please her, make her come from all the dirty things I do to her perfect body.

I go to her and lean over her body, sliding my groin up against her ass. Fuck, that feels good. My head goes blank as I grind my zipper on her, running my left hand to the nape of her neck.

She wants it.

I lift her t-shirt up over her head and unfasten her bra, pushing them away. She whimpers as I trace down her spine, pushing back. There’s a wet spot from her cunt on the front of my pants. I can smell it; sweet, laced with pheromones and Della. It’s a scent that makes me want to do reckless things.

Like call her mine.

Or find Leland this afternoon, look him in the eyes, tell him I just fucked his wife in the ass, and then put a bullet in his head.

If only it were that simple.

When I wrap her braid around my knuckles again, she moans and arches her back. I peel her panties down. Her pussy is a little swollen, glistening with arousal. I run my thumb briefly over it—I don’t want it to be too wet. Then, I spread her open and circle her asshole, where I fucked her last. She’s beautiful there. Tight, responsive.

“You tell me to stop if you need to,” I rasp.