He sits up, his breath hot against my ear. “I’m going to get you nice and clean,” he rumbles. “And then I’m going to fuck you so hard my load will be leaking out of you all day.”
If he weren’t holding me in place on his lap, I’d be face-planting on the floor right now.
This could be a monumentally bad idea.
Then again, so was bringing him a coffee.
So was staying on his lap.
So was kissing him.
I’m past the point of doing the logical thing, so if I’m going to throw caution to the wind, why not go all in?
I run my finger down his jawline. “What the fuck are you waiting for, Maverick? A permission slip?”
I scooch off his lap, push myself up, and extend my arm. He rolls his chair back and leaps to his feet. Instead of taking my hand, he scoops down and lifts me up. An undignifiedoomphtumbles out of my mouth as he adjusts how he’s holding me and carries me bridal-style toward the bathroom.
“You’ve got a filthy mouth, Jackson,” he grunts. “Good thing I knowexactlywhat to do with it.”
25
Maverick
“Michael Jackson!” Sammy’s voice echoes in the air as he hurtles across the grass to Jackson, who, like always, has no clue how to respond to the bundle of energy rocketing toward him.
“Hey, buddy. Glad to see you’re doing better,” he says, patting the top of Sammy’s head while Sammy clings to his leg. It’s been two weeks since the little dude and Wagner came down with strep throat, but it’s the first time he’s seeing Sammy since then.
I smile apologetically at Jackson, who looks great as always in his work getup of dirty jeans, dirty shirt, and dirty boots. The dirtier he is, the more chances it gives me to get him nice and clean in my shower before planting my seed deep inside him. He’s paid me a visit twice more in the week since our first bathroom encounter, and I’m not mad about it at all.
He’s standing rigid with Sammy plastered to his leg. “Sorry about that,” I say to him, then turn my attention to Sammy. “Remember how we talked about respecting people’s physical boundaries?”
“Oh yeah.” Sammy leaps off Jackson’s leg like it’s radioactive and raises his rosy cheeks up to him. “Sorry, Michael Jackson.”
“And enough with the name, kiddo.”
Sammy looks confused. “But that’s what Dad calls him.”
Another apologetic smile. Sammy’s not the only one with rosy cheeks now. “That’s because your dad is a shi—never mind. Come here.” I crouch down, and Sammy approaches me. “That name is slightly problematic for reasons I’ll explain to you when you’re much older.” Sammy nods along like he knowsexactlywhat I mean. “Try this name instead.”
I whisper the name into Sammy’s ear, and he lets out a giggle. “Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
Sammy turns, marches back to Jackson, his arms swinging wildly, and lifts his chin to look up at the guy. “Hey there…” He’s even got the dramatic pause down pat. “Janet Jackson.”
Sammy erupts in more giggles as Jackson shakes his head, grinning, even though I suspect he’d rather not be.
“That’s super dumb,” he tells me.
“I know,” I reply with a smile, then stand up. “Want to join us?”
“Join you?”
“Uncle Kick and I are going on a picnic,” Sammy exclaims, bouncing on his toes as he shares the news. He lifts his hand to his mouth and whispers while trying to contain his giggles, “Dad thinks we brought healthy food,” then starts squealing with laughter.
Jackson glances at the picnic basket I’m holding. “I take it there’s nothing healthy in there.”
“Do fruit-flavored gummies count?”
