Page 56 of Under Southern Stars
“Of course I kept them,” I manage, voice slightly higher. “I’ll scan them after this call.”
“Also,” Troy leans forward, and I spot Tiffany doing yoga in the background, “about that New Zealand trip—seems extravagant for a paramedic’s salary. Have you considered the tax implications? International travel with a minor? My accountant says—”
Jack groans softly into me, a low, muffled “fuuuccckkkk”. The vibration makes my whole body clench. I disguise it as a cough.
Troy cocks his head, and glances at the screen. “You alright? You look flushed.”
“Fine,” I say tightly. “Air conditioning’s off.”
“Right.” He keeps talking. Something about not claiming the dependent credit two years in a row.
I feel heat build low in my belly, blooming outward, a slow-burn ache I’ve been holding at bay all week. Jack’s tongue flicks in tight, perfect patterns—he’s learned me too well.
“Well, make sure they’re legible this time. Your last scans were atrocious. And Sophia? Maybe consider Costa Rica instead. More…appropriate.”
Jack’s rhythm intensifies. He knows I’m close. The wonderful, terrible bastard.
The pressure coils tighter, a spark snapping along every nerve. My thighs tremble. My toes curl inside my socks. I taste actual blood. I’ve bitten the inside of my lip so hard trying not to scream. If I come now, it’ll be a full-body blackout.
One more second. Just one more—
“Got it, Troy. Legible scans. Within the hour. Bye.”
I slam the laptop shut just as the orgasm crashes over me like a dam breaking, sudden and uncontrollable. I throw my head back, biting down a scream, one hand slamming against the desk for balance. Jack doesn’t let up. He rides it out with me, coaxing every last tremor until I’m breathless and boneless, collapsed into the chair like I’ve run a marathon.
“fffffFFFFUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKKKK!”
There’s a beat of silence. Then he emerges from under the desk, looking smug and completely unrepentant.
“Still mad I didn’t leave?” he asks innocently, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
I stare at him, panting, then a wicked smile spreads across my face. “Almost, McKenzie. Almost.” I slide from the chair. “But now it’s my turn.”
His eyes darken as I stare at him evilly. “Soph—”
“Quiet,” I command, already working at his jeans. “You made me keep composure for Troy. Let’s see how you handle reciprocal stress relief.”
He looks at me, confused. I grab him by the collar of his stupidly soft t-shirt and march us both toward the couch like I’m triaging a trauma patient—decisive, focused, clinically aroused.
“Couch. Now.”
His grin is full wattage. “Yes, ma’am. Should I be worried?”
“Deeply.”
He drops onto the couch with a thump, legs spread, arms wide, watching me with a mixture of anticipation and open admiration. Still a little breathless from earlier, but cocky as hell.
Not for long.
I straddle him without preamble, knees on either side of his hips, pressing my weight down until I feel him—already hard, of course—underneath me.
“You’ve been smug since you brought that coffee,” I say, my hands sliding under his shirt. “So you tell me, Mr. McKenzie. Do smug paramedics deserve rewards?”
His breath hitches slightly. “I think they deserve…further evaluation.”
I lean in close, lips brushing his ear. “You want to be quiet under the table and test my composure? Let’s see howyoudo.”
I slide off his lap, kneel between his legs, and tug at his sweatpants. He lifts his hips without hesitation, no protest, no instructions. Just trust. And hunger.
