Jack stepped back just enough to let the warm air from inside drift out into the sunlit porch.

Whitney tilted her head, peering past him. “Did I… catch you at a bad time?”

Jack smirked, crossing his arms over his bare chest, towel still slung low around his hips. “Not bad. Just… personal.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That a no to the truck?”

“It’s a not yet,” Jack said smoothly. “Come in. You drove here, might as well cool off a minute.”

Whitney didn’t hesitate. She stepped through the door with a quiet confidence, boots thudding lightly on the hardwood floor. She smelled like heat and motor oil and something faintly sweet—like vanilla mixed with gasoline.

Her eyes did a slow sweep of the living room. Pillows slightly askew, a towel on the floor near the hall. The faint trace of laughter from the back room, too quiet to make out clearly, but unmistakably feminine.

Whitney cocked a half-smile. “Busy, huh.”

Jack closed the door behind her. “I like to keep my hands full.”

She turned to face him fully now, arms crossed again, leaning her hip against the kitchen island. “So what kind of ‘hands-on’ work are you doing in the middle of the afternoon wrapped in a towel?”

Jack walked past her slowly, letting the question hang in the air like steam still clinging to his skin. He picked up his half-empty glass of water, took a sip, and set it down again.

“I could show you,” he said casually, “or you could use your imagination.”

Whitney let out a low, amused breath. “Oh, I’ve got an imagination.” Her eyes slid toward the hallway, where faint giggling echoed once more, this time followed by the sound of a soft, breathy moan.

She met Jack’s gaze again. “You always entertain company like this?”

Jack stepped closer, just enough to bridge that electric little gap. “Only when the company’s worth it.”

Whitney’s smirk deepened. “You saying I’m worth it?”

He looked her over slowly—tight jeans hugging her thick thighs, the tank top still clinging damply to her curves, her arms dusted in grease. She looked wild, confident, like someone who wasn’t used to hearing “no” and wouldn’t care if she did.

“I think,” Jack said low, “you came to the right house.”

From down the hallway, Darla’s voice suddenly called out, a playful sing-song, “Jack? You left your towel in here…”

Whitney’s eyebrows lifted again. “Should I be jealous… or impressed?”

Jack just grinned. “Why not both?”

Whitney stepped forward, just a breath away now, her hand brushing against his bare abdomen. “If you’re gonna keep me waiting on that truck,” she murmured, “you might as well show me what kind of tune-ups you’re really good at.”

Whitney’s hand lingered on Jack’s stomach just a moment too long before she pulled it away with a smirk, her eyes drifting once more down the hallway. Another soft giggle slipped from behind the half-closed bedroom door… followed by something else. A low, throaty moan. Then another. Rhythmic.

She raised her eyebrows, clearly amused. “Sounds like your afternoon is still in progress.”

Jack gave a slow shrug, unbothered. “They got a second wind.”

Whitney looked him over, lips parted like she was about to ask more… but instead, another unmistakable sound floated out—Chasity, breathless and gasping, her voice thick with pleasure. Then came Darla’s soft laughter, husky and teasing, followed by the creak of the bed frame.

Whitney blinked. “That… definitely sounded like two women.”

Jack just smiled.

She stepped back a half step, hands on her hips. “Okay, either I’m dreaming or I’ve officially entered the most interesting house on the block.”

“You asked around,” Jack said, moving toward the hallway. “Everyone told you I fix things. But they probably didn’t tell you about the other kind of tension I’m good at relieving.”

Whitney crossed her arms again, but this time the cocky edge in her stance gave way to something else—curiosity, heat.

Jack held out his hand. “Come see for yourself.”

She hesitated. Just a beat. Then she slid her hand into his, her boot heels echoing softly as she followed him down the hall. The closer they got, the louder the sounds became. Breathy moans, skin against skin, a giggle, then a drawn-out gasp that could’ve only come from Chasity.

Jack pushed the door open gently.

Inside, the room was bathed in golden light. Chasity was on her back, her pregnant belly rising and falling with each breath, her skin flushed and glowing. Darla was between her thighs, kissing her softly, hands roaming, completely focused on making her sing.

Neither of them noticed Jack at first.

Not until Whitney let out a soft, involuntary breath.

Darla looked up, her mouth glistening, her expression warm but mischievous.

“Well,” she said with a smirk, “looks like Jack brought dessert.”

Chasity, head thrown back against the pillow, blinked slowly and turned her gaze toward the door, eyes lidded with bliss.

Whitney stood in place, hand still in Jack’s, not moving—but her breathing had changed. She wasn’t shocked. She wasn’t offended. She was fascinated.

Jack leaned in, voice low in her ear. “Still want me to look at that truck?”

Whitney swallowed, watching Darla slide up Chasity’s body to kiss her.

“I think,” she said softly, “it can wait.”

Whitney stood at the edge of the doorway, eyes wide but dark with hunger as she watched Darla press her lips to Chasity’s neck, her hand slipping over the swell of Chasity’s pregnant belly, fingers teasing downward again. The room was heady with the scent of sex, the heat of bodies, the soft gasps and wet sounds that echoed like music.

Jack leaned against the doorframe beside Whitney, arms crossed over his chest, still in nothing but his towel. He didn’t speak—he didn’t have to. Whitney’s breathing told him everything. Her body was shifting toward the room without her even realizing it.

Chasity turned her head, hair fanned across the pillow. She blinked lazily at Whitney, her lips parted, flushed and glowing. “You… can come in, y’know,” she whispered, her voice thick, inviting.

Darla turned too, wiping the corner of her mouth, her tongue flicking out over her lips as she gave Whitney an approving once-over. “She looks like she needs to unwind.”

Jack looked over at Whitney. “You want it?” he asked simply.

Whitney didn’t answer with words. She stepped into the room slowly, her boots heavy on the carpet. Her hands went to the hem of her grease-streaked tank top, and in one fluid motion, she peeled it off over her head. Her full breasts spilled free, nipples already tight. No bra, no hesitation. She kicked off her boots next, then unbuttoned her jeans and slid them down her hips, revealing a simple black thong stretched over her round ass and thick thighs.

Darla whistled softly. “Damn, girl…”

Whitney grinned, walking to the bed with confidence now, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder. She crawled up between the two women, her body still warm from the sun and the lingering rush of her arrival. She kissed Chasity first—slow, testing—then again, deeper, until Chasity let out a soft moan and arched into her.

Darla leaned in and began kissing along Whitney’s shoulder, her hands sliding down to squeeze her hips. The three of them melted together like they’d done this before, each one falling into rhythm, heat building in layers.

Jack’s towel was still on, his arms folded, watching as Whitney’s moans joined the chorus. She had Chasity’s breasts in her hands, mouth teasing, tongue flicking, while Darla’s fingers explored her from behind, coaxing a low, desperate gasp from her throat.

Chasity was trembling again already, her body ultra-sensitive in this state, and Whitney’s lips on her belly made her cry out—legs quivering, hips lifting, and then… a sudden gush of warmth between her thighs. She squirted again, helplessly, her body overwhelmed.

Whitney laughed softly in surprise, licking her lips. “Damn, I knew you were close, but—”

“She’s a fountain,” Darla giggled. “Jack gets her there a lot.”

Whitney turned her head, eyes locking with Jack’s from across the room.

She was panting, her skin slick with sweat now. “Still just gonna watch, or are you coming over here to help me finish what I started?”

Jack let the towel fall. No more words needed.

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Chasity’s Page
Whitney’s Page