The room was alive with breathy tension—bare skin, flushed cheeks, low moans filling the air like thunder before a storm. Jack stepped forward, his eyes locked on Whitney. Her body was still glistening from the touches of Darla and Chasity, but now her hunger was squarely aimed at him.
Whitney leaned back against the bed, hair mussed, lips parted. “You’ve been standing there watching long enough,” she said, voice hoarse with desire. “Your turn.”
Jack didn’t hesitate. He moved in like gravity had shifted, like every step he took belonged to her. His hands found her hips, gripping her firmly, and in one sharp movement, she gasped—back arching, thighs parting in anticipation. Her breath hitched as Jack pressed against her, hard, hot, and fully focused.
Darla and Chasity lingered nearby, still tangled with each other, but now watching with interest, lips parted, eyes wide. Chasity bit her lip. “She can handle it,” she whispered.
Whitney could more than handle it.
Jack moved fast, not wasting time on teasing. Whitney met him with equal force—nails in his back, hips lifting to meet his thrusts, moaning without shame. Her head tilted back, mouth open as her body bucked beneath him, each movement rougher, hotter, until her breath turned into broken cries. Her hands clutched the sheets. Her legs tightened around him.
Then—
She let out a loud, shuddering gasp, her entire body trembling in his grasp, chest heaving as a wave of release crashed over her. She dug her heels into the mattress, riding it out, clinging to him until her breath slowed.
Jack leaned over her, sweat slicked down his spine, his voice a low growl in her ear. “You needed that.”
Whitney, eyes barely able to focus, smiled with a lazy nod. “You don’t miss.”
Behind them, Darla and Chasity were already crawling closer, hands roaming, lips searching. Whitney reached for them both, pulling them into the heat.
Jack stepped back slightly, breath still hard, watching the three of them begin to move together again—bodies melting into each other like they belonged.
The storm hadn’t passed.
It had only just begun.
The sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows through Jack’s bedroom window. The air in the room was thick—muggy with body heat, the faint scent of perfume and skin, a symphony of satisfied breaths and soft murmurs.
Chasity lay stretched out across the rumpled sheets, her glowing skin rising and falling in slow, contented waves. One hand rested gently on her belly, the other tangled in Darla’s hair as the older woman nestled lazily against her side, drawing circles over Chasity’s thigh with her fingers. They both looked dazed—spent, happy, drunk on lust and the warmth of it all.
Whitney was still on her back, chest bare, her jeans halfway pulled up but unzipped, her tank top forgotten somewhere near the foot of the bed. Her golden skin still shimmered with the faint sheen of their sweat. Jack stood beside the bed, tucking himself back into the loose-fitting jeans he’d finally slid on. His muscles flexed with each move, his skin kissed by the last golden beams of light cutting through the blinds.
A soft chime sounded from Chasity’s phone across the room.
She stirred. “Oh—damn,” she muttered, blinking as she grabbed the screen and squinted. “It’s almost four… Grandma’s expecting me before dinner.” She turned to the others, cheeks still flushed but now tinged with a guilty smile. “I was supposed to help peel potatoes.”
Darla stretched and yawned, her curves spilling beneath the sheet she’d half-pulled over herself. “Same. Todd gets off work at five. If he catches even a whiff of what I’ve been up to…” she trailed off with a wicked grin, “he’ll want in next time.”
Whitney chuckled, sitting up and pulling her jeans the rest of the way on. “Sounds like a few of y’all have a habit of forgetting about your husbands.”
Chasity raised a finger playfully. “Technically not married. Just pregnant. That gives me loopholes.”
Jack smirked, standing in the doorway now, arms crossed. “You’ve all got your stories. Just don’t get sloppy about them.”
Darla slid out of bed, brushing by Jack on her way to gather her bra. “You act like we haven’t done this before.”
He watched her go, his voice low. “I act like I know how messy it can get when someone talks too much.”
She gave him a wink as she snapped the strap into place. “Don’t worry, Jack. We know the rules.”
A quiet scramble followed—clothes thrown on, hair finger-combed, lipstick dabbed and mascara wiped. Whitney helped Chasity down the hall, the younger woman still a bit wobbly, flushed with afterglow and giggling under her breath.
Jack stood at the front door with them, watching as Darla slipped on her heels and leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Same time next week?” she murmured.
“We’ll see,” Jack replied.
Chasity looked over her shoulder. “Thanks for the… hospitality.”
Jack grinned. “Anytime.”
The door closed behind them, leaving the house suddenly quiet—almost unnaturally so after hours of chaos and moaning and laughter. Whitney lingered by the window, peeking through the blinds as the other two women walked down the sidewalk, adjusting their hair and tugging at their tops like nothing had happened.
She turned back to Jack. “That’s… wild. They just go home like it was book club.”
Jack chuckled. “They’ve had practice.”
Whitney walked toward him, her bare feet padding against the floor. “You ever fix anything besides… them?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Depends. Something broken?”
Whitney smirked, reaching into her back pocket and producing a set of keys. “My truck. Remember? That’s why I came.”
Jack nodded toward the side door. “Let’s take a look then.”
The sun was dipping lower now, streaking the sky with warm oranges and dusky purples. Jack followed Whitney out to the gravel drive where her old Ford pickup sat under the shade of an oak. The hood was still popped. Tools clinked faintly from the open box in the bed.
Whitney leaned over the engine compartment, pointing. “Wouldn’t start this morning. I got it to crank once, then nothing. Think it’s the starter, but I didn’t wanna get under it alone.”
Jack leaned in beside her, the heat of his body brushing hers. He smelled like clean sweat and skin. “Battery connections are corroded. You clean these lately?”
She gave him a look. “Do I look like someone who cleans anything?”
Jack grabbed a wrench and started loosening the clamps. “No, you look like someone who gets their hands dirty and doesn’t apologize for it.”
She stepped back, folding her arms as she watched him work. “You always this good with your hands?”
Jack didn’t look up. “You tell me.”
A pause hung between them—thick, electric. Then he stood, brushing his palms together.
“Try the key,” he said.
Whitney climbed into the cab, turned the ignition—rum-rum-VROOM. The engine roared to life like a beast waking up.
She leaned out the window, grinning. “Jack Johnson, you’re a damn miracle worker.”
He walked to her window and leaned one forearm on the door, face close. “Next time,” he said, “you don’t need a broken truck to come see me.”
Whitney’s smile softened just a little—still teasing, but there was something behind her eyes now. A flicker of something deeper.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said. “But maybe next time… you still check under the hood.”
Jack’s grin widened. “Deal.”
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