Page 56 of High Velocity

I grew up in a household and worked in an environment where real men weren’t supposed to show any emotion, which was considered a show of weakness. Heck, even as a girl and woman I was judged, which is how I developed a hard shell and learned to swallow any emotions, not allowing them any daylight. There might have even been a time I subscribed to that way of thinking, but not anymore.

I’ve come to believe—and today even more so—stoic endurance is not a sign of strength, but of cowardice. Hiding your feelings behind a straight mask is not a show of resilience, but rather one of fear. We need courage to express honest emotions, and gain strength when we pick ourselves up after.

The last thing I do is prep the coffee machine so all I have to do tomorrow morning is flip the switch, before I walk over to the couch.

“Come to bed?”

I hold out my hand, which Jackson grabs in his as he stands up and follows me into the bedroom.

“Be right back,” I tell him, slipping into the bathroom.

When I come out, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed wearing a gray pair of boxer briefs, releasing his prosthesis from his leg. One look at his face tells me he likes what he sees. Deciding to walk out buck-ass naked is new for me. Seduction is not really my thing, nor is it really the objective, but I wanted to reward the trust he showed me tonight with my own vulnerability.

Sure, he’s seen me naked, in parts, but tonight I’m offering myself up to his scrutiny. I’m far from perfect; my breasts are too small, my thighs too thick, and I have swimmer’s shoulders. He can probably see the stubble on my legs from where he’s sitting, because I haven’t shaved in a week.

Yet, with the way his eyes stroke my body from the top of my head to my toes, he makes me feel beautiful. Desirable. When he motions me over, creating a V between his leg and his stump for me to fit, I don’t hesitate.

My arms instinctively wrap around his head and shoulders when he presses his face into my soft belly and his hands reach behind me to grab hold of my ass.

“Fuck, you feel so good, Hotshot. Perfect.”

He gives my belly button a leisurely lick before tilting his head back, his dark eyes sparkling as his fingertips slide down my butt crease.

“Taste amazing too,” he mumbles as he dips his fingers between my folds, finding me already wet. “I want more. I want you to climb on my face.”

As he lies back on the bed, he pulls me with him, and I let him arrange me until I’m kneeling on the bed, poised over his head. I’m vacillating between self-consciousness and lust as I look down in his eyes. Then, as he locks me in his focus, he pulls me down on his hot mouth.

I close my eyes, drop my head back, and let myself be swept off by a tsunami of sensations, as his talented lips, tongue, and fingers make my body sing. He’s all that keeps me grounded when I come so hard, it feels like I scatter with the force.

He eases out from under my collapsed body and kisses his way up my back, until I can feel his lips pressing against the shell of my ear.

“Stay just like this,” he whispers.

I’m still on my knees, my body slumped forward—ass up and face pressed into a pillow—when I feel his hands on my hips a moment later. Then I feel a light pressure as he brushes the blunt head of his cock along my crease, before sliding inside me in a slow but firm stroke.

Still a little swollen and sensitized from the earlier onslaught of his mouth, Jackson is gentle as he makes love to me. This time when I feel my orgasm crest, it’s a rolling wave instead of a wild tsunami.

The last thing I remember is Jackson rolling us to our sides, his body curved around me from behind. I feel warm and safe, and fall asleep almost instantly.

“Wake up! Stephanie!”

Something acrid fills my lungs as I try to force my eyes open. I’m already being pulled from the bed and am disoriented as my mind tries to grasp what is going on.

“Fire,” Jackson’s voice sounds close to my ear.

Just like that, I’m wide awake, and now I can hear it, even if I can’t see a hand in front of my eyes.

“We have to go out the window.”

“Ash,” I rasp, before launching into a coughing fit.

“He’s here. You first, then I’ll lift him out.”

Jackson sounds hoarse himself as I instinctively follow the flow of cold air to the window. I grab the ledge and with his help, hoist myself outside, landing hard. That’s when I notice I’m still naked, but I don’t have time to worry about it, because already Jackson is lifting the dog through the window.

I can smell singed hair when I cradle the surprisingly calm animal in my arms, and when I crouch down with him, my brain finally registers our predicament. Everything out here is cast in a red glow as flames shoot up from the roof. The trailer looks to be almost entirely engulfed.

“Jackson!” I yell for him when he doesn’t immediately follow the dog out.

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