Page 55 of Under Southern Stars
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SOPHIA
“Ugh, this man!” I slam my laptop shut, the legalese from the IRS publication blurring before my eyes.
It’s Wednesday afternoon. Madison’s at school. It’s been a week since movie night, a week of stolen kisses and quick coffees and anticipation building for New Zealand. Ten days until we fly.
Troy is being particularly insufferable today, demanding I unearth three years’ worth of school expense receipts for some obscure tax deduction he’s trying to claim. Now he’s insisting on a Zoom call in twenty minutes to “ensure compliance.” The implication, as always, is that I’m too incompetent to handle it myself.
Jack, who’d been lounging on my couch watching rugby highlights on his phone, looks up. “Troy still giving you grief,taku ipo?”
“Grief doesn’t even begin to cover it.” I pace my small home office—really just a corner of the living room with a desk. I’m wearing my “work from home but might have to look presentable” uniform: a silk blouse I’d thrown on for a hospital admin call earlier, paired with my oldest, softest college sweatpants. Professional on top, utter chaos below. Much like my current mental state.
Jack unfolds himself from the couch and walks over, his presence instantly both calming and distracting. He starts rubbing my shoulders, thumbs finding the knots of tension. “Want me to run interference? I can be surprisingly intimidating when I use my ‘official paramedic’ voice.”
I lean back into his touch, a small sigh escaping. “As tempting as that is, it would just give him more ammunition. ‘Sophia can’t even handle her own paperwork without her new boyfriend stepping in.’” I mimic Troy’s pompous tone. “No, I just need to get through this. But honestly, Jack, if you don’t leave soon, I’ll never get this done. You’re far too distracting in the best possible way.”
A slow, wicked grin spreads across his face. The kind that usually precedes him doing something utterly unexpected and thoroughly delightful. “’Distracting’, am I?” He kneels, his hands sliding from my shoulders down my arms, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Intensely,” I admit, my breath already hitching. “And I have a Zoom call with who-know-who in—” I glance at the clock, “—eighteen minutes.”
“Plenty of time for some…inter-departmental stress management,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping pointedly to the hem of my sweatpants. He tugs gently at the drawstring.
My eyes widen. “Jack McKenzie, you wouldn’t dare.”
His grin widens. “Wouldn’t I, Charge Nurse Mitchell?” He’s already easing my sweatpants down, warm hands brushing against my thighs. He presses a kiss to my hipbone, then another, his movements deliberate and slow.
“Jack, the call…” I whisper, but my protest is weak, already undermined by the shiver his touch sends through me.
He looks up, blue eyes alight with playful fire. “You just focus on your important paperwork, Soph. Let me handle the stress relief.” He winks, then disappears beneath my desk.
My office chair suddenly feels like a throne of impending doom and exquisite torture. I can hear him settling, the rustle of movement. My heart hammers against my ribs.
“What are you—” I start, trying to peer under the desk, but his hand on my knee stops me.
“Focus on your work, Charge Nurse Mitchell,” his voice comes from below, muffled but vibrating with amusement. “Wouldn’t want Troy to think you’re not giving his demands your full attention.”
I take a deep breath, smooth my blouse, and open the Zoom link, still breathless, forcing every neuron to snap into clinical efficiency. My best war face.
Troy’s video flickers on. “Sophia. Finally.” His face fills the screen, his expression already set to ‘condescending prick.’ He’s in his chrome-and-white home office, that new Rolex visible on his wrist. “Glad you could make it. Do you have the 1098-T forms I asked for?”
“Yes, Troy,” I say, my voice impressively steady considering Jack’s fingers are now tracing patterns on my inner thigh. “I have them right here.” I hold one up to the camera.
“Good. Now, on line three, subsection B…”
He drones on about deductions and dependents, completely oblivious. Under the desk, Jack begins his ministrations. Slowly.Methodically. His warm breath ghosts over my dampening core, and I have to grip the desk edge to stifle a gasp.
Jack’s tongue flicks out—a delicate, teasing touch—and lightning bolts shoot through me once again. I clear my throat. “Line three, subsection B. Crystal clear.”
Jack’s mouth seals over my clit like he’s got all the time in the world. I clench my jaw. “I’m reviewing it now.”
“You’re late going over this, you know. If the school doesn’t get this by Friday—”
“I’m aware of the deadline.” My voice is steady. A miracle.
“And for the dependent care credits,” Troy continues, “I’ll need copies of all Madison’s after-school program invoices. You did keep those, didn’t you? Or was that too much ‘adulting’ for one year?”
Deep breath. Don’t murder him. Don’t moan. Jack is now fully engaged, his mouth working with focused intensity—teasing but respectful, somehow knowing my limits exactly. I can feel my orgasm building like a storm on the horizon.
