It was late afternoon when the heat broke. The thick clouds that had been sitting heavy over the treetops all morning finally gave way, letting shafts of golden sunlight pierce through. Jack stood at the open doors of his workshop, shirtless and glistening, his broad chest rising and falling with every steady breath. Sawdust clung to the sweat along his collarbone, and the heavy scent of cedar lingered in the air as he wiped his brow with a thick forearm.
He was putting the final touches on a custom dining table—oak, bold lines, hand-carved trim—when he heard it. A car engine, faint at first, then louder, tires crunching gravel on the long drive up to the cabin. Jack didn’t recognize it at first. Not until he heard the door slam.
Then: heels.
Click. Click. Click.
He turned slowly.
There she was—leaning against the side of a navy blue rental SUV, sunglasses perched low on her nose, flame-red lipstick painted with precision on full lips that curved into a smirk when she spotted him.
Charlene Whitmore.
It had been years—ten? Fifteen? But she still had it. That magnetism. That fire. She used to be his high school English teacher’s best friend, and later became a real estate agent downstate. They’d shared a single night together back when Jack was in his early thirties and she was already in her forties—fiery, loud, demanding in the best way. It had been unforgettable.
Now, she looked even better than he remembered.
Her body was a celebration of curves: hips that swayed like temptation itself, a full ass poured into a tight wine-colored pencil skirt, and breasts that threatened to burst out of her low-cut white blouse every time she took a breath. Her hair was chestnut brown now, voluminous and blown out, cascading over one shoulder. Confidence wrapped around her like perfume.
“Well, damn,” Jack murmured, stepping out of the shop, wiping his hands on a rag. “Charlene Whitmore. Never thought I’d see you up in these parts again.”
Charlene slid her sunglasses down just enough for him to see the spark in her eyes. “What can I say, Jack Johnson? I heard the rumors. About the ‘lumberjack who builds furniture and breaks hearts.’ Figured I’d see for myself if the wood was as good as they say.”
Jack chuckled, stepping closer, his voice dipping low. “And what is it you’re here for, Charlene? The table? Or the man who built it?”
Charlene walked past him like she owned the place, trailing her fingers along the edge of the oak table. She paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Maybe I want both.”
**—
Inside Jack’s cabin**, the light from the windows turned amber as the sun began to set. Jack poured two glasses of bourbon. Charlene sat at the edge of the armrest, crossing her legs slowly, knowing damn well what the motion did to her skirt.
“You’ve filled out nicely,” she said, eyeing him as he handed her the glass. “You were already handsome back then. But now…” Her eyes drifted over his chest, his arms, the way his jeans hung low on his hips. “Now you look like a sin waiting to be committed.”
Jack sat beside her, the couch creaking slightly under his weight. “That what you came for? To commit a few?”
Charlene leaned in, her voice husky, teasing. “I came to see if the rumors were true. That Jack Johnson doesn’t just make tables—he lays people out on them.”
Jack smirked, setting his glass aside. “Want a demonstration?”
Before she could answer, his mouth was on hers—hot, rough, hungry.
Charlene gasped, her glass clinking to the floor as she grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer. Her kiss was wild, demanding, her hands running up his chest, nails dragging through the hair there, tugging just enough to make him growl.
Jack lifted her easily—one hand under her ass, the other at her back—and carried her across the room, setting her down hard on the edge of the oak table. The same one she’d admired earlier.
“Oh, Jack,” she breathed, breath hitching. “This is exactly what I came for.”
He kissed down her throat, his big hands tugging open her blouse, button by button, until her bra spilled forward—lacy, red, tight. He growled again.
“These breasts…” he murmured, burying his face between them, licking and biting. “Always wanted a second taste.”
Charlene moaned, her legs wrapping around his waist, hips grinding. “Then take your time.”
He unclipped her bra and let it fall, revealing full, heavy breasts tipped with soft pink nipples. He licked a slow, hot circle around one, then sucked it deep into his mouth, his hand working the other in strong, kneading strokes.
Charlene arched, moaning low. “God, you still know how to take charge…”
Jack didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees, lifting her skirt, biting her thighs on the way up. She gasped when he yanked her panties down—wet, ruined already—and licked a long, slow stripe between her legs.
“Still taste like sin,” he growled, then buried his face in her, tongue moving fast, lips sucking her clit until she cried out, clutching the table’s edge. Her legs shook. Her thighs clamped around his head.
She came hard, grinding against his mouth, moaning so loud it echoed off the cabin walls.
When she collapsed back, trembling, Jack stood, undid his belt, and dropped his pants. His cock—thick, hard, veined—throbbed with need. Charlene stared at it like it was a prize she’d won.
“Been dreaming about this,” she whispered.
“Then lie back,” he ordered. “And hold on.”
Charlene laid flat on the table, legs spread, eyes wild with lust. Jack slid inside her in one slow, thick stroke. She cried out, her hands gripping the wood as he began to thrust.
And he didn’t stop.
He pounded her on that table like he was carving his name into her. Her tits bounced with every stroke. Her moans grew louder. His grunts filled the air, deep and primal. Her legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper, begging for more.
“Jack—yes—harder—fuck—yes—”
He flipped her, bent her over the table, slammed into her from behind. Her ass rippled with every thrust, her moans became gasps, and she came again—again—soaked, shaking, ruined.
And then Jack let go. He buried himself deep, groaning as he spilled inside her, thick and hot.
They stayed like that—sweaty, breathless, bodies tangled in the sunset light.
Finally, Charlene looked back at him, her lipstick smeared, her hair wild, her chest rising and falling. “So,” she panted, “how’s the table holding up?”
Jack laughed, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Sturdy. Like you.”
She chuckled. “Don’t tempt me to stay another night.”
Jack grinned, pulling her close. “Oh, Charlene. I am the temptation.”
Jack’s Page