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For every summer as long as you could remember, your whole family spent at least a week, all of you there together, at the family cabin on the shores of Cranberry Lake.
Well, cabin wasn’t quite the right word. The house was big, 5 bedrooms, 5 bathrooms, and 28 windows. You’d counted one summer when your teenage angst had you pouting indoors while everyone else laughed and splashed around.
Up until this year, it had always just been your parents, your two older brothers and whoever they’d been dating at the time, and you. You’d never brought boyfriends with you. No one you’d ever dated felt cabin-worthy. To you, that invite had become a sacred honor. Not even your best friend Trinity had been, despite your parents insisting she should come for a special weekend when the two of you had finished undergrad.
Your oldest brother, Alex, always brought his boyfriend, Liam, and the middle child, Cooper, liked to bring whichever girl he was dating the week they landed in Pittsburgh.
But your parents had never brought anyone along.
They always claimed that cabin time was family time.
But this year, that was changing.
“Hi, sweetie,” your mom had sent you that stereotypical ‘please call me’ text that had scared the shit out of you. Turns out, all she wanted to do was make this summer the most painful and torturous of your life. “Did you make it to the cabin?”
“Yep,” you set your wine glass on the coffee table. Through the large bay windows in the living room you could see the sun setting over the still waters. “About 2 hours ago.”
“That’s great. Did the gate work?” The hope was audible in her voice.
“No,” you snorted. As nice as the cabin was, winter had been especially hard on it this year. And even though everyone made an effort to come out individually for a few scattered weekends, nobody had been here since last October. The snow had only just melted a few weeks ago and left more than just the gate damaged. There were water spots, broken gutters, and weak spots on the wrap around porch, not to mention how fucked up the flower beds were.
“The gate did not work,” your mothers sigh was deep and dramatic as you spoke. “I had to push it open. Almost couldn’t. I really thought about turning around and going home.”
Her voice grew faint for a moment as she relayed your troubles to your dad, then she was back.
“Damn, well, then it’s good we’re having someone come take a look.”
“Oh,” this was the first you were hearing about a handyman paying you a visit. It wasn’t surprising, given you’d made the journey 3 and a half months before everyone else with the intent to stay the whole summer to handle the repairs, but your mom hadn’t mentioned making any appointments. “When is he coming?”
“Or she,” your mom corrected. “But fine, he is coming up this weekend.”
“Yeah, but when this weekend?” Your work was remote, you had weekends free, and you were the only family member still living in Pittsburgh so you were volun-told to assess the place.
And, sure, maybe you had zero plans for the next 2 days besides getting a headstart on a summer tan, but you still didn’t want to spend your first weekend sitting and waiting to have to babysit a grown man who was supposed to fix the front gate.
“Umm… maybe around 9:00 or 10:00 AM I think? But it depends on when he’s done with work your dad said,” that seemed a bit odd. “And then he’ll head out Sunday afternoon, I think.”
Since when do handymen stay the night?
“Mom, what?”
“Did I cut out? Hello? Sweetie, can you hear me?” Her voice was so loud you had to yank the phone away from your ear.
“Ow, no mom I’m still here,” as much as you loved her, you could feel a headache building. “What do you mean the guy is gonna stay the weekend?”
“Oh I thought your dad told you,” she said, like that was an answer to your question.
“Clearly he didn’t,” you grumbled.
“Oh I’m sorry. I told him to text you,” in the background, you could hear your dad blubbering some excuse. “I guess the old man’s memory is going, too.”
You mom was 17 years younger than your dad, and ever since he bit the bullet and finally admitted he needed readers well into his 60s, your mom had been poking fun at him for it.
The thought almost brought a smile to your face but it was foiled by the evermounting frustration that your mom still has yet to explain what the hell was happening.
“Mom, please-”
“Alright, alright,” she finally started to give you the information. “Do you remember dad’s friend, Jack?”
“Dad’s got like 10 friends named Jack,” you were almost ready for a second glass of wine, and if she kept taking her sweet time explaining, you’d run out before the phone call ended.
“Ok, yes he does,” she laughed. “Jack Abbot, the doctor. Very sweet man. He needed a project, so your dad told him he could fix up the place!”
“The emergency doctor?” You vaguely remembered hearing the man’s name, but you didn’t think you’d ever actually seen him. At least not in person. There were a few dusty photos hanging in your dads office of him and his old army buddies and you could just remember your dad pointing him out once, telling you about his job and how he’d saved your dads life, but the memory was fuzzy.
“Yep, that’s the one!”
“Mom, I’ve never met this guy,” as if some old vet ruining your first weekend of peace wasn’t bad enough, he was a total stranger, too.
“Oh,” she hummed. “I could have sworn he came to your dads 60th…”
‘Now who’s memory is going?’ Your dad shouted in the background before saying something else you couldn’t hear.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, grandpa. I guess he was busy. Oh well!”
Your mood soured with every word.
“Anyways, he’ll be popping up from the city whenever he’s got some free time to work on the place before your brothers and we come in August.”
Great.
You’d asked your mother to give you Jack Abbot’s phone number so you could at least text to ask what his ETA was, but she’d forgotten and then did not answer a single text you sent her for the rest of the night.
So here you were, up since 8am on a Saturday to wait for some stranger to show up.
You were just cracking eggs into a bowl when you heard a knock at the front door. A quick glance at the clock told you it was 8:58. As petty as it was, you couldn’t help grumbling about how your mom was wrong as you made your way to the front door.
Time stopped for a moment as you jerked the heavy oak door open. Before you stood probably the most handsome man you’d seen since your freshman year math professor. A white t-shirt stretched over a broad chest with muscles so defined that your stomach swooped. Looking down didn’t help. The man was wearing jeans that were the perfect level of tightness, letting you clearly see his legs were just as toned without shrink wrapping him.
His face wasn’t much better. A full head of salt and pepper curls contrasting his light, hazel eyes. Wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes, but there was something of a youthful playfulness hidden across the rest of his stubbled face.
He looked very much like the handyman he was playing the part of. His hands looked strong and capable. The vision of those hands all over you in places they definitely shouldn’t be flashed through your mind alongside those of him, sweaty and panting, fixing… something. It didn’t matter what as long as he was doing it with those long, calloused fingers.
“Hi,” his voice was gruff around the edges. “I’m Jack.
You gave him your name. He didn’t reach out for a handshake and neither did you. Silence filled the entry way as you simply looked at each other. It wasn’t awkward, though. It was something heavier, almost as muggy as the air outside was. You could barely hear the birds or the waves on the shore over the blood rushing in your ears.
Suddenly, you were very dissatisfied with your choice of biker shorts and an oversized University of Pittsburgh sweatshirt. Why couldn’t you have worn something just a little more provocative? Maybe the cheeky underwear you’d slept in and that tight tank top that left not a single thing to the imagination.
“Your dad said the gate’s not working?”
“Oh,” you startled a little when the silence was broken. “Uh, yeah for some reason it won’t open. I don’t know if it's the keypad or the motor or something but it just stopped working.”
“Yeah I noticed,” he looked over his shoulder. You followed his eyes to where his old truck was parked in the gravel driveway and just beyond that, to the half open gate. “Had to push it open. That fucker’s heavy.”
“Yeah, it is,” you snorted a laugh. Your eyes couldn’t help but roam his arms, taking in the biceps that were nearly bulging out of his shirt sleeves. “I bet you managed it juuuuust fine.”
His face briefly twisted up in shock when you winked at him before it was falling back to what seemed to be practiced neutrality. But you could swear that you saw his jaw clench ever so slightly.
“I managed,” his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “For an old man.”
You weren’t sure if he was scolding your brazen flirting by pointing out the fact that he was at least 20 years your senior or if he was testing your reaction to that reminder. Either way, you didn’t really care. Your irritation at his intrusion was quickly fading the longer you got to look at him.
“Maybe instead of old, you could think of yourself as… experienced,” your smile grew. “I’m sure you’re very experienced at opening things up and getting in there.”
Jack’s eyes widened as they tracked your insulation.
“And,” you couldn’t help but continue. Your eyes glanced down to his hands again. “With those hands… you look like you’d be real good at keypad maintenance.”
A slight flush had started to creep up his face and you desperately hoped you were the cause, not the steadily rising temperature of mid spring.
What you could thank the outside temperature for, though, was the ever so slight sheen of sweat gathering on those big arms as he crossed them across his chest. Before the weekend was over, you were going to bite one of those biceps.
Hopefully.
“Anyone ever tell you, you’re a fucking brat?” He didn’t look pissed. He looked like he was fighting off a smirk.
“All the fucking time,” you leaned closer to him across the threshold. “But I think I like it the most when you say it.”
“Jesus Christ,” he ran a hand through his hair. “I just met you and you’re trying to kill me.”
“Nonsense. I’m not trying to kill you,” this time you stepped closer, less than 6 inches of space between the two of you. “That part’s coming later. I figured I’d go with smothered to death. What do you think?”
Feeling even bolder at the way his eyes raced over your form, you patted one hand against your thigh.
“I don’t know, I can hold my breath for a long time,” his hands had dropped to his sides. They looked like they were seconds away from grabbing your hips. You were leaning in further. “I’m willing to let you try, tho-”
Both of you jerked back as the phone in his pocket started to ring. He pulled it out and glanced at it.
“Fuck,” he mumbled at first before his voice returned to normal volume. “Fuck. It’s your dad.”
Shit. You’d forgotten about your parents. You’d also forgotten this man was friends with your dad. The previously shameless flirting now had you blushing, pinging back and forth between regret and a desire to push a little bit more.
But you didn’t have a chance because Jack was walking off the porch and back towards his car as he answered the phone.
Jack spent the next two hours working on the gate while pretending not to notice your eyes following him. Which was fucking hard, especially once you’d changed into the shortest distressed denim shorts he’d ever seen, paired with a little string bikini top barely covered by a sheer white tanktop.
It was obscene.
At least you’d had on more clothes when you’d answered the door that morning. He wasn’t sure he would have survived that interaction if you’d been half naked like you were now.
He was 50 for god's sake. He shouldn’t have been fighting off an erection over some flirting. And all of it over his buddy’s daughter. A woman who was probably at least 20 years younger than him.
But despite that, you’d still looked like you were one heartbeat away from jumping his bones before that phone rang. And he would have let you. Happily.
And so he focused on the menial tasks he’d offered to do.
Jack had been more or less banned from SWAT about a month ago after getting grazed by yet another bullet. The hospital staff and his therapist ganged up on him while he’d been recovering, finally getting him to admit that maybe it wasn’t the best hobby.
And then your dad called him. Mostly to catch up and ask how he was doing, but pretty quickly he just ended up complaining about the damage to his lake house. Jack volunteered to fix it up at no cost.
He had more money than he knew what to do with and a suddenly free schedule, so he talked your dad into letting him do it. What else was he supposed to do?
Sleep?
Relax?
He’d never been good at either of those things, but he had worked for a contractor all throughout his undergrad and med school summers. Home repair he was definitely good enough at. Exceptional, actually, considering his services were free.
So he tackled the gate.
The motor was fried. Probably from all the snow melting. No matter what did it, he couldn’t actually fix it today. He had to order the parts.
Which meant he’d have to come back.
He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
Jack tried not to think about having to pay you repeated visits as he worked.
While he checked to see just how weak the wooden deck had gotten he did not think about how good you looked laying in the sun 15 feet away. He definitely did not think about his head between your legs when he tightened the leaking faucet in the kitchen. And he certainly did not imagine bending you over the kitchen table while he replaced a lightbulb in the hallway.
You found yourself in the kitchen, staring listlessly into the fridge as you tried to come up with something low effort for dinner that would still impress your house guest. Not that you needed to seduce him with food (you were pretty sure the sheer white t-shirt with no bra would do the trick), but you wanted to thank him.
You’d called your mom to get the rest of the details about Jack while he worked and she’d filled you in that he was doing all of this pro bono. She’d said some other things, but you’d been too busy staring at his ass in those jeans to pay too much attention.
So here you were, kicking yourself for your abysmal grocery shopping skills. Maybe the two of you could skip dinner and just get to know each other biblically until you passed out? Not likely, but the fantasy was certainly an enjoyable one as you fished out the chicken breasts and romaine.
A chicken caesar salad was always a safe bet, right?
Not that you had too many other options besides a frozen pizza. It would have to do.
As you got to work, you heard the front door shut.
“I’m making dinner!” You called out to him.
“What’re you making?” Jack sounded like he was a little out of breath. Not surprising given the man had worked nearly nonstop for almost 7 hours.
“Chicken caesar salad,” you set down the knife you were holding, turning to lean back against the counter and face him. A jolt of satisfaction ran through you as you watched his eyes drop to your breasts through the thin fabric of your top. “That alright with you?”
His gaze snapped up to meet yours. You could only hope your little smirk of satisfaction wasn’t too obvious.
“That sounds great,” he adjusted the strap of the backpack resting over his shoulder. “I’m gonna go shower.”
“Need any help, old man?”
Jack’s eyes narrowed and he leaned against the door frame. His arms were crossed across his chest, only accentuating the curve of his biceps.
“Worried about my safety are you?” You watched as his eyes trailed you from head to toe. He was standing about 10 feet away, but the space in the kitchen seemed to shrink as his gaze left a trail of goosebumps across your body.
“Just don’t want you to break a hip,” you pushed off the counter, taking slow steps towards him. He stepped into the kitchen to meet you when you got close. Tentatively, one of your hands reached out to trail a finger over the hem of his jeans. “I’d really hate for them to be out of commission. Would really put a damper on my weekend plans.”
His hand grabbed your wrist, freezing you in place as you pouted up at him. He tilted his head as he looked down at you. A lazy smirk crawled across his face.
“You got a lot of plans for my hips?” It took very little force for him to use his hold on you to yank you into him. His hands caught your hips as he pressed your chest to his.
“Potentially,” you gave a coy little shrug as your own hands crept up his arms to tangle in his graying curls.
“Potentially,” he echoed. His tone almost sounded mocking as he was walking you backwards until you hit the cabinets. The strength in his grip surprised you as he lifted you up onto the counter almost effortlessly, sliding into the space between your legs. “I’d love to hear about these potential plans.”
“Well…” your voice trailed off into a gasp as his lips met the column of your neck. You let your eyes flutter shut, getting lost in the sensation while he held you close.
“C’mon,” he nipped at your ear as you gasped. “Tell me what you want.”
Your lips opened, words dying on the tip of your tongue as his hand trailed from your hips to pop the button on your shorts. His fingers slid down into them, applying dizzying pressure over your wet panties. They were probably ruined beyond repair, given you can feel how wet you were, practically leaking at the barest touch.
“What’s wrong?” Jack’s hand not in your pants tangled in your hair, not pulling but simply holding you there as his face moved out of the crook of your neck. “Cat got your tongue?”
His smile was almost cruel as he began circling his fingers slowly. The rough material of the lace provided a disorienting sensation of pleasure as you fought to get yourself together enough to speak.
“Not so confident now, huh? I really thought it’d take a little more than this to get you to shut up.”
Jack manipulated your body like an expert. He lifted your hips, yanking down your shorts and underwear. They landed somewhere behind him as he threw them away. Before you could even really process that development, two long fingers were sliding inside of you as the rest of his hand cupped over your folds. It barely took him 30 seconds to figure out exactly how to curl his fingers in order to have you arching into him. Every brush of the pads of his fingers over that spongy spot inside you had the heel of his palm grinding against your clit.
“Jack!” It was almost embarrassing how whiny your voice sounded. The cry of his name seemed to echo in the quiet kitchen.
His face was buried back in your neck as he huffed a quiet laugh. The vibrations sent a shiver down your spine. The hand once holding your hair had drifted underneath your poor excuse for a shirt. The callouses on his fingertips felt fantastic against the sensitive skin of your nipples when he tweaked them before his hands were kneading the flesh.
“Don’t tell me you’ve already gone fucking dumb, baby?” Your trembling hands gripped his t-shirt tightly as he licked a line up your neck.
And then his lips finally connected with yours.
His hands didn’t stop their movements, in fact they picked up in speed and intensity as his lips molded to yours. He set a languid pace, keeping up a firm and slow rhythm as his tongue brushed across yours. You couldn’t help the whimpers and squeaks that he eagerly swallowed as he pushed you right to the edge.
“Cum for me,” he growled into your mouth. “I wanna feel it.”
But this wasn’t how you wanted to cum. At least, not right now.
Every ounce of self control you still had left was mustered as you pushed him back. He stumbled back, body disconnecting from yours. He looked confused.
Your hands lifted, tugging your shirt over your head before you slid off the counter. A shiver ran through you at the burning arousal that shot through you at the sight of him, fully clothed but rock hard in his jeans.
“I want,” you took a deep, steadying breath as you walked towards him. His hands grabbed your hips as you pushed him down onto one of the chairs surrounding the kitchen table. “To ride you until I physically can’t.”
You watched his throat bob as your fingers reached down to undo the button of his jeans. You pulled his pants and briefs down his thighs, just enough to free his cock. You took it in your hands, admiring the weight of the silky skin in your hands before you were slinging one leg over his lap and lining him up.
“And then,” slowly, you slid down his length, watching carefully as his eyes closed and he groaned. The rest of your words were breathy as you tried to keep your composure. “I want you to eat me out until I’m crying.”
“Jesus Christ,” his mouth dropped open as you rolled your hips against him. You felt his tip catch against the perfect spot deep inside you as you tested out different angles. Quickly, you locked onto it, chasing that zap of pleasure that dulled your senses.
“After that,” your fingers dug into his hair, pulling on the gray strands. “I want you to fuck the shit out of me on every surface in this house.”
Jack’s hips bucked up into yours, causing both of you to cry out as he buried himself deeper than you thought possible. You could feel the orgasm you’d been on the brink of rising rapidly again.
“Wanna know what I think?” Jack’s hands were tight on your waist, slowing your rhythm and dragging a whine from you as the overwhelming pleasure slipped from your grasp.
“What?”
“As much as I would love to have you ride me- to use me,” you shivered at his words. “I think I want to do things in a different order.”
You didn’t get a chance to respond before he was lifting you off of him. Everything blurred as he spun you around, pressing your front to the kitchen table as he bent you over it. The wood was cold against your sensitive skin, your nipples hardening almost immediately. One of his broad hands gripped your shoulder to keep you pinned in place against the flat surface.
“That’s a pretty sight,” he mumbled to himself.
You had to bite your lip to contain your shaky moan as his fingers trailed over the wet mess between your legs.
He kept toying with you, gently prodding just the tips of his fingers inside, before withdrawing them to give a few light-as-a-feather circles over your clit.
“What’s the hold up, old man?” You couldn’t help the taunts. “I thought I said I wanted you to fuck the shit out of me. Do you need a little blue pill?”
Jack stilled, his fingers leaving your skin. For a moment, you were caught between the fear that you’d gone too far and the anticipation of the pounding the teasing would hopefully earn you.
What you weren’t expecting, however, was the harsh crack of his open palm meeting your ass.
As you gasped, the pain stinging and bringing another flood of wetness between your legs, you failed to realize Jack had stepped back and away for a moment.
He returned, his hand laying an equally firm hit against your other cheek. You didn’t get a moment to recover from the hit, though, because he was yanking you up. Once again, he spun you, this time lifting you up and setting your still smarting ass against the sturdy wood of the table.
“Hold these,” was all the warning he gave before his hand gripped your jaw, forcing it open to shove your absolutely soaked underwear into your mouth. “Maybe now you’ll actually shut up.”
Your eyes rolled back.
Fuck, that was hot.
You could taste yourself, the lace scratching over your tongue.
“Uh-uh,” Jack grabbed your hair again as he lined himself up with your opening. “Keep your eyes on me.”
Your eyes snapped open, your body following the order before your mind caught up. His gaze was intense as he stared you down.
His hand in your hair was the only thing keeping you from falling back onto the table as he pushed back inside of you. In this position, he had all the control and he quickly took advantage of that.
It took him three slow, grinding thrusts to find that angle you had been chasing in the few minutes he’d allowed you to ride him. Once he did, though, a wicked grin spread across his face as your hips jerked and a muffled whine snuck out around the underwear in your mouth.
He adjusted his aim, thrusting in and against that spot as his thumb found your clit. Your whole body jolted against his as the orgasm you’d been denied twice reared its head much faster than you’d expected.
“You like that?” He was panting now, but he didn’t falter, his movements growing even faster and harder as he worked you up. The wet slap of his hips against yours echoed around the room, creating a beat to match your muffled moans and his grunts. “This is what you needed, huh?”
You whimpered, nodding as much as his harsh hold on your hair allowed.
Jack let out a breathless chuckle.
“You gonna cum for me now, baby?”
Again, you tried to nod, but the ever rising tide of an orgasm that promised to ruin you was fast approaching. You could feel it, building tension in your stomach.
“Fuck, you’re so close, I can fucking feel it,” Jack used his grip on your hair to drag you in close. He briefly let go to yank your underwear out of your mouth before his hand slid right back in, his forehead pressed to yours. “I wanna hear it. I want you to tell me who’s making you feel good when you cum.”
“Jack!” You were teetering right on the edge. From his harsh breathing and gritted teeth, you could tell he was close, too.
“Fucking right,” his lips caught yours for a moment, but he had to pull back for both of you to breath. “Say it again. Say my fucking name.”
You didn’t say it, though.
You couldn’t say anything as he pushed you over that edge. Your eyes shut, your back arched, and you stopped breathing.
Jack’s hips jerked and he lost control as the first pulse of your walls around him gripped him tight. He groaned your name as you pulled him down with you.
The waves rolled over you. Each one was just as intense as the last, washing over your body as you trembled while every nerve in your body lit up with pleasure. And as his thumb kept circling your clit, the pleasure kept going, the waves not stopping until you were weakly pushing him away.
He finally stopped, withdrawing his hand but staying buried inside of you. He slowly softened, his cum starting to leak out of you onto the table as the two of you caught your breath.
You stayed like that for a few, long minutes before he finally pulled out of you, the both of you hissing at the sensation. He tucked himself back into his briefs.
Your eyes looked around the kitchen, searching for a towel or cloth or something to clean up the dripping mess between your legs.
You didn’t get a chance, though, because Jack was grabbing the chair he’d previously occupied, spinning it to sit between your legs, eyes level with your stomach.
“What are-”
Your voice failed you as a smirk you were very quickly beginning to recognize spread across his face. His hands dragged you back to the edge of the table, readjusting you to his liking.
“I’m going to eat you out until you’re crying,” he said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Like you told me to.”
“Jack, I just-”
He cut you off again.
“Plus,” he lowered his head, lifting your thighs over his shoulders. “I haven’t had dinner yet and I am starving.”