~JACKSON~

"Bookwyrm's Smut Trove." That was the name of the link. Tagged with Ava's account. My thumb hovered above it, hesitating. If Bookwyrm's Hoard was running a spicy romance sale, I was... conflicted. On one hand, I liked to support local businesses—especially ones where my daughter was about to start working. On the other hand, clicking too eagerly into anything labeled "smut trove" might not exactly win me points with Ava. Worst case, I'd look like a pervert. Best case, a supportive pervert.

Still, curiosity had claws. If anything, I could always order online under a fake name. Ship it to my friend's address. Romance books were entertaining. Sweet, funny, sometimes ridiculous—but in a good way. Besides, they helped with my job.

I tapped the link. 

I expected an ad. A promo for discounted romances or something cheeky about blind-date-with-a-book nights. What I got instead was a blog. A smut blog.

Bookwyrm wasn't just a cute branding gimmick. It was a pen name. And whoever they were... they were talented. And horny. Very horny.

I scrolled. A few lines in, and I was hit with the name. Jackson. I blinked, amused. Coincidence? Probably. But then again... the details. The setting. The male character's description. The outfit.

I clicked back to my own profile. The gym selfie I posted a few weeks ago stared back at me. 

Hmm.

I switched back to the blog, skimming past the rest of the scene to the comments section. It was blowing up. Lots of readers. Lots of heat. And then it hit me. Oh, Ava. Bookwyrm wasn't just anyone. It was her.

I was almost sure of it now. The blog, the tone, the imagery—it wasn't just creative writing. It was deeply observant and consistent. The reoccurring male character across posts had too many similarities to be random. 

It was me.

I sat back in my chair, stunned. Not creeped out, oddly enough. More like... flattered? And confused.

I typed a message before I could talk myself out of it.

J: Jackson huh? Nice name choice.

It was read. No typing bubbles. No reply. Just silence. Then: "To send a message, you need to be friends with the recipient."

She deleted me. I leaned back, exhaling through my nose. Maybe it was a step too far to send her the blog link. She was probably mortified already. Having your pen name outed was one thing—having it linked to your business account? To your real name? That was brutal. Me discovering it on top of that? Probably the final nail in the coffin.

But the thing was... I wasn't mad. I wasn't creeped out. If anything, I was—God help me—kind of impressed.

This beautiful, smart, charming woman had fixated on me. She'd created whole worlds where I—well, the idea of me—was the fantasy. And yeah, it was a little strange that the posts seemed to predate when we met. Which meant she noticed me long before I walked through those doors. 

That probably should've raised a flag. But it didn't. Not really.

I was thirty-five years old. I hadn't had anyone this interested in me without expecting something in return since... well thirteen years ago.

If her attention was obsessive, it was the strangest, sweetest kind I'd ever received. Odd? Sure. Maybe even a little unhinged. But it felt like breathing in fresh air. Weird, horny, borderline stalker air. But fresh all the same.

***

Now that we were here—her in my bed, me trying to remember how to seduce properly—I couldn't stop thinking about the stories she wrote. The romance. The tension. The kind of passion that crackled off the screen. 

Was that what she wanted? Was that what she expected?

A new kind of pressure settled in my mind. The weight of someone else's fantasy—unspoken, yes but completely human for there to be considering the situation. And the truth was, the odds of me living up to it felt slim at the moment. Maybe that was dramatic. Maybe it was just honest.

Ava was beautiful and sweet in the kind of way that made your chest tighten. She deserved sincerity. Something real. Not just a body, a warm bed, or an orgasm. But here I was, already falling back into the habit of trying to become the version of me other people imagined. Trying to be the fiction.

Still, this was likely a one-night thing. This wasn't anything new for me. And if that's all it was meant to be, I could give her that. One night of escape. One night of pretending I was the man she wrote. Hell maybe she'll use it as inspiration for her next story and then move onto the next.

I straightened, hands sliding slowly up her thighs, dragging her dress with them. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft beneath my palms. I gave a light squeeze. She exhaled, just a soft breath.

"Ava," I murmured, voice low, as black lace came into view between thick thighs and peeking out from beneath the hem now bunched around her hips. "Do you want me to fuck you with your dress on, or off?"

I couldn't remember if it had a zipper or not. I probably should've paid attention when we walked in here—but I'd been distracted by how good she looked from behind. And fumbling with it now would kill the mood faster than a bad joke.

Her cheeks flushed, deepening the green in her hazel eyes. "I-I'd like if we dimmed the lights... or maybe turned them off?" Her gaze dropped, and her hands slid down to rest on the fabric I'd gathered, fingers curling like she meant to hold it in place. "Then we can take it off." She hesitated, then rushed, "Only if you don't mind. If not, we can just leave everything on. I just..."

She didn't have to finish.

I rose from the bed without a word and started unbuttoning my shirt. I get it. Everyone's self-conscious about something. I've been in this situation enough to know that bright lights can unravel a fantasy faster than bad timing. People fixate—on stretch marks, scars, tension, skin—and forget to feel. Darkness keeps the magic alive. 

I flicked off the light and closed the door. The moon cast a soft, silvery glow across the room through the window. Just enough to see her, and for her to see me.

"How's that?" I asked, slipping the shirt from my shoulders and laying it beside the bed on the table.

"Thank you," she said softly, her tone laced with a sweet note of relief.

Now, how the hell do I get this dress off in a way that doesn't make me look like I've never undressed a woman before?

"Take off your dress," I said, gentle but firm, watching her as I started on my belt.

Ava knelt up, her hands reaching behind her briefly before she pulled the dress off in one smooth motion. She laid it aside with care, revealing a black lace set. Not just sexy—intentional. Thought-out. She looked like a goddess sitting in the middle of my bed like that.

There was so much of her. She was a fucking handful and that was saying something, because I had big hands. Hands that ached to touch, to trace every inch, to squeeze, to worship.

Her arms crossed instinctively, trying to cover herself—but all it did was press her breasts together in a way that made blood rush to cock. 

Fuck, Jackson. Focus.

I looked away, grounding myself, and placed the belt beside my shirt. "Lay down," I said, the words coming out as more breath than voice. I unbuttoned the top of my pants and crossed to the bed. 

My knee sank into the mattress as I leaned over her, taking her in. "Do you realize how fucking sexy you are?" I whispered, letting my lips just brush hers. Her breath hitched as my thumb ghosted over the thin lace covering her peaked nipple.

It had been a while since I'd done something like this—a hookup on a whim, built on nothing but mutual attraction and tension. I felt rusty, a little out of my element. I was winging it, caught somewhere between the men she wrote and the man I was trying not to become. Half fiction, half restraint. Plus it had been nearly a year without sex. I pray whatever charm I had left wouldn't crumble the second I turned into a three-pump chump.

I kissed her. Her lips were soft and hesitant, then yielding. Her arms curled around me—one hand slipping into my hair, the other gripping my bicep with a quiet urgency that nearly undid me.

My lips trailed lower, brushing over her collarbone, then down between the swell of her breasts. My fingers toyed with the hem of her bra before tugging it down, the straps slipping off her shoulders like they were ready to give in to me too. I leaned in, my tongue gliding across one of her caramel nipples before drawing it into my mouth. My other hand cupped her other breast, squeezing gently. A sweet little moan escaped her lips—quiet, breathy, so damn pretty.

I couldn't help it—I pictured them bouncing while I fucked her. They'd look incredible.

My hand slipped around her back, unclasping her bra as I sucked on her. I gave a playful tug with my teeth, and the moan she let out was caught somewhere between surprise and pleasure.

I sat up as she slid it off and set it aside. My hands closed over her breasts again, giving them a firm squeeze and pushing them together before letting go.

Fuck my dick hurt. 

I reached down, gripping the base of it beneath my pants as I pushed them and my briefs low, just enough to finally give myself some breathing room. I groaned as the cool air hit the tip—already wet with precum. My free hand slid up her thigh, spreading her legs wider.

"Pull your panties to the side for me," I said, stroking myself slowly.

Her fingers hovered over her pussy, brushing lightly over the lace. I couldn't tell if it was nerves or teasing. Then she murmured, voice small, "I didn't get the chance to shave or wax before this..."

There was something so endearing about it, I nearly laughed—but I didn't want her to mistake it.

"I honestly don't care," I said gently, a smile cracking through the cool, in-control persona I was trying to wear.

She nodded, fingers carefully pulling the fabric aside. Her hand stayed there, waiting.

"Good girl," I murmured, groaning as I leaned in. My thumb traced the edge of her lip before I parted her, revealing that soft pink underneath. "You have such a pretty pussy, Ava."

I stopped stroking myself and bent down, sliding my arms beneath her thighs to hook and spread them further apart as I pulled her toward me.

I pressed my lips to her, feeling the heat and slickness before my tongue darted out and dragged upward, slow and deliberate. She gasped, fingers gripping the edge of her panties tighter. The sound—half surprise, half pleasure—made my cock harder.

I pushed my face in deeper, tongue circling.

Masarap. She tasted fucking delicious. 

——

Story Update: Breaking this chapter up into two parts. This was Jackson's POV and the next will continue with Ava's.