You Can Keep Your Jeans On

The bubbles were gone from my glass of champagne. I’d sat nursing it for almost an hour, listening to my husband chatting and guffawing with the men from the firm. They’d talked business, golf, cars and yachts, and then business again. Eleanor’s husband had ensured she had a fresh drink at hand all evening, and Zara’s was constantly asking if she was hungry. He even got up to dance with her at one point.

But Walter? He hadn’t looked at me once since he’d sat down, and the drink I was now glaring at I’d had to go and get myself.

I placed my glass back on the table and turned my head, considering my husband quietly. My Walter had always been a handsome man when he smiled. Sharp jaw, straight nose, bright eyes… and that smile. It had been enough to make me swoon once upon a time.

He was in the middle of telling a ‘how many lawyers’ joke now, grinning at Eleanor, as desperate to amuse her as a comedian is eager to amuse a paying audience. He didn’t care whether I liked his jokes or not. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time he’d told me one, though I can guarantee that I’d laughed when he had. I always did.

Smoothing my hands over the black lace that hemmed my short dress, I waited until he’d delivered the punchline, then cleared my voice over Eleanor’s too enthusiastic laughter. I wanted Walter to remember I was there. To remember which of the two of us he’d chosen three years ago.

“Walter, honey -”

“In a minute, Victoria.” He patted me on the hand, not even sparing me a side eyed glance, then launched into a ‘what did the defence lawyer say to the prosecutor’ gag. I’d heard this one. It wasn’t even funny, but Eleanor slapped her hands on the table and let of a shriek that could frighten the ghosts right out of their haunted house.

And that there was the last straw. I’d grown tired of sitting quietly while my husband entertained everyone but me. Sickened by the way he treated me like I was something he’d ticked off the ‘how to show the world you’re a rich man’ list. Mansion, classic cars, yacht, holiday homes in France and Canada. Tailored suits, bespoke shoes, gold watch, Hollywood veneers, sprayed on healthy glow and a wife who had been carefully selected from the pool of daughters produced by senior executives at the firm.

Back when we’d married, I truly didn’t believe my lovely, caring Walter could ever turn into my father, but he had. And now, I’d had enough.

He didn’t even notice me drain the flat champagne in one go. Nor did he acknowledge me when I said, “Excuse me, gentlemen.” The other men around the table stood, but Walter just finished telling Zara the same joke he’d told Eleanor not ten minutes ago.

I skirted the candlelit tables that ringed the edge of the dancefloor, smiling at diamond encrusted women, forcing a blush when their husbands gave my legs wolfish looks of appreciation.

As soon as the club door closed behind me I felt a rush of nausea. It was brought on by a heady blend of nerves, excitement and rebellion. I’d never walked out of a function without Walter before. It would be interesting to see how he’d react. Knowing him he’d probably take offence.

How could you embarrass me like that? I could just imagine the look of confusion on his face as he spat those indignant words at me. There’s no way it would occur to him that he had done something to provoke my exit.

I made it to the far end of the bubbling fountain when I realised my mistake. I had no way of getting home. My phone was at home and I had no money to pay for a taxi even if I could call for one.

The doors to the club slammed and I spun on my heels, my heart throbbing in my chest. He’d noticed I’d left! Walter was coming for me.

But the man that rounded the fountain wasn’t my husband.

He stopped in his tracks when he saw me standing there, not looking in the least bit surprised. Messy, spiked hair. Short sleeved black t-shirt exposing forearms that were covered in tattoos. He had a black jacket in his hand, a pack of cigarettes and lighter in the other. And on his legs, fitting where they touched, was a pair of old blue jeans.

I took a deep breath, feeling my eyelids become heavy. It took all of my will to snap my gaze up to his face when he spoke.

“Is everything okay, Mrs French?”

My breath faltered at the sound of his voice, and the way he said my surname with a mocking slur. Hand at my throat I replied, “Yes, Mackenzie, everything is fine.”

Fishing in his jeans pocket for his car key, he laughed quietly. “Well, that’s bullshit.”

If anyone else had spoken to me like that I’d have been furious, but it didn’t bother me when he did it. Possibly because I was too busy staring at his thighs. The denim was oh so tight there, and I could quite clearly see the shape of…

“What makes you say that?” I looked away so quickly my neck could be heard cracking in the quiet night. I shouldn’t be looking there, I was a married woman! But it had been such a long time since I’d rested my eyes on a man in a pair of blue jeans.

“You’re out here alone and Mr French is in there.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “That said, even if you’d stayed in that chair by his side, you’d still have been alone just like every other time you come here.”

How had he noticed that? Mackenzie never came out from behind the bar. He always stood there, pristine and nondescript, polishing taps, buffing the mahogany counter, or pouring whiskey. He rarely spoke other than to tell us to enjoy our evening or have a safe journey home.

“The silent always see,” he said with a shrug, almost as if he’d known what I’d been thinking. “I might not say much but I don’t miss much either. You’re wasted on him, Vicky. He doesn’t deserve you, and I think your walkout tonight shows that you know he doesn’t.”

Vicky. The word sent a thrill through me. It had been a long time since someone had called me that. Nobody shortened their names in my circle of friends and I hadn’t seen much of my family since I married Walter and moved to the capital.

The last time I’d been called Vicky…the guy had been wearing blue jeans then, too.

Mackenzie flicked his lighter, a little flame spluttering to life just to die a few seconds later. He tossed his jacket over his shoulder and motioned behind me. “I’m parked at the edge of the carpark,” he said. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

God, the thought of watching the sinews in his forearm stretch as he changed gear, and of the way his jeans would tighten even more over his thighs once he was sitting… “No, that won’t be necessary, but thank you.”

“Are you really gonna go back in there to tell Frenchie you want to go home? That’s some impressive pride swallowing.”

He was so disrespectful! He had no regard for Walter’s position, and didn’t appear to have much for me either, given the way he was speaking to me. I tried to muster outrage. Took a breath to tell him to check his attitude when addressing me or to hold his tongue.

But I wasn’t outraged at all. Not even close. Stepping to the side, I extended my arm to encourage him to pass. “After you,” I said curtly.

Mackenzie was grinning when he walked by me, far too close for comfort. I followed a few steps behind him, breathing in the scent of a chemical cleaner, cigar smoke, and spicy aftershave that drifted from his skin.

I didn’t watch where I was going, though. My eyes were obsessed with the curve of his behind, and the way his t-shirt was half tucked in at the back, exposing a tantalising flash of a braided black leather belt.

His thighs rubbed together when he walked. His inseams shushed with each long stride, only just audible over the crunch of gravel beneath his booted feet. He was a very tall man, but even so, there was still a ragged patch of fraying around the hems of his jeans’ legs. He must wear them often, and bare foot too.

Mackenzie hadn’t been kidding when he said he’d parked at the edge of the carpark. We were up by the gates that led into the lane, right beneath the Joy Perfume Trees. Their scent was intoxicating, mixing with his and making me wobble a bit.

When we reached his car – the coupe Walter sniggered at every week – he popped the boot, bending over to shift some things about and dump his jacket. I had to breathe through my mouth. Such strong scented flowers, and such a mouth-watering ass.

I waited by the front passenger door, listening to him drag things around. My mind had wandered back to the summer I’d turned eighteen and the time I’d spent with the gardener at my grandparent’s place. He’d worn jeans every day, no matter how hot it got. Even that time he’d joined me in the pool when nobody was looking. At first it was because he hadn’t wanted to be caught with his pants down around his bosses granddaughter, but eventually he kept them on because I asked him to.

Lost in thought, I didn’t realise Mackenzie had finished rummaging around in the boot. I didn’t know he’d come to stand beside me until I felt his breath blowing on the curls that hung around my face, making them tickle my collarbone.

My fingers were on the door handle, and his were blazing a trail down my arm. “You’re beautiful, Vicky. You’re elegant and gentle and so placid, but I know that somewhere in you there’s fire. Does he still know where to find it? Did he ever know?”

I let go of the handle, pressing my palms flat against the car’s window. Mackenzie’s lips were hot on the column of my neck, his teeth gentle on my ear lobe.

“What are you doing?” I asked, knowing fine well what he was doing, and that I wasn’t going to stop him however wrong it was.

“I’m looking for your fire. We both know I’ll find it, if you let me.”

Arrogant. But warranted. His fingers were tripping over my ribs, brushing the undersides of my breasts, feeling for my nipples. He didn’t have to search long, they were already pebble hard and waiting for his touch.

“I need you to say it, Victoria. I need to hear you say this is what you want.”

Asking for verbal consent even though my actions made it clear that I’d given it. Whenever Walter did that it killed the mood, but Mackenzie’s hesitation just made him hotter.

“You know I want it,” I whispered, crying out when he responded by biting my shoulder.

His hands dragged down my back, cupped my cheeks and lifted me inches off the ground. His nails dug in, so deep. The nip hurt, and though I worried about his harsh treatment leaving marks, I didn’t change my mind.

Cruel smacks made my part my legs and immediately his hand was between them. Kneading my thighs, tearing my knickers, fingers skimming over my puckered opening before sinking inside of me. It wasn’t his fingers that ripped a moan from the depths of me, though. It wasn’t his hot breath dampening my cheek, or the way he grunted with exertion while he fingered me.

What made me pant was the rough scratch of denim rubbing against my ass cheek. I could feel how hard he was, the thick rope of his cock digging painfully into my skin.  He leant against me, squashing me against the dirty car door as his fingers battered jets of fluid from inside me. I was coming, mewling at his filthy words of encouragement.

“Lady my fucking ass,” he growled, yanking me away from the car. He opened the door, shoved me over, then buried his face between my legs. “Oh God, your cunt tastes so good. But then neglected rich cunt always did. Do you still want my broke ass to take you home?”

“Yes!” I gasped.

With a few swift moves, he had me sitting in the seat, buckled in safely, while he walked around the front of the car. I saw him lick his lips then got a flash of hard, muscled stomach when he pulled up the bottom of his t-shirt to wipe my fluids off his face.

Neither of us spoke on the way to my house. I watched him all the way there, staring at the bulge behind his button fly jeans one minute, the wet patch I’d left just above his knee the next. I longed to stroke my hand down the length of his solid thigh, wrap my fingers around the hard cock that was twitching away in its fabric prison, but I didn’t have the courage.

Once we’d driven up the winding drive that led to my front door, I staggered out of the car and headed for the side of the house. I couldn’t take him in where my kids and the baby sitter were, so I led him to the gardener’s shed.

Memories of a different shed during that icy winter I’d divorced my second husband shook me as soon as I stepped inside. Wet mouths, cold metal, soft soil and faded blue jeans.

Mackenzie closed the door, leaning against it with his legs crossed at the ankle, watching me strip. Once I was naked, he unbuckled his belt, but I sprang forward and grabbed his hands. They were calloused, because making martinis for rich cunt wasn’t the only thing he did to earn a living.

Meeting his knowing gaze, I smiled my sweetest smile. “Let me,” I whispered, delighted that my aging face had managed to dazzle him.

The ground was hard on my knees, though our gardener kept it well swept. I stroked my hands up and down Mackenzie’s legs, rubbed my cheek against the thick denim. Oh, I loved the way it felt, the way it looked, and that special scent that always flooded my senses when I got this close.

I ignored the belt, and the top buttons. My fingers made light work of the middle and bottom ones, though, and with a little careful fiddling, that throbbing hard cock appeared in front of me. It was framed by brass and a blue that was darker than the rest of Mackenzie’s jeans.

Licking and sucking, tickling and stroking, I hummed contentedly, unashamed that saliva was washing my carefully applied make up off me and onto him. Not stopping when I started to gag, not complaining when Mackenzie grabbed my hair and yanked my head to the side so he could watch himself fuck my mouth.

I just clung to his legs, feeling that familiar ribbed weave with my fingertips. God, I fucking loved these jeans. Casual sexiness at its very best.

Mackenzie pulled me away with a sharp gasp. “I almost came,” he said with a breathless chuckle. “That shit isn’t going in your mouth, you’re a lady.”

“Lady my ass.”

I took his hand, leading him to the potting table. He unbuttoned his jeans, exposing the rest of his cock with a dirty grin, but again, I stopped him. “Fuck me with them on,” I whispered.

Jumping up onto the table, I spread my legs wide, drawing him in, wrapping them around his back as soon as his cock pushed into me. His eyes were on my breasts, then his hands were too. I followed the line of dark hair that started at his belly button and disappeared behind the waistband of his jockey shorts.

The sight of his cock protruding from between two pieces of denim, glistening every time he pulled back, made me shudder. He was so good! It had been a long time since I’d last been fucked this well, and I knew that the thrill of it wasn’t one hundred percent Mackenzie. When it came to sex, the clothes really did make the man.

Pots toppled over and rolled to the floor, soil snowed from the baskets that hung above me. I reached out, grabbing those jeans, using them to pull Mackenzie in deeper.

“Oh God, fuck me!” I wheezed. “I’m going to come, Mack, fuck me harder.”

The friction of his thighs against mine and the thudding of his cock deep inside me would have been enough, but he gave just a little more. One hand grasping my right breast until I yelped, he slapped my hands away and grabbed one of his buttons, pulling the corner of his waistband toward me. As soon as the denim touched my clitoris I exploded, covering my mouth to muffle my screams.

He kept going, stroking my clit with his jeans, not stopping even when I tried to shove his hand away. It was too much, too harsh against the most sensitive part of me. But Mackenzie kept going and didn’t stop until I was sobbing and quivering with another orgasm.

And then I was on my knees on the floor, clinging to him again as he pushed his cock into my mouth. I’d always loved men who were unafraid to be vocal when they came, and Mackenzie was one of them. He moaned my name, hissed, cursed and growled. And then, once his spent cock throbbed out its last pulse, he did the sexiest thing ever. He laughed. Breathy, exhausted and delighted, giddy like a young girl but with the deep, satisfied tone of a well fucked man.

I watched him through the glass, smiling at the way he tripped across the grass with light, bouncy steps. He hadn’t kissed me goodbye when he’d left. He hadn’t asked if he could see me again, nor did he say he’d talk to me next time we saw each other at the club. But then, he hadn’t needed to. We both knew that, eventually, this would happen again.

I sighed, pulling my dress onto my tired, aching body. It had taken Mackenzie a while to find me after Walter and I had married, but now he was here and I knew he wouldn’t be going away any time soon. Even though we both agreed in that summer at my grandparents’ place that we could never be together, I’d missed my first love, and when he came knocking at our door looking for work as a gardener, I wouldn’t have him turned away again. This time, I’d make sure my current husband said yes.

Prompt: Jeans

7 thoughts on “You Can Keep Your Jeans On

    1. Thank you <3 I love that they know they're wrong for each other but they just can't stay away, even though both their lives have changed so dramatically since their late teens. I think deep love that's destined to fail is a beautiful thing.x

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