Getting Jack Ch 01 Scharza

Malibu California 2013: A voluptuous, nerdy coed attempts to seduce a reclusive older writer with an already complicated love life which includes a sexy, hard assed editor, an eager agent, a sultry Russian house maid, two ex-wives, three ex-stepdaughters, and a relentless stalker with literary ambitions of her own.

Chapter One: Scharza

Jack:

She first appeared in mid-September, not long after the school year began. Pale skinned, raven-haired and young, she always came in the late morning, on a weekday, when the beach in front of my house was almost deserted. She was delightfully awkward, and seemed unaware of her natural voluptuousness, even as she tried very hard to be sexy.

Always alone, she would frolic absurdly in front of my balcony, trying hard not to stare in my direction. She wasn't athletic looking, or even particularly fit; this was not a girl who ran marathons or did yoga, yet her appearance was singularly striking.

The halter-top of her bathing suit barely covered her large breasts and was tied so tightly that the narrow strings bit into her soft skin. The bottoms were two small pieces of cloth jammed so far up the crack of her ass that both her round butt cheeks were fully exposed. It was fastened together by gold chains slung low across her ample hips giving her the appearance of a ship wrecked harem girl that Neptune had cast upon the shore at my feet.

She moved about restlessly, trying out a repertoire of different poses no doubt copied from the Internet or a magazine, without any idea of which ones worked best. She frequently got down on all fours, turned sideways to me and went about alternately raising her shoulders and arching her back. The wind would tug the errant strands of her inevitably unraveling ponytail tugging them towards the light blue sea.

Once she had my attention, she would settle down on her beach mat and ostentatiously take out a thick, hardcover book. She would read, enraptured, while twisting her body this way and that on the ground for a good hour or so, stopping only to apply sunscreen to her vulnerable skin with broad, theatrical strokes.

She was obviously shy, but persistent, and tried some ludicrous ploys to drift my way. I mean, who plays Frisbee by themselves? The little pop-ball thing at least made more sense, but it didn't have enough strength to make it up to the level of my deck, although it did get her close to my fence. She waved a couple of times, and I waved back in a polite and neutral manner.

I considered talking to her, but I wanted to see what she would do next, so I remained silent, sunglasses on, doing my daily writing. No doubt she'd read about my strict writing habits (which she was interfering with), and knew that I wasn't going to wander away. I enjoyed the show, letting it become distracting to the point that Rikki started getting on my ass about missed deadlines, and Mila began grumbling spiteful things in unintelligible Russian as she cleaned the kitchen.

Finally, she hit upon using a kite. On a day of sufficiently unruly windiness, she managed to get it tangled around my deck light.

"I'm terribly sorry," she called up to me in an earnest voice with a mild, middle class Southern California accent.

I stood up and looked down at her moon face and miles of heaving, glistening cleavage.

"The wind," she shrugged as she gently and ineffectually tugged at the string.

"Well, you'd better come up and untangle it," I replied sternly. "

I'm

not going to do it."

"Oh yes, of course...sir," she replied.

I started down the stairs to unlock the gate, but she vaulted recklessly over the fence, landing squarely on her well-padded rump. She recovered quickly and was halfway up the stairs, before I was halfway down.

"Oh," she said, almost bumping into me.

Up close, she fulfilled every promise she'd offered from a distance. She was young, maybe eighteen or nineteen. Her skin was immaculate, and looked as soft as a baby's bottom. She was white, but not Christy white. In fact, she had a slightly caramel-tinged tan with only a little burning. Her skin, her hair, her brown eyes, and her curves suggested some sort of Mediterranean heritage.

"Oh," I replied removing my sunglasses and raising an eyebrow, blocking her way.

At once, she began to hop from foot to foot. "I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but can I use your washroom first?" she asked.

"Of course," I replied. I turned and led her up to my balcony. I opened the screen door and stood to one side. "Through the kitchen and to the left," I said. Fortunately, perhaps, it was Mila's day off and the house was uncharacteristically empty.

She said something inaudible, as she ducked her head and brushed me with her hot, naked shoulder as she passed. I didn't follow her, but I did check my watch as I sat down at my table, wondering how long she would take. How bold she would be in her snooping? Not very bold it turned out; she was back in less than five minutes.

"Thank you," she said making no move towards the flapping, dangling kite. "Oh, you're Jack Harrowsmith!" she exclaimed in poorly feigned surprise.

"Yes, I am," I replied, unable to repress a smile. "And who are you?"

"Lexi Duncan. I'm a student at Cal Tech," she replied. "I'm a big fan of yours Mr Harrowsmith. I love your work. I've read everything you've written."

"Everything I've written, even the most recent stuff?" I asked skeptically.

"Oh, especially the most recent stuff -

"White Hot"

was soooo fast paced and exciting, and yet still...literary."

I was willing to concede the first bit, but doubted the latter - I had no desire to be "literary" any more. She was cute, and her body was so achingly ripe that I decided to make it easy on both of us by not toying with her.

"Well then," I said, "would you like a drink, Lexi Duncan?"

"Oh yes, sir. I'm very hot," she replied.

"Well, I'm drinking tequila sunrises; how's that?"

"That would be great."

"How old are you?" I asked very directly.

"Twenty-one," she replied quickly.

I figured twenty,

maybe

. Not old enough to drink, but certainly she was over eighteen which was all that really mattered. At any rate, I wasn't about to ask her for an I.D. With those knockers, she could have been forty-four, or forty-two, at least.

"While I'm making the drinks, why don't you go down and collect your things. Bring them into the yard, so they don't go astray," I suggested.

"Yes. Yes, great," she replied. She turned at once on her bare heels and headed down the stairs, ignoring the still tangled kite.

"And, you can use the gate this time," I called after her.

"Okay," she replied earnestly, and I began to wonder just how bright she really was, but then I heard her giggle as she undid the latch.

Good, she had a sense of humor. Imagine that; intelligent, young, eager and beautiful, and it wasn't even my birthday.

Lexi:

I fought with the gate latch before it swung open. I dashed through, then stopped and went back to shut it. Then thought it might lock again, so I left it ajar after dithering for another minute. I ran across the sand to my beach mat, and scooped up everything - lotion, book, and towels, into my big beach bag, along with about a ton of sand. I forgot my flip-flops, and ran back for them.

I dropped his precious book, which I hoped to get autographed, in the sand, retrieved it, brushed it off, and then ran back to the house. I looked up at the deck, but thankfully, he wasn't watching as I tripped over my own feet and practically

crawled

back through the gate.

I stopped myself and stood still for a moment. Then with great effort, slowed my breathing. "Get a grip, Lexi," I said to myself. "You're acting like an eight year old. God, I hope he doesn't think of me as a

child

or some slobbering, empty-headed

groupie

."

Unable to decide if I should leave my bag at the bottom of the stairs, or take it with me, I literally hopped from foot to foot in tortured indecision before calming myself again. Remembering that his book was in the bag, I risked being presumptuous, and took the bag up the steps with me.

He was seated at his writing table, his famous writing table, with his chair turned to the side. He looked very masculine and cool under his sunglasses with a tall frosted glass in his hand while I stood there panting and dripping with sweat.

"I brought my bag," I said stupidly. I was getting sand all over everything.

"I see that," he said.

He handed me the drink, which I awkwardly took with my free hand. Nervous and very thirsty, I downed it all in one long gulp. I'd lied to him about being twenty-one. I was really only eighteen, but it wasn't like I'd never had alcohol before. I'd had a few sips that my sister, Brianna, forced on me, and at a meet and greet in my dorm last week, I'd had a large plastic cup full of beer. It had tasted unpleasant, and it made me a little tipsy.

This drink was entirely different. It was cold and refreshing. It tasted almost like sweet orange juice, and I could hardly taste any alcohol at all. Besides, it was a smaller glass than the plastic cup of beer. For the first time in my life, I understood what people meant when they said they

needed

a drink. I needed that one.

"Thanks," I said as I handed the glass back to him. "I was really thirsty." I brushed my forehead with the back of my hand. I was still sweating, and suddenly, I felt a little faint.

He smiled sympathetically at me. "It gets brutally hot out here this time of day. Why don't you bring your bag and we'll go down to the pool? There's some nice shade down there, and a bar," he said.

"The pool? You're a pool? You have a pool?"

"Yes, my pool," he chuckled. He seemed very good-natured. "Come on," he said.

"Great! Super," I replied.

I cast a regretful look at his table as he straightened the pages and tucked them into file folders. I was dying to get a look at what he was writing.

"You write in longhand," I said. It was a statement. I'd read that about him - no annoying laptops or pretentious little typewriters to interfere with the creative process.

"These days," he replied, "for first drafts anyway."

I wanted to ask him about his writing, but he said, "Follow me," and set off into the wonderful coolness of his house. I tried hard to take it all in, after all, I had no idea if I'd ever be back again. The place was casual, but not a mess. I noticed there was no carpet in the living room, which made me realize I was tracking sand on his floor. He didn't seem to mind - he was barefoot, too.

He dropped the file folder onto a big coffee table and kept moving. I followed him through the room, down a flight of stairs, and then through a garage. We exited another door that led to the pool, which was surprisingly large for a Malibu beach house. It was sunken; on the far side was a high wall, topped by canvas awnings that shaded that side of the deck and the entire pool.

On the sunny side, the concrete was blistering and we "hot-footed" it quickly into the shade. I noticed that the pool area was completely private and couldn't be observed from any direction.

"Relax. Take a seat," he said pleasantly. "I'll make us another drink." He set about making fresh drinks at the small bar in the shade.

"Very nice," I said setting my bag down and sitting up straight on one of the lawn chairs. The concrete patio was clean and uncluttered. There was a small table with a couple of plastic chairs, and a few more lawn chairs, all near the bar. There were no women's bathing suits hanging around, and no kiddy toys.

"My grandpa has a pool," I said.

"That's nice," he replied. "What does he do?"

"Oh, he makes boxes. I mean, he owns a company that makes boxes. It's a family business. My mom..."

He was standing beside me with drinks and I thought, "I'm sitting here with my biggest idol, perhaps the greatest living author in America, and I'm talking about my grandpa and my

mother

! Oh god, I'd have him weeping with boredom and be out on my ass in ten minutes.

"What are you taking at Cal Tech?" he asked smoothly, saving me from myself.

"Bio-chemical engineering. I'm a fresh...sophomore. Uh...I got a late start because I had to...work," I said, suddenly realizing that something as simple as lying about my age was more complicated than I'd thought. I wasn't good at lying at all, and here I was floundering in front of a man who wrote detective novels, among other things.

"I really have no idea what being a bio-engineer would be like," he replied.

Was he just ignoring my obvious guilt, I wondered? Was it possible he was so taken by my alluring presence that he couldn't think straight? The thought made my already disgustingly moist pussy tingle, and I unconsciously ground it against the chair cushion. That made me aware of just how far up the crack of my ass my skimpy little bathing suit had gone. It had been a bold gamble for me to wear it, and it was more than a little physically uncomfortable, but it seemed to have done the trick, and that made it all worthwhile.

He was still talking, "but I wouldn't have thought that bio-chemical engineers would be very interested in literature, or fast-paced fiction, at all."

I actually let out a sigh. Now,

this

was more the sort of conversation I'd imagined, the kind of conversation I wanted to engage in.

"Well, I can't speak for all bio-chemical engineers, but

I

find it fascinating. Maybe it's because I spend so much of my time working with cold, uncompromising data and dry facts that I crave some unrestrained passion and danger," I replied with what was more or less a prepared speech.

Sitting straight up on the edge of his chair he nodded, still treating me to his dazzling smile. I felt very encouraged. From what I'd read about his reclusive nature, I'd expected him to be much grumpier. He looked me up and down frankly, and I confess, I gave my hair a little toss. I

preened

, or at least I hoped that's what I was doing.

"You like passionate, reckless characters," he said.

"Oh yes," I replied.

"You've read

'Tyrus'

, I suppose."

"I loved it," I replied eagerly. It was true. The mysterious, historical fiction with its subtle Sci-fi hints held me enthralled when I was twelve. "I read it even before

'Hammermill'

," I gushed.

"I'll bet your favorite character was Scharza," he said extending his hand with the frosted glass towards me, almost touching me.

I shivered involuntarily even as I kept my eyes on his. He was talking.

Jack Harrowsmith

, was talking to

me

, and he was talking

about

me. I hung on his every word.

"That's right. How did you know that?" I exclaimed with girlish joy. Scharza was not the heroine of the book, but I loved her. I had wanted to be her.

He shrugged. "She's intelligent, young, and determined to get what she wants," he said.

"Against great odds, and despite her own self doubts," I chimed in.

He nodded. "She was loyal, energetic...passionate," he went on.

"Yes, people didn't see that about her because of her shyness," I said taking the drink from him without really noticing.

His smile deepened and I felt physically drawn to him. I scooched to the edge of the lawn chair, and I swear I

didn't

plan this, but it tipped forward, dumping me into him.

I squealed in a startled outburst and somehow, he managed to catch me without tipping his own chair. He caught me and hugged me against his chest. He didn't even drop his drink; although I felt some of its ice cold contents splash down my back, which made me squeal again. My drink flew out of my hand and landed on the cement somewhere behind him. Fortunately, it was plastic, not glass.

"I think it might be safer if we stand up," he teased. He helped me to my feet. He didn't seem to notice the spilled drink; his eyes were on me, all over me, in fact.

"That really

is

a remarkable bathing suit," he said. He steadied me with a firm, warm hand on my shoulder, and we both laughed.

I was giddy and flushed, and I didn't know how to stand, or where to look, so I was thankful when he asked me to turn around. I did it without hesitation.

If I'd had been watching myself from the outside, I would have been appalled at my girlish eagerness to please him, but at the time, I was not at all objective, or very sober. Not that I was necessarily drunk with alcohol, although there was some of that too, but mostly, it was pure exhilaration, and raging, primal desire.

At that moment, if he'd asked me to get down on all fours, I would have done it, and let him mount me like a dog. The thought actually passed through my wicked mind and made my pussy wet and swollen.

Fortunately, he wasn't that crude. Instead, he sent delightful shivers through my body by resting one hand gently on my shoulder near the base of my neck. He gathered my hair in a handful and stroked it.

"Such gorgeous hair, so thick. It's just like I imagined Sharza's would be," he said.

I didn't reply other than to breathe deeply. He ran his fingers along both my shoulders, outwards from the neck. "And your skin is...perfect."

"Oh..." I sighed.

"It's just as I imagined it."

"Imagined; so it wasn't the description of someone you knew?" I asked as I leaned back against him.

"Not until now," he replied, and yes, I could

hear

the smile in his voice.

It was surreal. It was unbelievable that I was hearing those words, from him, Jack Harrowsmith. It seemed like only a moment ago I'd been forlornly bouncing around on the beach, and now I was

here

.

"However," he added, dragging the word out thoughtfully, "If I recall correctly, this wasn't quite the way Scharza first appeared before Prince Torcan," he said. "I believe she was..."

"Topless," I sighed.

"Yes."

That was all he needed to say. My trembling hands went immediately to the thong around my neck and slipped the knot. Let loose, the material that had been straining tautly over my breasts dropped down to hang beneath them. His hands remained on my shoulders, and I could feel his hot breath on the back of my neck as I undid the lower tie and boldly tossed the top aside.

"Ummm, such a wonderful olive hue, and so delicate and soft," he said. I could feel him tracing the thin path of my tan lines across my back, then gently along the outside curve of my bulging breasts.

I didn't know what to do with my arms, but he helped me out by lifting them over my head. He turned me slowly, and took me in a light embrace, confidently kissing my parted, yearning lips. My arms dropped instinctively to his shoulders, and I pulled him closer, eager to crush his chest against my aching, exposed tits.

The kiss I had so long dreamed of came much sooner than I'd ever imagined it would. It was hot, sweet and firm, and somehow...thoughtful. Of course, having never kissed a man before, I didn't know how to meet it properly. So, I should add that he was generous, quite forgiving, and uncritical of my inexperience. He ended it far too soon, but left me with a delightful promise of so much more to come.

I was afraid to open my eyes, in case it all turned out to be a dream. He didn't disengage my hands from around his neck, but he eased us apart so he could see me better. I felt shocking pride at my naked display. I let my head loll back as he gently stroked my breasts. He traced their broad orbit and roughly brushed my truly aching, tightly knotted nipples.

His hands drifted down to my belly and I gasped as if hit by an electric shock that hollowed out my loins. My eyes flew open and I found myself staring into his sympathetic, blue ones, looking so mischievous and reassuringly happy. My lips trembled and my eyes watered with pure joy.

"As I recall...these... didn't last very long either," he said.