Time seemed to crawl by at a snail's pace. Jackson paced the room, practiced his "seductive" face in the mirror (which mostly looked like he was constipated), and even considered raiding the mini-bar for liquid courage. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the doorbell rang. Jackson's heart leaped into his throat. He smoothed down his hair, took a deep breath, and opened the door. Standing before him was a vision in a crisp hotel uniform. Her honey-blonde hair was pulled back into a neat bun, a few rebellious strands framing a face that could launch a thousand ships - or at least a thousand terrible pickup lines. "Your order, sir," she said, her voice melodious and professional. Jackson blinked, his brain frantically trying to remember how words worked. "I... uh... sandwich?" he managed to croak out. "Yes, sir. One club sandwich, as requested." She held out the tray, and Jackson's hands moved on autopilot to take it. Their fingers brushed for
He slid his hands up her back, finding the clasp of her bra and undoing it with a practiced flick. The bra fell away, revealing her breasts, nipples already hard. "Someone's been practicing," she teased, arching her back to press against him. "Only on my teddy bear," he quipped, earning a laugh from her that turned into a moan as he took one of her nipples into his mouth. He sucked and nibbled, relishing the way she squirmed and sighed above him. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. She pushed him back. "Your turn," she whispered, yanking his t-shirt over his head. Her hands roamed his chest, nails scratching lightly, sending shivers down his spine. He reached for her, but she batted his hands away. "Patience, Jackson." "Fuck patience," he growled, flipping them over so she was beneath him. He kissed her neck, biting gently, making her gasp. His hands found the waistband of her skirt, yanking it down her legs. She kicked it off, leaving her in jus
He laughed nervously, scrambling for an explanation. "Oh, that? It's... uh... a funny story, actually." She crossed her arms, waiting expectantly. "I'm all ears." Jackson ran a hand through his hair, buying time. "Well, I'm not usually this... technologically challenged. My regular phone had an unfortunate encounter with a cup of coffee this morning. Total goner. So, I had to dig out this relic from the depths of my junk drawer." Sophia raised an eyebrow, clearly not entirely convinced. "As for the clothes," he continued, gesturing to his attire, "I'm a firm believer in the 'comfort over style' philosophy. Have you seen the price tags on some of those designer outfits? Highway robbery, if you ask me." She studied him briefly, and then a small smile crept across her face. "Alright, Mr. Practical. I'll buy it... for now. But you better get yourself a new phone soon. This thing belongs in a museum." "Trust me, it's at the top of my to-do list," Jackson ass
Jackson stared at the ceiling, trying to process this turn of events. He'd gone from broke and broken-hearted to filthy rich and still a bit broken-hearted, but with a very pleasant recent memory to soften the blow. "So, what now?" he asked, partly to himself and partly to the voice that had upended his life. "Now, my dear boy, we shop!" "Shop? I just became a millionaire, and your first thought is... shopping?" "We can't have you wandering around looking like a lost time traveler, can we? Besides, every self-respecting millionaire needs the right... accessories." "Accessories? What am I, a Barbie doll?" "More like Ken, I'd say. But a Ken who desperately needs an upgrade." "Hey!" He protested, glancing down at his simple t-shirt and jeans. "I'll have you know these are perfectly respectable clothes." "For a college student, maybe. But for a man of your new status? We need to aim higher, darling." "Do we have to? Can't I just enjoy being r
The rain pelted down relentlessly, turning the city into a dark, watery hellscape. Streetlights struggled to pierce the gloom, their feeble beams reflected in puddles that looked more like pools of blood in the eerie glow. It was the kind of night that made sensible folks huddle indoors, leaving the streets to the desperate and the deranged. In a dilapidated warehouse on the outskirts of town, a man sat tied to a chair, his once-crisp white shirt now a canvas of crimson. He looked like he'd taken a swim in a vat of marinara sauce, except marinara sauce usually smelled better and didn't come with a side of broken bones. Victor sauntered into the warehouse, his polished Oxfords clicking against the concrete floor, each step echoing through the cavernous space like a twisted doorbell. His tailored suit, immaculate and pristine, seemed almost laughably out of place in the grimy surroundings. In his mid-thirties, Victor carried an air of confidence, a stark contrast to the bl
Jackson pulled up to the apartment building, the car's engine purring to a stop. He took a deep breath, adjusting his tie for the umpteenth time. The suit felt like a costume, and he half-expected someone to point and yell, "Imposter!" As he exited the car, he caught his reflection in the window. "Well, hello there, Mr. Fancy Pants," he muttered, straightening his jacket. A portly man with a receding hairline and an eager smile was already hurrying towards him. "Mr. Jackson! Welcome, welcome! I'm Harold Pimms, the building manager. We've been expecting you!" Jackson put on his best 'I totally belong here' smile. "Mr. Pimms, it's a pleasure to meet you." "Oh, the pleasure is all mine, sir! Shall we?" Harold gestured towards the entrance with a flourish that would have made a royal butler proud. As they walked through the lobby, Jackson felt like he was in a movie. Everything gleamed, from the marble floors to the crystal chandeliers. He half-expected to see movie stars lounging on
She flashed a warm smile, her eyes twinkling with recognition. "Jackson? Is that really you?" He nodded, still struggling to connect the dots. "Yeah, that's me. I'm sorry, but I'm having a bit of trouble..." The woman's smile widened. "Oh, don't worry! I wasn't sure myself at first. I saw you in the lobby earlier and thought, 'No way, that can't be Jackson.' But then I couldn't shake the feeling, you know? So I decided to see if it was you. Crazy coincidence, huh?" "Yeah, talk about a small world. I'm sure I've seen you before, but I'm drawing a complete blank on where. It's like my brain decided to take a coffee break at the worst possible moment." The woman laughed. "Oh, don't beat yourself up about it. It has been a while. I'm Isabella. We used to work together at Delta Corp, remember? It was about ten years ago now. I left the job not long after we met." Suddenly, the fog in Jackson's mind cleared. Images flashed through his head: a bustling office, the smell of stale coffee,
Jackson's mind raced as he processed Isabella's words. Thanks to his bizarre journey through parallel worlds, he was still 28, but he should be 37 to her. Yet here she was, commenting on how young he looked. He felt like he was walking a tightrope over a pit of temporal confusion. "Yep, late thirties," he lied smoothly, praying she wouldn't ask for specifics. "But you know what they say - age is just a number, right?" "Whatever you're doing, it's working. You barely look a day over 30." "Clean living and a deal with the devil," Jackson joked, hoping his nervous laughter didn't give him away. She leaned forward. "So, tell me, Jackson. Are you still as... adventurous as you used to be?" "Adventurous?" "Oh, come on. Don't play coy. I remember the stories that used to float around the office. The legendary Jackson and his... escapades." "Escapades? That makes me sound like a pirate." "You did have a reputation," she teased. "So, tell me, do you still have that stamina? Or have you