We broke apart for air, both gasping. His pupils were blown, his mouth already swollen.
"Jason," he breathed, and the way he said my name—rough and wanting—made me lean in again.
This kiss was hungrier. His hands slid under my shirt, palms hot against my lower back, and I gasped into his mouth. He took advantage, his tongue sliding against mine, and I forgot how to think. Forgot everything except the taste of him, the feel of him, the way his hands were mapping my skin like he was memorizing me.
When we finally broke apart again, my shirt was rucked up, his hair was a mess from my hands, and we were both shaking.
"We're really doing this," he said, forehead pressed to mine.
"We're really doing this."
"I have a workshop in an hour."
"I know."
He pulled me closer and we tumbled back onto my bed, careful not to crush the manuscript pages scattered across it. For a moment we looked at each other and then he was kissing me again.
This time there was no hesitation. His mouth moved over mine with purpose, and I matched him, pouring four days of wanting into the kiss. My hands found the hem of his shirt and slipped underneath, exploring the warm skin of his back, the lean muscle there, the way he shivered under my touch. He made a low sound and shifted his weight, pressing me into the mattress. The solid weight of him on top of me, the heat of his body against mine, made my head spin.
"God, Jason," he muttered against my lips, then moved to my jaw, my neck. I tilted my head back, giving him access, and when his teeth scraped against my pulse point, I couldn't hold back the sound that escaped me.
His hips rolled against mine—involuntary, desperate—and we both froze for a heartbeat, the intensity of it stealing our breath.
"Brent—" My voice came out wrecked. "You have—workshop—"
"I know." But he didn't stop. His mouth found that spot below my ear, and his hand slid higher up my ribs, thumb brushing the sensitive skin there. "I know, I—" Another kiss, this one slow and deep and absolutely devastating. "Can't stop."
"Don't want you to stop." I pulled him closer, and we kissed until we were both gasping and desperate, until my hands were exploring the planes of his back and his were doing things that made me forget my own name.
When his hand started to move lower, toward the waistband of my jeans, he seemed to catch himself. He pulled back slightly, breathing hard, his eyes dark and wanting.
"If I don't stop now—" His voice was rough, strained.
"I know." I was breathing just as hard, my body aching with wanting more.
"Workshop," he said again, but it sounded like a curse.
"Yeah." I forced myself to let go of him, even though every part of me wanted to pull him back down.
He sat up, running both hands through his hair, trying to get himself under control. His mouth was swollen, his eyes dark, his hair destroyed. He looked thoroughly kissed and thoroughly frustrated, and the knowledge that I'd done that to him made heat pool low in my stomach.
"I really do have to teach that session," he said, his voice rough.
"I know." I didn't let go of his shirt. "But later—"
"Later," he agreed, stealing one more kiss. "Definitely later."
He stood, trying to straighten his clothes and hair. I watched him, unable to stop grinning.
"What?" he asked, catching my expression.
"You look thoroughly kissed."
He laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. "Good. That's how I feel." He leaned down for one more quick kiss. "Try not to look at me too much during the session or I might forget what I'm teaching."
"No promises."
After he left, I collapsed back onto my bed, my lips still tingling, and a grin on my face. I'd kissed Brent Lafferty. Multiple times. And he'd kissed me back like he'd been thinking about nothing else for days.
