"Hi," he said.
"Hi." I closed the door behind me and locked it. "Working?"
"Trying to." He closed the laptop. "Failing, mostly. Kept thinking about that hallway."
"Me too." I crossed the room slowly, watching his eyes track my every movement. "Kept thinking about other things too."
"What things?" His voice had gone rough.
"Things like how much I wanted to do this." I sat beside him on the loveseat, close enough that our thighs pressed together. "And this." I cupped his face and kissed him, slow and deep and thorough.
He melted into me with a soft sound, his hands sliding up my chest to my shoulders. We kissed like we had all the timein the world, learning the taste and feel of each other, no longer rushing or hiding.
When I pulled back, his eyes were dark behind his glasses. "Brent."
"Yeah?"
"I want..." He trailed off, and I watched his throat work as he swallowed. "I want more than kissing."
Heat shot straight through me. "How much more?"
"I don't know." His hands were still on my shoulders, fingers flexing. "More. Whatever you want to give me."
I kissed him again, harder this time, and he responded immediately, arching into me. My hands slid under his sweater, finding warm skin, and he gasped against my mouth.
"Is this okay?" I asked, even as my fingers traced the line of his ribs.
"Yes." His head fell back, giving me access to his throat. "God, yes."
I kissed down his neck, feeling his pulse jump under my lips. His hands were in my hair now, holding me close, and the small sounds he was making were driving me crazy. He smelled like cedar soap and coffee and underneath, something that was purely him—warm and slightly sweet.
"Bed," I managed. "We should... bed."
"Which one?" His voice was barely there.
"I don't care. Whichever's closer."
We stumbled to his bed—it was closer to the loveseat—and tumbled onto it together. For a moment we looked at each other, both breathing hard, and then Jason was pulling me down into another kiss.
This time there was no hesitation. His hands pulled at my shirt and I helped him, yanking it over my head and tossing it aside. Then I reached for his sweater, and he lifted his arms to let me remove it.
"Glasses," he said. "Should probably—"
"Leave them." I kissed him again. "I like them."
He laughed against my mouth, and the sound was warm and happy and perfect. Then my hands found his bare skin and he stopped laughing, his breath hitching as I traced the planes of his chest, the subtle dip of his collarbone, the curve of his ribs.
"You're beautiful," I said, because he was. Lean and flushed in the lamplight, his skin warm under my hands, his eyes dark with want behind those glasses.
"You're one to talk." His hands were exploring now too, sliding over my shoulders, my chest, learning me the way I was learning him. His touch was gentle but hungry, tracing muscle and bone like he was memorizing the map of my body.
We kissed and touched until we were both trembling, until the friction of our bodies together wasn't enough. I rolled us so he was on top of me, and he made a low sound in his throat as he settled against me, our hips aligned.
"Brent." His voice was wrecked. "I need—"
"I know." My hands slid to his hips, guiding him into a rhythm. "Me too."
We moved together, finding a pace that had us both gasping. The friction was intense even through our jeans and I knew this wasn't going to last long. Not with the way he was looking at me, not with the sounds he was making, not with how long I'd been wanting this.
