Then he pressed a kiss to the back of my neck, soft and sweet, and I relaxed.
"Morning," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
"Morning." I rolled over to face him, and the sight of him—hair mussed, eyes still heavy-lidded, a slight smile on his lips—made my chest ache. "Sleep okay?"
"Better than okay." He reached up to push a strand of hair back from my forehead, the gesture so tender my breath hitched. "Best sleep I've had in months."
"Me too." I adjusted my glasses—they'd gotten knocked askew at some point. "Though we should probably..."
"Get up and pretend to be professionals?" He groaned, but then his hand slid down my side, over my hip. "Or we could stay here a little longer."
Heat sparked through me as his fingers traced patterns on my skin. The room was warm, close, filled with the scent of us—sleep and skin and the faint cedar from his soap. "We have breakfast in—" I checked the clock. "Forty minutes."
"Forty minutes." His mouth found my neck, kissing slowly. "That's plenty of time."
"Brent..." But I was tilting my head to give him better access, my hands sliding over his bare chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured against my throat, his hand moving lower. "Tell me you don't want this."
I couldn't. Because I did want it. Wanted him. Had been half-hard since I woke up pressed against him.
"Don't stop," I breathed.
His hand wrapped around me, and I gasped at the contact. He stroked slowly, deliberately, watching my face as he did. His palm was warm, slightly rough, and the friction was perfect.
"Like that?" he asked.
"Yes. God, yes."
He kissed me as he worked me, swallowing my moans, his hand finding exactly the right rhythm. I was already close—too wound up from sleeping beside him, from waking up to his touch.
"Brent, I'm going to—"
He held my gaze, wouldn't let me look away, and I shattered under that attention, my whole body shuddering, and he held me through it, kissing me softly as I came down.
When I could breathe again, I reached for him. "Your turn."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." I pushed him onto his back and wrapped my hand around him, feeling the weight and heat of him in my palm. "I've been thinking about this. About touching you like this."
He groaned, his hips lifting into my touch. "Jason..."
I stroked him steadily, learning what made him gasp, what made his fingers tighten in the sheets. He was beautiful like this—head thrown back, lips parted, lost in sensation. The sounds he made—soft gasps and low groans—went straight through me.
"Close," he managed. "I'm—"
I leaned down and kissed him as he came, feeling him pulse in my hand, his whole body going taut before relaxing into the mattress.
We lay there for a moment, both catching our breath, and then he pulled me down for a lazy kiss.
"Good morning," he said, grinning.
"Best morning," I agreed.
We cleaned up quickly and by the time we made it down to breakfast we looked like two perfectly professional roommates who definitely hadn't started the day with our hands on each other.
***
