I kiss him again, slower now, my thumb brushing his jaw and tracing the line of his cheekbone.
“Thank you for indulging me tonight,” I murmur, nipping at his lower lip.
He fought me on going out for this, saying it wasn’t worth getting dressed up in suits and making a reservation at The Vista for, but fuck that. He honestly deserves more.
As nervous as I still get going out in public as a couple, we don’t get as many judgmental stares or nasty words whispered in our direction as I always expect us to. Years ago, I probably wouldn’t have even wanted to brave a public date at all in this town, but I think things might slowly be changing. Jackson has been shown more kindness in these past several months than he was used to last semester.
Which is good because if anyone ever makes Jackson feel bad for being who he is again, someone else might be going over that damn bridge.
But after everything that happened with Richard Grant, I think people are starting to realize who the true bad guys are.
And that gives me hope.
“I enjoyed showing you off,” I tell him as I continue backing him down the hall. “My brilliant writer. My beautiful man.”
I drag my mouth along his throat, tasting heat and the faint remnants of his cologne. He shivers—fuck, I love that—and I stop again to press him against the wall in the hallway, letting the weight of my body settle against his.
Jackson’s fingers curl in the front of my jacket, dragging me into another kiss, this one deeper. When he pulls back, his pupils are blown wide, his breath unsteady.
“Isaac,” he says, his voice low and warm and trembling in that way that goes straight to my spine. “I want you.”
A slow, dark heat coils low in my stomach as though his want hits me so hard it’s physical.
“It’s your day, sweetheart. That means you get whatever you want.”
Then his mouth crashes into mine again, hungry and reckless, his fingers clutching my suit jacket tight like he’s trying to pull me straight through him.
We’re on the move again, stumbling toward the bedroom, and I can’t help but laugh into the kiss because he’s so beautiful when he wants me like this, when he quits pretending he isn’t on fire beneath that mostly innocent exterior.
At the end of the hall, I press him into the bedroom door because I can’t be bothered to spend the time to open it before needing to feel his body against mine again. I brace my hands on either side of his head, our breaths sharp and uneven. His tie is already crooked. Mine is lying somewhere between here and the front door.
He looks ruined and perfect and all mine.
“Fuck,” I growl against his jaw, dragging my teeth along the edge of it as I grind my hips against his, both of us already hard. “You looked so damn good at dinner. I couldn’t fucking think straight.”
He lets out a breathy laugh, rolling his hips. “You kept staring.”
“I didn’t want to stare. I wanted to devour.”
I reach blindly for the knob and turn it. The door opens, and Jackson goes stumbling backward. I hold onto him tight so he doesn’t fall.
We’re both flushed, panting, our suits wrinkled and in disarray. I step away to flip on the floor lamp in the corner, warm light spilling over the room and over him. Shrugging out of my jacket, I toss it on top of the dresser before leaning back against the wood. I cross my arms over my chest and get comfortable.
“Strip.”
“I thought this was supposed to be whateverIwant,” he says cheekily.
“Do you want to be in charge?” I ask with an arch of my brow.
He licks his lips and grins. “No, Sir.”
“Good. Strip.”
Removing his jacket, he places it neatly on the small, cushioned bench behind him. As he works the buttons of his dress shirt, his gaze holds mine, already heavy with lust. He loosens his tie and pulls it off, followed by his shirt. His nipples harden when they meet the cool air, his breaths coming ragged even now. I do my best to control my own breathing, staying firmly in the headspace I need to be in.
By the time he has all his clothes off, his cock hangs hard and heavy between his legs, precum already leaking at the slit. My mouth damn near waters at the sight of him standing there in nothing but his collar, and I have to resist the urge to rub myself through my pants.
“Now open the closet,” I order, surprising myself with how deep and raspy my voice already is.
