So I don’t even wait for the conversation to die down. I stand up too, muttering some vague excuse as I stretch my back, grabbing my half-full soda and taking a lazy sip just to keep my hands from doing something dumb like reaching for Jacob across the table.
That’s when I glance at him.
And holy fuck.
He’s already looking at me. For half a second, we just stare at each other like we’re caught in this weird little bubble, this secret tension no one else at the table knows about. And then he blinks, cheeks flushing that insane shade of pink that makes me want to shove a chair out of the way and just grab him.
Instead of continuing to stare at the team trainer like an absolute stalker, I leave the room. I already know I need to find a way to get Jacob alone again but I don’t really know how. Or the best way. I was lucky last night because I hadn’t really been expecting anything other than us talking.
But now, knowing that I want him so fucking bad, it feels a little more tense. The idea of just showing up at his room and knocking feels a little more…I don’t know, suspicious, even it really fucking shouldn’t.
I jab the elevator button like it personally pissed me off. I don't even fucking know why I’m this pissed. Maybe because I want something, and it’s not here, not in my hands, not under me, not wrapped around me moaning my name.
The doors slide open and I stalk inside, slamming the button for my floor like that’s gonna make the damn thing move faster. I lean back against the cool metal wall, head thudding once with a hollow clang, and I’m about to stew in my own frustration when-
Jacob fucking steps in.
Right before the doors close.
Great. Just fucking great.
“Hi,” he breathes out, soft and low like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
His eyes drag slowly down my body, past the tight stretch of my t-shirt over my chest, the veins down my arms, my thighs in these stupid athletic shorts that cling just enough to show I’m not exactly lacking.
And yeah, I’m getting hard.
Again.
Fuck me.
It’s like I’m watching from outside myself. One second I’m sulking in a metal box, the next I’ve gone full hard-on in record time. My brain tries to shout something aboutpublic spaceandother people’s eyeballs, but my body’s already moving. My body doesn’t give a shit.
I push into his space, close enough he’s got nowhere to go, his back pressed against the wall, his breath catching. That little hitch in his throat? That gets me grinning.
I want him rattled. I want him squirming. I want him so hard it hurts.
I let my eyes drift over him, that sharp jaw, those stupidly pretty lips, the way his chest rises like he’s trying to play it cool but can’t.
“Hi,” I murmur back, lips twitching in a smirk, because fuck, his gaze is locked right on my mouth like he’s already imagining it on him.
The elevator hums beneath us, just the two of us in this tight little metal box with no escape and no witnesses.
I lean in and kiss him.
It’s not a sloppy or rushed kiss like last night. I kiss him like I know exactly what I want and how to take it, like I’ve been waiting for the green light and now I’m flooring it. My mouth meets his like muscle memory, like gravity’s been pulling us here all along and this is just physics finally catching up.
His lips part, soft and eager, and it’s this perfect fucking mess of heat and pressure. The quiet little sigh he lets out that goes straight to my dick. He shifts slightly and his own hardness presses against my thigh.
And when I finally pull back, because yeah, someone’s gonna need this elevator eventually and I can’t exactly bend him over the handrail, I’m breathing like I just ran suicides.
My stomach does that stupid flip it only ever does when I think about his mouth.
And in the back of my head, underneath all the noise and the need and the muscle-memory lust, I hear this one dumbass thought:
Fuck. I’m so screwed.
Even if it ruins every good decision I ever made in my life.
