This is really good. But there are six other people in this room, and Robin keeps glancing over at us with that knowing smirk, and I want him somewhere that's just ours.
"Hey," I say quietly, mouth close to Jason's ear. "Want to get out of here?"
He tips his head back to look at me. "Yeah?"
"My place. It's quieter." I trace my thumb across his knuckles. "If you want."
His breath catches. "Yeah. I want."
We extract ourselves from the couch, and Robin immediately notices because Robin notices everything.
"Leaving already?"
"It's crowded," I say.
"There are literally seven people here."
"Like I said. Crowded."
Robin's grin turns knowing. "Uh huh. Have fun being 'not crowded.'"
"Goodnight, Robin."
"Use protection!"
"I'm going to kill you in your sleep."
"Love you too!"
Jason's laughing as we head for the door, and the sound settles the last of the tension in my shoulders. Outside, the night air is cool and quiet after the noise of the bar. Stars visible overhead, the kind of clear night you don't get in cities.
"Your bike or mine?" he asks.
"Mine. I'll bring you back tomorrow."
Tomorrow. Like it's already decided that he's staying the night. Like that's just how things are now.
He doesn't argue. Just climbs on behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, his chest against my back, and I kick the engine to life.
My place. My bed. My Jason.
Finally.
Chapter 13
Jason
The ride to Ash's place takes ten minutes. It feels like ten hours.
I'm pressed against his back, arms tight around his waist, and I can feel the heat of him through his shirt. The engine rumbles between my thighs, vibration traveling up through my whole body, and I'm acutely aware of everywhere we're touching. His back against my chest. My hands splayed on his stomach. The shift of his muscles as he leans into turns.
I let one hand drift lower, tracing the waistband of his jeans. He groans—I feel it more than hear it—and guns the engine harder.
By the time we pull into his driveway, I'm fully hard and desperate.
He kills the engine and I'm off the bike before he is, helmet already coming off, fingers fumbling with the strap. He takes his time—hanging his helmet on the handlebar, pocketing his keys, rolling his shoulders like he's got all the time in the world.
I want to scream.
