“I backed off to save us both,” I continued, quieter now, all the fight draining away. “Because the alternative was losing you completely when you figured out that I've been...” My voice dropped to barely a whisper. “That I've been in love with you since junior year.”
There. Seven years of carefully guarded truth, spilled out in a mosquito-infested jungle. My eyes found a fascinating spot on the ground, unable to look at his face, unable to watch disgust or pity or awkward rejection form in those green eyes.
“What if I feel the same?”
The words were so quiet I almost missed them under the cacophony of night sounds.
My head snapped up. “You’re straight.”
“Half true.” Jackson took a step closer, and I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t process what he was saying. “The straight part was true. The other half... the half that noticed how your eyes are more gold than brown in sunlight, the half that finds excuses to touch you, the half that agreed to this trip because four days of pretending to be yours was better than nothing... that half's been around for a while.”
“Jackson...” My voice broke completely.
“I didn’t want to ruin us either.” Another step closer, close enough that I could see his chest rising and falling too fast. “You’re the most important person in my life, Oliver. Have been for years. And I thought keeping that to myself was better than risking what we had.”
Hope felt dangerous, a wild thing clawing at my chest. “How long?”
“Remember when you got that concussion senior year? Baseball practice?”
“Yeah?”
“You didn’t recognize anyone for three hours. Not Matt, not your mom. But when I walked in, you smiled and said my name like it was the only thing that made sense.” His hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. “That's when I knew I was completely fucked.”
Six years. Six years of both of us dancing around this, terrified of the same thing.
“We’re idiots,” I breathed.
“Complete idiots,” he agreed, and then his mouth was on mine.
Nothing gentle about it, nothing tentative. Jackson kissed like he fixed cars—with complete focus and devastating competence. His other hand found my waist, pulling me against him as his tongue swept across my bottom lip, and seven years of careful control evaporated.
My hands tangled in his hair, still damp with sweat, pulling him closer as he walked me backward until my back hit a tree. The bark was rough through my shirt, Jackson's body pressing against mine, the heat and solidness of him short-circuiting every rational thought.
His mouth moved to my neck, finding that spot just below my ear that made my knees buckle. “Oliver,” he breathed against my skin, and my own name had never sounded like a prayer before.
“Room,” I gasped, though forming complete sentences seemed ambitious when his teeth scraped against my pulse point. “We should…room.”
“Yeah.” But his mouth found mine again, hungry and desperate, like he was trying to make up for six years in a single kiss.
Somehow we started moving, stumbling through the darkness while trying not to break contact. Jackson's hands stayed on me, guiding me around obstacles while his mouth did absolutely devastating things to my ability to walk in a straight line.
Every few steps, one of us would push the other against a tree, unable to go another second without kissing. By the time the resort lights came into view, we were both breathing hard, covered in mosquito bites and sweat, looking exactly like two people who'd been doing inappropriate things in the jungle.
“Your neck,” I said, catching sight of the red marks I’d left above his collar.
“Good.” His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “Want everyone to know.”
The possessiveness in his voice sent heat shooting straight through me.
Getting through the lobby required superhuman self-control. Jackson's hand stayed on my lower back, his thumb stroking just above my waistband in a way that made thinking impossible. The elevator ride felt eternal, other guests making small talk while I tried not to combust from the way Jackson's fingers had slipped just barely under my shirt.
Our room door had barely closed before he pressed me against it, his mouth hot and demanding on mine. “Six years,” he said between kisses. “Six fucking years of wanting this.”
“Could've said something,” I gasped, arching against him.
“So could you.” His hands were under my shirt now, mapping skin like he'd been dying to touch. “Guess we’ll have to make up for lost time.”
Clothing disappeared in pieces—his shirt yanked over his head, mine following seconds later. Bare skin against bare skin made coherent thought impossible. Every nerve ending fired at once, six years of suppressed want erupting into desperate need.
