"Bed," Jackson growled against my throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.
Moving required coordination neither of us possessed. We stumbled across the room, mouths fused together, hands mapping newly exposed territory. The backs of my knees hit the mattress and Jackson followed me down, his weight pressing me into those expensive sheets.
Moonlight through the windows painted his skin silver-blue, highlighting the lean muscle I’d only glimpsed before. My hands traced the ridges of his abdomen, feeling them contract under my touch. A soft groan escaped him when my fingers found the trail of dark hair leading below his waistband.
"Wanted this for so long," he breathed against my collarbone, tongue tracing patterns that made my hips arch up involuntarily.
His mouth traveled lower, his lips and tongue worshipping each inch of exposed skin. When he reached my nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, a sound I’d never made before tore from my throat. Jackson's answering moan vibrated against my ribs.
"So responsive," he murmured, switching to the other side while his hand continued the sweet torture on the first. "Love the sounds you make."
My fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close as he worked his way down my body. Each kiss, each scrape of teeth, felt like claiming. Like he was marking territory he'd wanted for years.
When his fingers hooked into my waistband, I lifted my hips without hesitation. The cool air against heated skin made me gasp, but Jackson's groan drowned out the sound.
"Fuck, Oliver." His hands skimmed up my thighs, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to where I desperately needed him to touch. "You’re perfect."
Perfect wasn’t a word I’d associate with myself, but the reverence in his voice made me believe it. His mouth followed the path of his hands, kissing the inside of my thigh while I tried not to thrust up desperately.
"Please," emerged as barely more than a whisper.
Jackson's eyes met mine, dark with want. "Tell me what you need."
Words failed completely when his breath ghosted over my cock. My hands fisted in the sheets, body trembling with the effort of holding still.
"This?" His tongue traced a line from base to tip, and my vision whited out momentarily. "Been thinking about this. How you’d taste. How you’d sound."
Coherent response became impossible when his mouth engulfed me. Wet heat and perfect pressure, his tongue doing things that definitely violated several laws of physics. My hips bucked involuntarily, but his hands held me steady, controlling the pace with devastating patience.
"Jackson, fuck—" Language devolved into gasps and moans as he took me deeper, and the sight of his lips stretched around my cock was almost enough to end things immediately.
Pulling him off took monumental effort, but the confused, almost hurt look in his eyes made me rush to explain. "Want to taste you too."
Understanding dawned, followed by a groan that seemed pulled from somewhere deep. We rearranged ourselves on the bed, and then his cock was in front of me, hard and leaking, and my mouth literally watered.
The first taste of him on my tongue—salt and musk and something uniquely Jackson—made us both moan. His cock jumped in my mouth as I took him deeper, learning what made his breath catch, what made his hips stutter forward.
"Your mouth," he gasped, one hand tangling in my hair. "Fuck, Oliver, your mouth."
Pride surged through me at reducing him to fragments. My own arousal pressed against his leg as I worked him with lips and tongue, taking him as deep as I could manage before pulling back to trace the sensitive head.
His hand on my hip guided me to shift position, and then his mouth was on me again. Rational thought became a distant memory. We found a rhythm, giving and taking in equal measure, six years of pent-up desire pouring into every touch.
When Jackson pulled away, I almost protested, but then he was kissing me deeply, our tastes mingling on our tongues.
"Need to be inside you," he said against my mouth, and those five words nearly undid me completely. "Can I—do you want—"
"Yes." No hesitation, no doubt. "God, yes."
Watching him reach for his toiletry bag, pulling out supplies he'd obviously hoped we’d need, made my heart race. He'd wanted this. Had prepared for the possibility.
"How long have you been carrying those around?" Teasing felt safer than acknowledging the emotion threatening to overwhelm me.
"Three months." No shame in his voice, just honest admission. "Started right after you began pulling away. Kept hoping..."
My throat tightened. "Jackson."
"Shh." He kissed me softly, tenderly. "We’re here now."
