Nothing Held Back
The hotel room still held a faint trace of tanner, protein powder, and the warm scent of Jackson’s skin. The window was cracked for fresh air, but I barely noticed. I sat on the edge of the bed, legs apart, arms resting on my thighs. Jackson had been moving around behind me, doing that thing he does where every motion looks easy but somehow deliberate, like his body doesn’t know how to fade into the background. Now the shower was running.
It had only been a month. Thirty-two days, technically, since our first night together. And now here I was, across the country, sharing a hotel suite with Jackson Brannick, fresh off the stage, still wired from the spotlight and his win. Whatever this was, it felt real. Just him and me, even if I was still figuring out how to keep up.
Being with Jackson was like stepping into a powerful current. I was still getting used to what it meant to be carried along, and still adapting to the fact that there was no way to swim against it. The discipline alone was staggering. Six a.m. cardio. Six meals a day. A duffel bag that basically functioned as a mobile kitchen. And the gym, always the gym, like church, but louder. It wasn’t just routine. It was life.
And his body? I had no real framework for it — the kind of build you’d see on a statue if statues could breathe and smirk back at you. But it wasn’t just the size. It was the face, the eyes, the way he carried every room without even trying. Jackson’s presence was its own kind of gravity: muscle, looks, and that quiet confidence that turned heads before he even spoke.
Sometimes I caught myself staring, losing track of whatever thought I’d been holding. It wasn’t that I wanted to match him, no one could. But part of me kept wondering what it said about me, being the one he looked back at. Someone so normal, beside someone like him. I wanted to trust that was enough.
I was still figuring out who I was around him. What it meant to hold my own when the ground kept shifting. Jackson didn’t bend to fit anyone, not even me. Sometimes I wondered if he even knew how easy it was for people to lose their footing around him. But when it counted, he let me know I mattered, in ways I wasn’t used to. Quiet, exact ways. He made space without giving any up. And I’d never met anyone who could do that, so solid in his own skin that it almost made me doubt mine.
About two weeks in, Jackson told me I should come to the show. Like it was obvious I’d fly across the country just to watch him pose in front of strangers. I said yes before I even thought it through. Not because I didn’t want to, just because saying no never crossed my mind.
Still, nothing had prepared me for the reality of competition day.
The venue was packed, humid, chaotic. Dozens of contestants, all tanned to the same copper shade, flexed in mirrors, sipped water, struck poses in every corner. The whole place buzzed with sexual energy disguised as sport. I could barely focus.
Jackson, on the other hand, thrived. He moved through the crowd like he owned it. Even backstage, wearing next to nothing, surrounded by dozens of other muscular men, he was the one people looked at. The one they couldn’t help noticing. And when he won his division — and then the overall — I cheered, loud and stupidly proud. It felt good, watching him step up for the trophies, knowing I was with him.
But the moment it ended, the fans closed in. Strangers angling for pictures, half-whispers about his size, the way a few hands brushed his skin like they had a right to touch him. He laughed it off, grinned for selfies, all easy charm. I stood a few feet back, proud but a little drowned out by it all. Part of me just wanted it over. Wanted him back to myself.
Then came the photo shoot.
It wasn’t jealousy, exactly. The photographer was just doing his job. But the way his hand lingered on Jackson’s hip, the way he adjusted Jackson’s waistband, slow and a little too familiar. I felt that. Felt it in my gut. Jackson didn’t flinch. He just flexed, harder and sharper, giving the camera more to work with. He welcomed the attention. He’d won. He wasn’t just comfortable. He wanted to be seen, touched, admired. And he expected me to get that.
I’d been standing right there. Watching. Waiting. Just somewhere on the edge of it, trying to convince myself that was enough.
Now up in our suite, all was quiet again. The shower shut off, and I could hear Jackson moving around in the bathroom. I imagined him posing briefly, probably checking his hair in the mirror. Everything about him sounded calm. Collected. Like winning had been inevitable. Like this was just another night. We were supposed to be heading out soon, grabbing dinner to celebrate. I was still sitting on the bed, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person. I wasn’t upset. Just unsteady. Like I’d been riding a wave and suddenly couldn’t tell how deep the water was.
Jackson moved around the hotel room, toweling off with the quiet satisfaction of someone who was coming down from the high. The adrenaline of the stage had faded, but the calm it left behind still hung on him. He looked fresh. Collected. At ease. Like someone who’d done exactly what he came to do and didn’t need to prove anything.
I sat near the window, trying not to stare. But my eyes kept dragging back to him. Shoulders, glutes, calves. Every line and plane of muscle moved like it had been carved to catch light. He walked in like being naked didn’t change a thing. Like it was just Jackson being Jackson. My thoughts kept snagging on how he pulled all my focus without even trying. How completely I gave it up for him. When he reached into his suitcase, the muscles in his back flexed, his lats flared like wings, smooth and effortless.
My stomach tightened. I’d spent the whole day pretending it didn’t bother me, how easily people claimed pieces of him. The grins, the flexes, the hands that lingered too long. Now it was just us again, but that edge of jealousy still curled tight in my chest. I couldn’t help it. He made it too easy to want him. Too easy to forget how much of him I’d just shared with everyone else. I hated that part. But I didn’t want to stop craving him, either.
“The photographer seemed to be enjoying himself,” I said, aiming for casual, but sounding bitter. “I thought he might start massaging your pecs. Right there. In front of everyone!”
Jackson didn’t answer. He didn’t even look up. I gave it a beat, then added, “You didn’t even flinch. Didn’t look like you wanted him to stop.”
I hated how small that sounded. But it was true. Watching someone else’s hands on him had crawled under my skin and stayed there.
The silence stretched. He opened a drawer and pulled out something clean. Unbothered. Not ignoring me, just not engaging. Like the comment hadn’t even landed. And maybe it hadn’t.
I shifted in my seat, folding my arms tighter across my chest. The memory of that moment came back to me, the photographer’s smug hand sliding over Jackson’s muscle, like he had every right. Jackson hadn’t even blinked. He had just flexed, given him more to feel. No glance at me, no sign he minded. I hadn’t expected him to make a scene, but I’d wanted something. A flicker in his eyes. Something that said the guy’s hand didn’t belong there.
He still hadn’t looked at me. Just moved around the room, air-drying, like none of it had touched him. I watched the way his traps shifted when he reached for the closet, the veins in his forearms standing out like lines on a map. In that moment, I wanted so badly to touch him. To feel him pull me close again. But all I could feel was how far away he seemed.
“Maybe wear the hoodie tonight,” I said, trying to find my light tone. “The purple one.”
Jackson glanced over his shoulder. His mouth pulled slightly, like I’d said something funny.
“It’s twenty-seven degrees, everyone’s in shorts,” he said.
“So? The sun will be down soon. Besides, I just meant… less attention. Chill the vibe a little.”
He didn’t answer. Just turned back to the dresser and grabbed his phone, tapping the screen like the conversation didn’t need to go anywhere else.
I felt petty for stewing over how people were drawn to him, and stupidly self-conscious about how I couldn’t stop watching him as he moved around me. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t let it go.
“I mean, if you’re planning to strut through the lobby like you're still on stage, you could wear your medal while you’re at it.”
He let out a soft laugh. That low exhale that meant he was amused. And not taking the bait. He set the phone back down, then adjusted the contents of his gym bag with that same calm focus.
I stood and started pacing. The room felt tight, like the walls were inching closer. I caught my reflection in the mirror and winced. Jaw clenched, shoulders tense. I hadn’t meant to pick a fight. I wasn’t even sure what I was trying to get from this. Just… reassurance, maybe. That even if I’d spent the day feeling like an outsider, I still mattered to Jackson.
He turned and looked at me. Finally. He didn’t say anything. But something in his eyes shifted. Amusement, maybe. Or a decision. Then he reached for his posing trunks, flipped them once in his hand.
I frowned. “Thought we were we going out… getting dressed.”
He didn’t answer. Just walked over to the mirror.
“What are you doing?”
“Resetting the tone.”
“I said I was hungry.”
He glanced at me, not mocking, just sure. “Yeah. That wasn’t the loudest thing you were saying.”
He stepped into the trunks like his body was just another tool to reset the room. He stood there a moment, in his bodybuilder’s uniform, shredded and still. Then he started posing. Slowly. A front double biceps. Then side chest. Every muscle lit with precision. I sat back down, hard.
He spoke as he moved.
“They all see this. But they don’t get it.”
He turned, arms raised, back flexed.
“This is mine. My work. My body. Every part of it built with purpose. You’re the one who gets to see the rest.”
I didn’t move. Just watched him. The way his muscles held the pose, the way his body seemed to speak even when he didn’t. It wasn’t about showing off. It was about presence. He knew what this did to me, standing there in nothing but those trunks. And still, he made me look. He made me stay with it. With him. With everything I was feeling.
I swallowed. My mouth was dry. I didn’t know if I wanted to crawl under the bed or wrap myself around him and never let go.
I stood again. Walked to him. After all that I’d said, I wanted to know that I hadn’t crossed a line. I was looking for quiet reassurance. A sign from my man. My hand lifted, my fingers brushed the ridges of his abs, slow and careful. I needed to touch him, to feel the way his muscles reacted to my touch.
“I’m not trying to change you,” I said. The words came out smaller than I meant them to.
He didn’t stop me. But he didn’t lean in either. He just let me feel it, let me remember what I’d been trying to keep pace with.
He responded, “You’re trying to figure out where you fit.”
I nodded.
His expression didn’t change much, but something in him moved forward. Then he traced my wrist and gently lifted my hand away from his abs. Before I could step back, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to my cheek, barely there, but real. Grounding.
Then he stepped away.
“We’ll figure it out. But not like this.”
He turned to the dresser, pulled out a tank, then swapped his posing trunks for a pair of snug athletic shorts that barely skimmed his quads. No underwear. Nothing to soften the effect.
I just stood there, the purple hoodie still clutched in my hands. My one small attempt to shape the night. He’d walked right past it.
“Let’s go eat,” he said, already sliding his phone into his pocket.
~~~~~
We walked side by side down the street. The evening air was warm, still clinging to the last stretch of sunlight. It hit the slope of Jackson’s arms, his skin glowing, his veins raised like his pump hadn’t fully faded. He looked relaxed. Casual. I was anything but. My head was still back in the hotel room, trying to make sense of what had happened. Now we were outside again, and he was back on display. All that presence, all that stature and charisma, just... out in the world. I felt like I was on display too, just by association.
The restaurant was a good size and packed. The buzz of conversation and clinking cutlery filled the air, soft music threading through it. Jackson drew attention before we even made it to the host stand. Heads turned. A guy at the bar nodded like he recognized him, while a couple angled their bodies as we passed. A group of guys in the corner tracked him as we walked by, subtle but obvious.
The hostess lit up the second she saw him. Her smile stretched wide, pupils dilating just a bit.
“Table or booth?” she asked.
Before Jackson could answer, she added with a little laugh, “Booth might be a tight fit. Those shoulders need space.”
I rolled my eyes and said nothing. Jackson just grinned and picked the booth without missing a beat. The hostess practically giggled. She barely looked at me. I followed, already cast as a prop in someone else’s scene.
The booth was tight, but Jackson made no effort to shrink himself. His tank stretched across his chest as he leaned back, one arm draped over the top like he owned the place. I sat across from him, gripping the menu a little too hard. When I glanced up, he was reaching for his water, forearm muscles flexing as he moved. I looked away. Of course I was turned on. I just didn’t want to be obvious about it. Not here.
The waiter showed up not long after — maybe mid-twenties, good-looking in a way he clearly knew how to use. He zeroed in on Jackson like he couldn’t help himself.
“Damn,” he said, grinning. “You are totally rocking that tank top.”
He set down the menus but didn’t look at me once. Just gave Jackson another slow once-over, like he was trying to memorize every inch.
“I was gonna recommend the steak, but... you might need two.”
Then he winked, turned, and sauntered off like it was normal to flirt with your tables.
I watched Jackson take it in stride. The way he smirked back, shoulders pushing a little wider, tank stretching even tighter across his chest. He knew exactly what he was doing, and exactly how good he looked doing it. Part of me wanted to speak up, just tell the waiter to fuck off.
I didn’t, of course. I caught myself glaring at the waiter’s back as he disappeared. Then I looked back at Jackson, wanting him more than ever, and hating that I had to share the view.
A minute later, he returned to take our drink orders. I asked for water. Jackson ordered a White Claw, black cherry.
After that, I barely noticed the guy again. The rest of the room disappeared behind the sound of Jackson’s low chuckle.
I watched him for a few seconds, the way his chest moved when he laughed, the way every subtle shift of his body seemed to draw eyes from all over the room. It hadn’t stopped since we walked in.
I took a breath. “Can I ask you something?”
Jackson didn’t shift. Just nodded, calm. “Of course. What’s got you looking so pensive?”
I hesitated, then let it spill. “What’s it like to walk into a room and have everyone turn their head? Like, literally. Guys watching their girlfriends stare at you and not knowing what to do about it. People doing double takes. Whispering. Trying not to get caught.”
His brow lifted, a glint in his eye, just listening.
“To have people react before you’ve even looked at them. Their eyes on your arms, your chest, the way your shirt barely hides anything. Half of them probably wondering what it’d feel like to touch you. And you’ve done nothing. Just walked in, like it’s normal.”
I shook my head. “It’s not just that they look. It’s how they look. Like they want something. Like they’re pulled in without even understanding why.”
I caught myself, cheeks flushing. “Shit, I’m talking too much. I know I am. I just…” I exhaled. “I couldn’t stop… I mean, it’s been in my head since we sat down.”
Jackson didn’t interrupt. He just kept watching me. Still. Focused. Like he wanted to hear every word. He smirked, barely, his expression shifting with quiet amusement. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”
Heat crawled up my neck. It wasn’t bad. Not really. It was hot as hell, knowing he could walk in and own every stare. But it twisted something in me too. I wanted to have him all to myself, even when I knew I never really could.
I shrugged, eyes dropping to the table. “Depends who’s looking.”
Then, after a beat, his tone settled. “But this isn’t about them.”
My chest tightened. He was cutting straight through the noise.
“You’re not asking about the looks. I think you want to know what it’s like to live in people’s heads without even trying.”
I swallowed. Didn’t deny it.
There was something about the way he said it, calm, free of ego. I wasn’t used to someone seeing me this clearly, or speaking with that kind of precision. He wasn’t just confident. He was perceptive. Grounded.
My throat went dry. He leaned forward a little, elbows on the table, lowering his voice just enough to draw me in.
“You want to know the truth?”
I nodded.
“I don’t think you hate it,” he said, voice smooth, almost casual. “I think it rattles you because it’s the same way you looked at me that day in the student union. And again, that first time in your apartment.”
He didn’t look away. His eyes stayed locked on mine, not blinking, letting the words sink right into my chest. He knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted me to feel it, and I did. My breath caught, and the way he kept holding my stare made something twist low in my gut.
He let it build for another heartbeat, then pressed, quiet but direct.
“Tell me something, Andy. Do you see me flirting back, collecting phone numbers?”
I shook my head, heat crawling up my neck. He was right. He always was.
“I could. And yeah, sure, the attention feels good. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t. But it doesn’t mean anything compared to you. I want your eyes on me. That’s why I asked you to come this weekend. Why I want you right there when I step off that stage, so the first thing I see is you.”
The words landed clean, sharp, undeniable.
Jackson held my gaze for a beat, then did something both infuriating and perfect. He leaned back slightly, rolling his shoulders as his chest swelled, pecs tightening beneath the tank. The fabric stretched, veins rising, striations forming, every line deliberate. A flex, slow and controlled, for me.
Of course, I was staring.
“Something catch your eye, Andy?” he asked, smirking.
“I wasn’t—”
“Of course you were staring.” His smile deepened, knowing and warm. “And I like it.”
My thighs clenched under the table. My whole body was suddenly on high alert.
“You think I’m performing for them,” he said. “But here, with you, they’re just background noise. You’re the only one I’m actually trying to get a reaction out of.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“You don’t have to match my energy,” he added. “But stop trying to mute it. I want you beside me. Not behind me. Not hiding. Beside.”
I let out a shaky breath. “You’re right. I keep getting twisted up about everything around us, about you, the people watching, all of it. But the truth is... it’s me. I don’t know how to be in this world of yours yet.”
He nodded like that was exactly where we needed to land. “You’ll figure it out.”
Then that wicked little smirk returned. “You’re still staring,” he said, scratching the back of his head. He was being casual as hell, except for the way his bicep swelled with the movement.
I made a sound that barely passed for a word.
“You keep looking at me like you want me to bend you over this table.”
My heart slammed into my ribs. Blood surged everywhere at once. My thighs clenched harder. Every part of me was tight and aching and wide open.
I looked up, voice wrecked. “Can we go? Like now?”
And yeah, I meant back to the hotel. But what I really meant was get me out of here and ruin me.
~~~~~~
The restaurant door clicked shut behind us. The night was warm, but I barely noticed. Jackson walked beside me, calm as ever, hands in his pockets. My fingers twitched against my thigh. I was coming undone. And he was… fine.
I watched him out of the corner of my eye. The mass of his shoulders, the way his tank clung to his back. The easy rhythm of his stride. It was impossible to look away. Streetlights skimmed across his arms, highlighting every dip between muscle.
And I was still hard. Aching.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said too fast. “Just… thinking.”
He didn’t press. Just let that smirk curl at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t get stuck in your head, Andy. You’re not gonna find a way out.”
I tried to laugh, but it caught.
At the next red light, he rolled his shoulders. His tank shifted just enough to flash the V-cut at his waist. My eyes followed it down. His shorts sat low on his hips, and all I could think about was getting on my knees.
“You’re staring again,” he said.
I blushed.
We crossed the street. A car rushed by behind us. The walk signal clicked. But I couldn’t feel anything except the arousal building in my body. The way I wanted him. The need that had been simmering since dinner, since before dinner, was now molten.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. My throat stuck. “Back in the room…” My voice broke.
Jackson kept walking. “Yeah?”
I swallowed, breath catching. “I need you. So bad it hurts.”
That stopped him dead.
He turned, eyes locked on mine, calm but amused. A small, knowing chuckle slipped out. “Say it again.”
My face burned. “I need you.”
His smirk spread, wicked and soft all at once. He stepped closer, took my hand, and pressed it right against the hard line straining his shorts. “Good,” he murmured. “Because you’re about to feel how bad I need you too.”
He let go, turned, and started walking again like nothing happened. I stumbled after him, pulse in my ears, every part of me straining to get upstairs faster.
~~~~~~
The hotel room was dim, the air still. Jackson dropped the keycard on the desk. He didn’t even look at me. Just reached for the hem of his tank and peeled it off in one smooth motion. His skin caught the soft light as the fabric came free, muscles gleaming. His breathing stayed steady. He looked like a man made to be stared at, and I couldn’t stop.
I hovered near the bed. My limbs still didn’t feel like they belonged to me. My pulse hadn’t slowed from the walk. I watched him cross to the mirror. He didn’t glance at me once. Just lifted his arms overhead, stretching lazily. His back flared wide, lats framing the ridge of his spine, every muscle moving under the skin in real time. I couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t look away. He looked powerful, relaxed, every part of him begging to be touched. And I knew I would.
He turned toward me, shirt already off, the muscles in his torso catching the low light like they were carved for this exact moment. His eyes met mine,steady, unreadable. He started walking, slowly. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.
“You’re still dressed.” he said, voice quiet but firm. “That’s not gonna work.”
I didn’t move.
He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his skin. He reached for my waistband, fingers brushing just enough to make my cock twitch.
“I’ll do it,” he said. “But if I do… you’d better be ready to say it again.”
My heart pounded. I swallowed. Nodded.
He hooked his fingers into my belt loop and tugged me closer. His other hand slid under my shirt, dragging the fabric up, knuckles grazing my stomach.
“Arms up.”
I raised them without thinking. He pulled the shirt off in one smooth motion, then tossed it aside. His hands dropped to my fly, slow and methodical, never breaking eye contact.
“In the street, you were pleading with me,” he said, voice low. “Said you wanted me to take you.”
I nodded again, shaky now.
“Say it.”
My jeans hit the floor. I kicked them off. My briefs were already wet.
“I want you to take me,” I said, breathless.
He smiled, slow, dark, sure of himself.
“Yeah,” he murmured, pressing his palm flat against my chest, sliding it down, claiming every inch. “Good. I’m going to give you more than you can handle tonight.”
I nodded. My throat was too dry to speak. The air between us was thick, full of breath and tension.
Jackson’s hand didn’t stop. It trailed lower, slow enough that I could feel every shift of his fingers. He ghosted over my cock, just enough to make my hips twitch forward, then slid around to grip my ass. Firm. Intentional. Like he knew exactly what he was about to do to me.
My body melted into him. I leaned forward without thinking, forehead pressed to his chest. He smelled like skin and hotel soap and whatever made me crave him like oxygen. I breathed him in, my body trembling, caught somewhere between shame and gratitude.
Then he stepped back.
Just half a pace. Just far enough to make me look up.
And dropped his shorts.
No theatrics. No words. Just a clean motion, as if undressing were as simple and necessary as taking a breath. His cock was already hard. Thick, veined, angled up slightly from the weight of it. His legs were perfect. The quads were thick and defined, calves flared, every part of him built like he belonged on a stage… and for someone’s mouth.
Jackson just stood there. Glistening under the lights, chest rising slow, steady.
I wanted to drop to my knees. Wanted to worship every inch of him. But I didn’t move. I waited.
Jackson stepped forward again, and before I could blink, his arms wrapped around me and lifted me clean off the ground.
I gasped, clinging to his shoulders. My legs locked instinctively around his waist. His cock pressed hot against my ass, present, undeniable. My own was pinned between us, slick and aching. Jackson stayed exactly where he was. He held me firm, chest solid against mine, arms braced beneath my thighs like I weighed nothing. He didn’t rush. He just let me feel every inch of how ready he was.
Just the strength of a man who could do anything with me, and the patience of one who would take his time doing it.
He turned and carried me to the bathroom. His steps were steady, effortless. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe right. All I could feel was the heat of him against me, his cock pressed where I needed it, his grip firm and sure.
I heard the squeak of the tap. The rush of water hitting tile. The growing hiss of the spray.
Steam began to curl into the air, but he didn’t slow. Didn’t put me down.
“Ever been fucked in a shower?”
My cheek was against his neck. I shook my head. “No.”
“I’m gonna fix that!”
Jackson slid the shower door open and reached under the spray to test the temperature. Satisfied, he stepped in, still carrying me like nothing about this needed to hurry.
My back hit the warm tile with a soft gasp. Water crashed over my shoulders, spilled down my chest, but all I could focus on was him. The weight of him was pressing close, the heat in his eyes even hotter than the steam.
He held my thighs firm, adjusting his grip, palms spreading against my skin like he was learning me all over again. Droplets clung to his shoulders, traced the ridges of his chest, caught in the valley between his pecs. He felt huge in the close space, so calm it rattled me.
I clung tighter, knees digging into his sides, my arms locked around his neck. He didn’t rush. He just looked at me, eyes steady, as if daring me to flinch first.
His mouth hovered near mine, so close I could taste the heat of his breath. His grip on my thighs tightened, a quiet warning that I wasn’t going anywhere. When he finally kissed me, it wasn’t rushed. It was deep, claiming, like he had all night to drag every sound out of me.
His tongue slid past my lips, slow at first, then greedier when I moaned into him. The steam wrapped around us but all I could feel was him — the deliberate way he angled his mouth, the soft drag of his teeth on my lower lip, the steady press of his chest pinning me just enough to keep me exactly where he wanted me.
I gasped when his hips rolled once, brushing right where I needed him most. My fingers dug into his wet shoulders, clutching him like I might slip away if he didn’t keep holding me up.
He paused just long enough to meet my eyes. Those clear blue eyes pinned me there, heat and something tender flickering behind them, something only I ever got to see. His forehead pressed to mine, noses brushing, breath mixing with steam.
“You ready?” he murmured, low and certain, like he already knew the answer.
I nodded, breath hitching. “Always.”
His grip tightened. One slow, deliberate shift of his hips lifted me higher against the tile. The blunt head of him pressed exactly where I needed it, the stretch as familiar as it was overwhelming. My pulse thudded so loud I was sure he could feel it against his chest.
He lowered me onto him inch by inch, slow and careful, like he was reminding me this wasn’t just fucking — this was us. My fingers locked behind his neck. I buried my face against his cheek, a raw sound tearing from my throat when he bottomed out with one steady push.
He didn’t move right away. He held me there, full, breathless, his hands under my thighs and his mouth near my ear.
“Perfect,” he whispered, almost to himself. “You’re perfect.”
A tremor ran through me, too much and not enough all at once. I turned my face until our lips brushed again. “Fuck me. Please.”
Jackson did so, on his terms. The first thrust was patient, testing my limit, the drag of him inside me almost too good to handle. I moaned helplessly, my legs tightening at his waist as he pulled back just enough to build the friction before driving back in, deep and sure.
The shower drowned out every other sound except him, the slap of our skin, his breath stuttering against my neck, my gasps breaking apart against his mouth every time he pushed in harder.
His rhythm shifted — deeper, steadier, so good I could barely think. Every thrust landed with just enough weight to drag me closer to the edge, but never all the way. My fingers dug into his shoulders. My legs trembled around his waist.
“Jackson… please…” The word slipped out before I could stop it.
He chuckled against my throat, low and quiet. His hips slowed, almost still. I felt him deep inside me, thick and pulsing, but he held back, refusing to give me that last push.
“Please what?” he murmured. His lips brushed my ear. His voice was soft, so calm it made my insides twist tighter. “Tell me what you want.”
I tried to move against him, desperate for friction, but his hands locked me in place. My breath broke into sharp little gasps.
“Jackson, don’t— don’t stop, please, I can’t—”
His teeth grazed my jaw. He pressed in just enough to make me feel how close I was, then pulled back again. Controlled. Cruel in the sweetest way.
“You’re not ready yet,” he said, like he was reminding me who decided when. His mouth skimmed mine, a tease instead of a kiss. “You want it?”
I could barely form words. The water pounded around us, steam blurring the glass, but all I could see was him, steady and sure, holding me right at the edge of falling apart.
“I want to come,” I breathed, voice breaking on it. “Please, Jackson… I need you to make me come. Please, I can’t—”
That did it.
He gave me a smile that was almost gentle, then he drove in deep, hard, the force of it punching a cry from my throat. My whole body tightened around him, heat roaring up my spine. He kept going, holding me pinned and open, pushing me through it like he wanted to feel every shudder.
When it hit, it felt endless. I came so hard I couldn’t hear myself, just the rush of water, the low growl in his chest, the slap of our skin. I pulsed against his stomach, between us, sticky warmth spilling into the steam.
Only then did I feel him give in. His hips drove in deep, locking us together so tight I couldn’t breathe. One hand slid up my back, splaying wide between my shoulder blades, pressing me closer like he needed every inch of me wrapped around him when it hit.
He pulled back just enough to look at me — eyes blown wide, mouth parted, breath breaking on my lips. For a heartbeat, I could see exactly how close he was to coming apart. No swagger. No control. Just him.
“Andy—” He barely got my name out before his body tensed, cock pulsing deep inside me as the first wave tore through him. A rough groan rumbled up from his chest, his forehead tipping against mine as he spilled, twitching with every pulse.
I felt it all. The heat, the tremor in his arms, the stutter of his breath against my mouth. My hands threaded into his wet hair, holding him right there while he finished, whispering his name back to him like a promise I didn’t even have words for.
When it passed, he didn’t let go. He stayed buried inside me, chest heaving, eyes still locked on mine like he wasn’t ready to look away yet.
The steam wrapped around us, soft and unreal, and for a moment, nothing existed but the two of us, breathing each other in.
His thumb brushed my hip. Mine dragged over the ridge of his pec, watching how the water trailed down the muscle. Everything in me was loose, open. I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if I needed to.
He glanced down, eyes catching on the come streaking his abs.
Then he looked up again, and that crooked smile broke through.
“Next time you wonder where you stand, remember who had you up against this tile, wide open, and came so deep you’re still dripping.”
I didn’t answer.
I just leaned in and kissed him.
~~~~~~
I woke to warmth.
Jackson was still asleep beside me, flat on his back, arms relaxed at his sides, chest rising in a slow, steady rhythm. His head was turned slightly toward me, jaw slack with sleep, blond hair damp where it stuck to his forehead. The sheets were tangled at our waists. His thigh brushed mine.
I sat up, careful not to wake him. My whole body ached in the best way, muscles sore, every nerve still humming from how thoroughly he’d ruined me. I couldn’t stop looking at him. The broad sweep of his shoulders, the sculpted shelf of his pecs rising and falling with each slow breath, the thick traps framing his neck like armor. Even asleep, he looked powerful, impossibly solid, with just enough rough stubble along his jaw to make him look like a prizefighter who’d stayed too long in my bed. He was beautiful in a way that almost didn’t feel real, and mine in a way I didn’t doubt for a second.
I reached out, needing more than looking. Just a few fingers at first, tracing the curve of one trap where it knotted into his shoulder. Dense muscle under warm skin. My touch moved slow, reverent without meaning to be, mapping every inch I could reach while he slept. I didn’t want to wake him. We were still deep in that honeymoon phase, and I just needed to feel him, to remind myself last night hadn’t been a dream.
I reached out, needing more than looking. Just a few fingers at first, tracing the curve of one trap where it knotted into his shoulder. Dense muscle under warm skin. My touch moved slow, reverent without meaning to be, mapping every inch I could reach while he slept. I didn’t want to wake him. We were still deep in that honeymoon phase, and I just needed to feel him, to remind myself last night hadn’t been a dream.
His voice rumbled low, rough with sleep but clear enough to make my breath catch.
“I love how you touch me. Like you’re still trying to figure out every part.”
My hand stilled on his chest. He didn’t smile, not at first. Just watched me with that soft, unguarded look he never gave anyone else. Something warm bloomed in my chest. I couldn’t help it — I smiled back, cheeks flushed with quiet pride.
“Maybe I am,” I whispered.
Then I traced him again, slower, and lower this time, because I knew we had a few hours until check-out.
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