When You Can’t Look Away
I hadn’t meant to lose it in the library. But that’s exactly what happened. I’d let him get close. Closer than anyone had a right to get. And in less than a minute, he’d broken something open in me. I hadn’t said yes. I hadn’t said no. And somehow, barely even touching me, he made me come harder than I had in my entire life. That couldn’t happen again.
Not even 48 hours later, I sent the text. You around tonight? Want to talk?
I stared at the screen for a while before sending it, wondering if I should pad it with something, an emoji, or a second line, anything to soften the edges. But no. We were going to talk. Like adults.
It wasn’t until after I hit send that I realized what I’d done. I’d invited him to my apartment. To where I lived. The place I kept separate from everything else.
I stood in the center of the room and looked around. It was the same grad residence layout everyone else had, but mine felt different, an oasis I came back to after long days of reading and writing. It wasn’t stylish, but it was mine. And now he was going to see it.
I picked up a little, dusted a few shelves. Not because it needed it, but because I didn’t like how exposed I felt. I’d accidentally offered up a part of myself without knowing what he’d do with it. I fluffed the cushions. Adjusted the lamp. Wiped the counter.
And somewhere in there, I stopped and asked myself ‘Why do I care so much?’
I wasn’t trying to impress him. I just didn’t want to feel like I’d already lost ground before he walked through the door.
There was a knock.
I crossed the room and glanced in the mirror. I hesitated for half a second before opening the door.
There he was.
Jackson didn’t have to say anything. He just stood there, calm and grounded, shoulders squared under a fitted sweater that somehow made him look even broader. I noticed a chain, the way the V-neck dipped low across his chest, revealing the top of his pecs and the glint of silver nestled against his skin. No undershirt. Just warm skin and heavy muscle, framed by wool. His sleeves were pushed up, exposing thick forearms that made the knit look like an afterthought.
He met my eyes and didn’t look away. He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. He just held the moment like it belonged to him.
My throat went dry.
This was my space. I’d invited him here. I was supposed to be in control. But with him standing there, not even trying, everything I’d rehearsed felt brittle.
I stepped aside to let him in.
He moved past me without a word. He already knew he was welcome.
I closed the door behind him.
Jackson moved slowly through the apartment. He didn’t head straight for the couch or ask where to sit. He just… wandered, unhurried. One hand brushed the back of my armchair. The other stayed casually in his pocket. The sweater stretched across his muscular frame making me wonder what it would be like to go clothes shopping with him.
My eyes went straight to his chest. The neckline of his sweater dipped just low enough to reveal a stretch of smooth, warm-toned skin. A silver chain rested between his pecs, settled right in the crease of thick, striated muscle. His chest rose slowly, the fabric lifting with it, shaped by a body that didn’t need to show off to be seen. I blinked, tried to refocus. He wasn’t flexing. Wasn’t even looking at me. But every part of him demanded attention. I told myself to stop staring. I just couldn’t listen. And I hated that.
He moved through the space with a slow intensity. Watching him made me feel like I was playing with fire. Like I’d struck a match just to see what would catch.
“You dressed up,” I said, aiming for dry and detached. But I could hear the hesitation in my own voice.
Jackson glanced over his shoulder. Smirked. “You invited me over.”
Simple. Like that explained everything.
I cleared my throat. Tried again.
“Right… I did. I mean... about that. The other day, you know… in the lounge. And the library. That wasn’t okay, what went down.”
He turned a little, one eyebrow lifted, half amused. “Didn’t hear you complaining.”
“I mean... just because I didn’t say stop—”
“Didn’t feel like you wanted me to stop,” he said, watching me. “You were making all kinds of sounds… but none of them were ‘no’.”
Then, softer, almost curious. “Was that the first time something like that’s ever happened to you?”
I froze.
He didn’t push. Didn’t repeat the question. Just watched me. Steady. Present.
The air got thick.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
But that didn’t stop him.
He took a half step forward, just enough that I felt the heat coming off him. His presence landed differently now. It pinned me in place. He watched me, calm and steady, while I struggled to hold myself together.
His voice stayed even. “So what were you thinking? Feeling? Right then. To make you come so hard, without me even touching you?”
That hit lower. Deeper.
My jaw tightened. I looked away. My mind scrambled for a line, an explanation, something I could say that would make this feel less raw.
But there was nothing.
And Jackson didn’t seem to mind. He just stood there, letting me squirm.
Just letting the silence do the work.
I could still feel it, his thigh between mine, his breath at my ear, the weight of his body braced against me in the stacks. I’d given in. Not with words, with my body. With the way I’d felt, like something in me had cracked open, leaving me exposed, and so turned on I could barely catch my breath.
I tried to steady myself. To say something that would break the spell.
But nothing made it out.
His eyes flicked down to my chest, then back to my face. Reading everything I wasn’t saying.
I turned slightly, pretending I needed space, but I didn’t go far. Just enough to see him differently. From the side. From enough distance that I thought maybe I’d regain perspective.
I didn’t.
The sweater shouldn’t have mattered. Just a fitted knit in soft gray. But the way Jackson wore it was something else entirely. It clung to his arms as they shifted, the sleeves stretching slightly across his shoulders when he reached up to push his hair back. The fabric gave just enough to show what was underneath. And that made it worse.
My eyes landed there. Stayed too long.
When I caught myself, I looked away and exhaled, sharp and low.
“Subtle,” I muttered, letting my eyes flick back to his chest before I could stop myself.
He followed the glance, then looked at me again. One brow lifted. “I wasn’t trying to be.”
I folded my arms, hoping it would distract from the fact that I’d just been caught staring. He didn’t press, but he didn’t look away either.
But then he did the same. Folded his arms across that chest, pulling the fabric even tighter. His pecs lifted, heavy and full. His biceps pressed in toward his torso, thick and crowded, like they didn’t quite fit inside his frame.
It was just one small move, folding his arms. But it transformed him. Broader. Bigger. Close enough to impossible that I didn’t know where to look.
Again, I stared too long.
He didn’t call me on it. Not in so many words. He just raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”
“What?” I hesitated.
“You keep checking me out.”
My pulse jumped. “I am not.” Too fast. Too sharp. Like the denial had been waiting.
He let the silence ride for a beat, then chuckled softly. That low, warm sound that somehow made it worse.
“Sure,” he said, dragging the word out, watching me closely. His smile barely curved, but it cut right through me. “So it’s not the chain? Not the arms? Not the way this sweater stretches when I breathe?”
My eyes dropped to his arm before I could stop them. His bicep shifted beneath the sleeve, the thick vein running along it pressing up against the knit. It was bold, unmistakable. He was daring me to keep looking. Or look away, if I could.
I opened my mouth. Closed it again. I wasn’t sure which lie to pick. And thank god he didn’t ask the real question. I didn’t know what I would’ve done if he’d asked if I was hard.
He inched closer. Just enough to free me from my trance. I looked up at him.
He tilted his head slightly. “What is it, then? Just me standing here?”
It clicked then. He’d worn this on purpose.
Without thinking, I softly gasped, “You’re wearing that for me…”
He gave the smallest nod. Smile flickering at the corners. “You think I haven’t noticed what gets you flustered?”
His fingers lifted to the chain where it nestled in the centre of his chest.
“This isn’t fair,” I said, before I could stop myself. It came out soft. Almost hoarse.
His gaze didn’t waver. “Look at me,” he said. “Does anything about this seem fair?”
I didn’t answer.
He already knew.
I turned my back to the weight of his gaze, pretending I needed something from the windowsill, from the air, from anywhere else. I wasn’t sure what I thought I’d find. My pulse was pounding, shallow in my throat, and my hands had gone cold. It felt like I’d stepped outside myself, watching some flimsier version of me scramble to pull it together.
I was the one who’d invited him over. I was the one who said we needed to talk.
But Jackson hadn’t said a word since, Does anything about this seem fair?
And he didn’t need to.
I heard the quiet scuff of his shoes on the hardwood behind me before I felt the heat.
He didn’t rush. He just moved in, slow, quiet, inevitable.
By the time I turned, he was there. Closer than I expected. Close enough to feel the difference in size, in energy. He didn’t speak. He didn’t reach for me. He just stood in my space, letting me feel the decision I hadn’t made yet settle over my skin.
I tried to say something. To reroute the moment.
Maybe: We should talk.
Maybe: This isn’t why I asked you here.
Maybe: I have a boyfriend.
But all of them died somewhere behind my teeth.
His eyes flicked down to my chest, then back to my face, understanding what I couldn’t bring myself to admit.
He didn’t ask permission. He just stayed still, close, undeniable. Like he knew his presence would do the rest.
I don’t know what made me do it. Maybe I just needed proof he was real.
My hand lifted, slow and uncertain, like even gravity wasn’t sure what I was doing. I reached for his chest, hesitant yet deliberate, testing an unspoken boundary. My fingers brushed the knit of his sweater, then settled there, right at the center of him. Right where the warmth was most concentrated.
He didn’t move. His chest rose gently beneath my palm, steady and powerful, like the slow breath of someone who already knew how this was going to play out.
The fabric was soft, but the body underneath wasn’t. Dense. Unyielding. Alive. I could feel the shape of him through it. The firm curve of his pec, the hard line where they split down the center, the faint twitch of muscle under my touch. A pulse of heat moved through me, sharp and electric.
I didn’t want to let go.
My fingers drifted lower, trailing down the line of his sternum, toward the hem of the sweater. I paused there, caught between wanting more and not knowing what would happen if I reached for it.
Then I tried to pull away. Not like I was retreating. Just... curious. Like I wanted to see if I still could.
Jackson’s hand closed around my wrist. Firm and steady. Like he didn’t need to grip any harder to remind me how much stronger he was.
There was no warning in it. No force. Just... presence.
I gave a light tug. Curious. Testing.
He didn’t budge. Didn’t even blink.
His grip didn’t shift at all. He just held there, confident and certain. He wasn’t holding me to stop me, just to show me he could.
Then he looked at me. Raised one eyebrow, faint and slow.
Not smug. Just... knowing.
It landed like a challenge. He didn’t need to say anything. He was just waiting for me to figure it out.
I glanced down at where his hand wrapped around mine. He didn’t have to squeeze. The size alone made it clear I wasn’t going anywhere. My eyes followed the line of his bare forearm, the skin tight over thick cords of muscle that shifted as he held me, just enough to make me wonder what the rest of him felt like under that sweater.
I pulled again. Firmer. Just to feel his strength.
He didn’t move.
My breath hitched.
He wasn’t flexing. He wasn’t even thinking about it. And still, I couldn’t move him an inch.
Something in my chest fluttered. Panic or desire, I couldn’t tell.
I wasn’t used to feeling outmatched. Not like this. Not this quietly. The difference in size. The weight in his body. The calm power in his grip.
And the worst part? It didn’t scare me. It made my skin prickle. Made my stomach twist. Made the front of my jeans feel too tight.
I didn’t want to be overpowered. But something in me thrilled at the idea of being held like that.
Then his voice broke the silence, casual and devastating.
“You wanna arm wrestle later?” he said, smirking. “I’ll let you pick the hand.”
The line hit me low, unexpected. I felt my face flush, fast and hot.
I ducked my head slightly, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
Then, with that same unbothered calm, he guided my hand back to his chest. Like the whole exchange had never happened. Like he already knew I’d follow.
“Don’t pretend you don’t want to,” he murmured, voice low and calm.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Not because I was scared. Because I didn’t mind losing to him like this.
He flexed gently under my palm, muscle rising to meet my touch. Dense and warm. Daring me not to react.
And I did.
My fingers moved without thinking, tracing the curve of his pec, feeling the give of it under pressure. Not soft. Never soft. Just thick, intense power beneath my hand, every inch of him packed and waiting. The knit of the sweater shifted under my fingertips as I pressed in, mapping the shape of him. I could feel the grooves, the way the muscle tensed and settled, like it wasn’t sure whether to yield or hold firm.
He kept his fingers lightly around my wrist.
Then he guided my hand back to the center of his chest, placing it exactly where it had been. Like nothing had changed.
But it had.
He looked at me, steady and unreadable. No edge. Just a quiet weight that settled between us. Then he spoke, soft and certain.
“You know, Andy, it’s not just anyone I let touch me like this.”
I didn’t move. I couldn’t speak.
I realized he was letting me in.
And in that second, I felt more seen than I was ready for.
Jackson let go of my wrist. He didn’t need to hold it anymore. My hand stayed exactly where he’d left it, pressed flat against his chest, fingertips brushing the sweater stretched tight over muscle.
Then he moved around me.
Each step seemed casual, but I could feel the intention in it. He shifted his weight, angling toward me. One forearm braced against the counter beside my hip. His free hand dropped low, relaxed but close, adding to the quiet pressure of his body in my space.
And just like that, the room felt smaller.
The space between us was gone.
His warmth pressed in from every angle. His arm brushed mine as he leaned in.
He wasn’t holding me. He didn’t need to. But his presence landed heavy, like gravity had shifted and I was pinned without force.
My eyes flicked up to his face, then down again.
Chest. Arms. That silver chain glinting against skin where the sweater dipped low.
I didn’t know where to look. I didn’t want to look away.
Jackson tilted his head slightly, watching me squirm without saying a word.
My fingers twitched where they hovered near his side, and I shifted without meaning to. A subtle tilt, barely enough to shift my weight. And I knew he noticed. The way his eyes dipped, then held. Like he was watching something fall into place.
Then he spoke. “You didn’t just want to talk.” Soft. Certain.
I tried to answer. I wanted to. All I managed was a small shake of my head.
He smiled. Just enough to make me feel it.
“You like the sweater?” he asked, offhand. Like it wasn’t already obvious.
I nodded. My throat was too tight for anything more.
He leaned in, just enough that I could feel the warmth of his voice against my skin.
“Want to see what’s under it?”
No wink. No teasing. Just a question that felt inevitable.
I didn’t say yes.
But I leaned in. Just enough for him to feel it.
And he smiled like that was all the answer he needed.
Jackson didn’t say anything else.
He just stood there, watching me.
Then his hands dropped to the hem of his sweater. Fingers hooking under, slow and steady. Like he knew I’d watch either way.
The sweater lifted inch by inch, dragging up over his abs. Each ridge cut and deep, like the lines have been carved by hand. His skin was smooth and tanned, every inch catching the apartment light like it had been waiting to be seen.
Higher still. The fabric clung to his chest before slipping free, snagging slightly over the swell of his pecs. He raised his arms overhead to pull it off completely, and every muscle moved with him. His shoulders stretched, biceps tightened, and back flared wide.
I felt lightheaded.
The sweater dropped. His chain fell back into place with a soft clink, settling in the centre of his chest.
He stood there, bare from the waist up, half-lit by the glow of the room. Massive.
I couldn’t breathe.
Jackson just let the silence thicken between us, charged and waiting.
Then, low, calm, and certain. “You’re gonna enjoy this.”
He just stood there, shirtless, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Clearly enjoying what it was doing to me.
I felt too flustered to say anything.
Instead, I stood there, staring. The light hit him from the side, and every part of him looked like it had been sculpted to be seen. His shoulders wide and impossibly round, pecs high and full, abs sharp and cut. There was a calm to it. Not a performance. Just presence. The way his chest rose slowly with each breath.
On some level, I knew I should look away. That I should reset the tone, somehow.
None of this felt accidental.
And maybe that’s what stopped me. Not just how he looked, but that he was letting me see it. All of it. Without hesitation, without flexing, without checking to see if I was impressed. Like this was something he was giving me. Like I already belonged in the room with it. And I didn’t know what to do with that.
He stood there, still, letting me process what he was sharing with me, bare, composed, unapologetically muscled. He was giving me time to take it in.
And that’s when the words came out.
“I’m seeing someone,” I blurted.
His gaze didn’t shift. Didn’t twitch. Nothing.
“Kind of,” I added, immediately regretting it.
I hadn’t planned to say it. Hadn’t planned to say anything. But there it was, just to remind me this was real.
Jackson took a breath, then slowly stepped closer, not even pretending to back off. His chest filled my vision now, the chain glinting, drawing my eye again. Standing there, I felt small, my resolve was slipping fast.
He looked at me like he could already see the shape of my thoughts. Like he didn’t need to ask what kind of boyfriend I had, or how serious it was. He could read it all on my face.
His voice, when it came, was quiet.
“You think that’s going to stop me from making you forget his name?”
I blinked. My stomach twisted.
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile. Just said it like it was fact. Like he’d already decided how this was going to go.
I opened my mouth, trying to find some kind of rebuttal, something that would make this make sense.
But then he reached for me, lightly brushing his fingers down my arm. A single slow drag from elbow to wrist, like he was grounding me. Or maybe checking if I was still trembling.
“I know what you felt,” he said. “In the library. In the lounge. Just now.”
He moved closer, and this time his hand landed on my waist, warm and easy, like he was checking if I’d pull away.
I didn’t.
He tilted his head, meeting my gaze, smirking slightly. “Does thinking of him make you hard? Does he make you come undone?”
I swallowed. “You’re trying to mess with my head.”
His hand slid to the small of my back. He leaned in, voice low. “No. I’m just saying what you won’t.”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to say something that would reset the balance. But my body had already moved, pressing closer, my head tilting up.
And then he kissed me.
Soft at first. Like the kiss itself had weight. Like he was letting me feel how good it could be, how quiet it could be, when someone kissed you like they knew what you needed before you did.
I melted into it. I didn’t mean to. I just—
My hands found his shoulders. My mouth opened. My knees went weak.
He deepened the kiss, slowly, guiding the rhythm, holding me up like he knew exactly how fast I’d spiral if he didn’t.
And I realized… I didn’t want to stop him.
I was still breathing hard when he pulled back. My hands were still on him, clinging, really, gripping his arms like I wasn’t ready to let go. And I wasn’t.
I couldn’t even look at him right away. My chest was rising too fast, and I could feel the flush creeping up my neck. My lips were parted and I had no idea what I was about to say. Or do.
He looked at me like I was something worth pausing for.
Then his hand slipped beneath the hem of my shirt. His palm was warm, sure, spreading across my stomach, and I felt everything clench.
“You don’t need this anymore,” he said, quiet, grounded.
I raised my arms.
He peeled the shirt off slowly. His knuckles grazed my skin as he lifted it over my head, the fabric catching at my shoulders before he eased it free. It hit the floor, and I was standing there, bare from the waist up, trying not to shift under his gaze.
I stood there, slender, lean, some might even say fit. But beside Jackson, looking up at him, I felt small. Unsure. Still, he looked at me like I belonged there. Like he was enjoying what he saw.
I dropped my eyes. Didn’t know where to put them. My fingers twitched at my sides, and I fought the instinct to fold in, to hide.
He reached out to me. One hand traced across my chest, the other brushed along my side. His touch was light, but it burned. I felt myself tense, a tremble starting just beneath the surface.
When his fingers skimmed my ribs, I flinched, just a little, but I held my ground. I didn’t want him to stop.
His thumbs dragged across my chest, then down toward my waistband. I thought I might jump out of my skin. He just explored. Like he already knew how much I was feeling and wanted me to sit with it.
He was choosing every touch, every pause, like he knew how to stoke the tension without ever pushing. And it was working. I could feel it in my chest, in the way I couldn't catch a full breath.
“Not bad,” he murmured, voice almost teasing. “You take care of yourself.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “I run.”
He nodded, his finger still dragging over me. “Yeah. I can tell.”
Despite, or maybe because of, his playful tone, I looked away. I was feeling vulnerable, being seen like this. Not just touched. Seen. My throat felt tight, like something unsaid was caught there.
“You always get this tense when your shirt comes off?” he asked.
“Not usually,” I said. Then, quieter, “But I’ve never been half-dressed in front of a walking wet dream.”
He grinned. “That so?”
My stomach flipped. I regretted the words the second they were out, but it was too late.
“Don’t make it a thing,” I said, hoping it would land like a joke.
“Too late.”
He leaned in and kissed my neck. His lips barely brushed me, but it short-circuited my thoughts.
Then he pulled back, hands still warm against my waist.
“You nervous?” he asked.
I swallowed, answering quickly. “No.”
But I was.
“Well… yeah,” I admitted. “A little.”
My chest felt tight under his palm. Everything in me was thrumming. I was nervous. Not because I didn’t want this, but because I did.
He rested his hand over my heart, thumb brushing lightly.
“Yeah… I can feel that.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Then he smiled, almost soft. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”
I thought he was going to kiss me again. He dipped lower and I leaned in without thinking, my body tilting toward his like it already knew what came next.
But Jackson had something else in mind. His arms slid around my waist and before I could ask what he was doing, he lifted me off the ground.
I let out a shocked breath that landed somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. My hands flew to his shoulders, more out of instinct than protest. He was strong. I knew that. But this? Lifting me like I weighed nothing? That was something else.
“Seriously?” I managed.
He didn’t answer. Just straightened, steady and smug, one arm braced under my thighs, the other locked behind my back. My bare chest pressed against his shoulder. I could feel his skin against mine, warm and impossibly solid. Every part of me buzzed.
It should’ve felt ridiculous. Embarrassing. But it didn’t. It felt right. Like something I wasn’t ready for and somehow wanted anyway.
“Jackson—”
“Relax,” he said, already carrying me towards my bedroom. His voice was low, pleased with himself.
“You wanted to see what it’s like, right?”
“See what?”
“What it feels like when I play for keeps.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t think straight from how effortlessly he moved, how sure he was.
He walked like it was nothing to carry me.
When he set me down on the bed, I had to steady myself with a hand behind me. The mattress dipped and I blinked up at him, breath catching. I was flushed, a little stunned. I thought about saying something snarky. Something to make this feel more casual than it was. But I didn’t.
“Okay, muscles.” I said. “That was… unnecessary.”
He stepped between my knees, standing close enough to make it hard to think. “Maybe,” he said. “But it worked.”
I didn’t argue. Because he was right.
He dropped his hand to his belt. Paused. Met my eyes.
“You want this off?”
There was no teasing in his voice. Just the weight of possibility.
I nodded. A little too quickly. My mouth was dry.
He smiled. Just a little. “Then come get it.”
I reached for his belt, slow and deliberate, my gaze level with the hard line of his abs. He towered over me, still and quiet, letting me come to him.
My knuckles brushed his stomach as I moved. His skin was warm, smooth, solid beneath my fingers. I felt the breath catch in my throat.
I slipped the belt from the buckle, easing it open, then worked the button free. The zipper came last, slow but loud in the silence between us.
I looked up, to see if he was still watching. He was. Focused. Steady. Giving me all the space I needed, and none at all.
He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.
His pants didn’t just slide down. I had to work them over his thighs, slow and careful, easing the fabric past the bulk of his quads. The material clung to him, snug and resistant, like it didn’t want to let go. My fingers grazed muscle that was dense, hot, and alive under the surface. I could feel the heat rolling off him. It made my hands shake.
Finally, they dropped low enough for him to step out of them. He did it like it was nothing. Like standing there in white briefs that left absolutely nothing to the imagination was the most natural thing in the world. He looked down at me like he knew exactly what this was doing to me.
Then his fingers were at my waistband.
I didn’t stop him.
He peeled my jeans down slowly, like he was unwrapping something fragile. My own briefs felt tighter than they had a minute ago, like they were the only thing holding me together. Now we matched. Nearly naked. Processing this unexpected moment
I was breathing too fast. Trying not to show it. But he could see it. I knew he could.
He nodded toward the bed. “Lie back.”
I did.
He followed, stretching out beside me. Jackson was close enough for heat to pass between us, not quite touching. He propped himself on one elbow, facing me. Calm. Watchful. Patient. His free hand slid across my chest, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing me.
I didn’t know where to put my hands. I didn’t know if I should reach for him or just keep taking him in. I must’ve looked frozen.
He took one of my hands and placed it on his chest.
My fingers pressed in, the tips flattening as they met the density of him. I was tentative at first, tracing the lines of his pecs, then lower, over the ridges of his abs. I couldn’t stop touching him. I didn’t want to. He felt unreal. Solid. Sculpted. Warm.
“You’re ridiculous,” I whispered. “Like... all of this.”
He looked at me, amused. “Good ridiculous?”
I nodded, my eyes dragging across the slope of his shoulder, the swell of his arm. “Yeah. I just… I didn’t think guys like you existed outside my head.”
He leaned in, nose brushing along my jaw. “Funny. You’ve been pretty generous with what’s in your head.”
He held my gaze. “I just showed up to collect.”
My heart started pounding harder. I didn’t know if I was wrong to feel this way, or if he just made it too easy. I stared into his eyes, searching for clarity. Finding none.
He just watched me, waiting to see what I’d do next. “Do you always let people touch you like this?” I asked.
His voice stayed soft. “No.”
I swallowed. “Then why me?”
A pause. Just long enough to make me wonder if he’d answer. “Because you’ve been undressing me in your head since we met,” he said finally.
“And you can’t stop yourself from wanting more.”
I tried to find something to say. Something clever or even just casual. But my mind was blank.
“I don’t… I mean—” I let out a shaky breath. “I don’t usually…” The words trailed off.
His expression didn’t change. No smirk. No teasing. Just steady, still. “You don’t have to understand it,” he said. “You already made your move. That’s what matters.”
That landed harder than I expected.
I kept stroking him. My fingers were greedy, reverent, unsure. Every inch of his body fed the yearning building inside me. The heat rolling off his skin. The way his muscles shifted beneath my palm.
He was still, but it didn’t feel passive. He owned the moment. He was sharing it with me. Letting me explore. Wanting to see where I’d take us.
I traced the slope of his chest again, then the curve of his pecs. My thumb brushed the subtle dip between them. His heart beat steady under the surface. Mine was racing.
My hand slid over his shoulder, then traced the curve of his arm. Solid heat under smooth skin. The muscle was thick and coiled, built for power, not just show. I gave it a slow squeeze and felt it respond, tightening beneath my palm. So I did it again, firmer this time, just to feel it come alive.
He flexed. Just a little. Just enough.
I gasped. Couldn’t help it.
He looked down at me, smug and quiet. "You like that?"
I nodded. Didn’t trust my voice.
My fingers moved down his arm, slow and deliberate, following the thick vein that curled along his forearm. I traced it with my thumb, watching the way it rose under his skin. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just stood there and let me take my time. There was something in that stillness. He knew exactly what I was feeling and didn’t want to break the spell.
“You’ve been wanting to do this, haven’t you?” he asked. “Ever since the lounge.”
I looked up, startled, and then just… nodded. “I didn’t think it would feel like this.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” I swallowed. “Real. Intense. A little terrifying.”
He reached up and tucked a piece of hair back from my forehead. The gesture was so soft, so out of place on someone who looked like him, it undid me a little.
“It is,” he said, voice low.
My hand moved again, restless now, dragging down his chest to the centerline of his abs. I could feel every cut and ridge beneath my fingertips. It felt like touching something I wasn’t supposed to. Something sacred.
“This is nuts, ” I whispered. “Like… everything about you is just…”
I didn’t finish. Couldn’t. My throat closed up around it.
He let the silence stretch. Not gloating. Just… waiting.
“You gonna finish that thought?” he murmured.
My fingers didn’t stop moving. “No. I think I already said too much.”
He leaned in, lips grazing the shell of my ear. “You haven’t said nearly enough.”
That voice. That body. The way he looked at me like I was the only thing he wanted in that moment, I couldn’t breathe.
I pressed my hand flat against his chest, then pushed upward, tentative, testing. His weight shifted in response, like he’d been waiting for the cue.
He moved slowly, deliberately, rising onto his hands and knees. The bed dipped under him as he positioned himself above me. Not pressing down. Just hovering. His heat spilled over my skin, heavy and steady, like he was daring me to pull him closer.
I swallowed. My pulse was racing.
My body knew what it wanted. Had known. My thoughts were trying to catch up.
He kissed the corner of my mouth, barely there. A promise, not a demand.
Then his breath found me again. “Tell me what you want.”
I didn’t answer right away. My throat felt thick. My chest was heaving under his. His voice was still in my ear, low and steady… Tell me what you want.
I knew the answer. I just couldn’t say it out loud. Not without falling apart.
“I want you to keep going,” I said. Quiet. Barely more than breath.
He didn’t gloat. Didn’t press. He just shifted, letting more of his weight settle over me. My hips lifted before I could stop them, my body reaching for him. My skin was on fire.
He moved once—slow and deliberate—and I felt every inch of him.
“You feel that?” he murmured.
I could barely nod. “Hard not to.”
He chuckled, the sound dark and quiet. Then he kissed me—slow, deep, possessive. My hands scrambled up his back, gripping, anchoring, holding on.
I kissed him back. Harder than I meant to. Desperate. Like my body had been waiting for permission to want this, and now it had it, it wasn’t letting go.
Everything in me was unraveling. Every barrier, every plan, every voice telling me to be cautious. All I could feel was the weight of him. The warmth. The way he was holding me there without pinning me. The way I didn’t want to be anywhere else.
When he pulled back, I was gasping, blinking up at him like I didn’t know where I was.
“Still nervous?” he asked.
I shook my head, barely. “Just… overwhelmed.”
He smiled, like that was exactly what he wanted to hear. Then his fingers slid lower, teasing along the waistband of my briefs.
“Good,” he said. “Hold on to that.”
He leaned in, his breath warm against my cheek. One arm braced beside my head, steady and close, while the other slid lower. Every touch was sure, deliberate. He was telling me he already knew exactly where I’d come undone.
