12. Jamie
Jamie
Cyaire’s phone hits the coffee table with a clatter.
My attention never wavers, he has it fully, completely, unequivocally.
The weight of his gaze is a physical thing, pressing against my skin like a caress.
Then he looks at me again, those beautiful, lust-filled brown eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that steals the air from my lungs.
His lips are swollen and shining from our previous kisses, the lower one slightly puffier where I’d bitten down just moments ago.
I want to capture this moment, frame it, make it the first of many candid shots of us and canvas my walls with them.
Every glance, every touch, every shared breath, preserved in vivid color.
Whatever uncertainty had followed us through the last two weeks is gone now.
Knowing that I wasn’t the only one fighting the distance we both unconsciously put between us eases something within me, a tightness in my chest I hadn’t even realized was there.
We were both being cautious, both trying to hold back the inevitable, like two swimmers treading water in the deep end, afraid to let go and just float.
“Just so you know,” Cyaire says, his voice low and rough.
His eyes warm, certain, as he shifts closer, one hand slides to the back of my neck.
His fingers are calloused, the pads rough against my skin, and I shiver at the contact.
“I’m staying. If you hadn’t caught on to my Vulcan mind-meld a second ago. ”
A soft explosion of breath escapes my lips, and I laugh, because of course that’s exactly what he was texting Cameron.
The thought of him telling his bodyguard, that he wasn’t leaving, that he was choosing this, choosing me, sends a thrill through me.
He smiles, and my pulse kicks up at the pure delight on his face, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his dimples deepen.
It’s a smile that feels like a secret, like something just for me.
“I heard you loud and clear, Spock,” I chuckle, grinning just as wide.
Cyaire leans in, his breath warm against my lips, and brushes his mouth against mine in a teasing, fleeting kiss. He pulls away just an inch, leaving me aching for more, the space between us charged with anticipation. His eyes darken, the brown deepening into something molten, something hungry.
“Good,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, “because I want everything from you tonight. Everything, Jamie.”
Then he closes the distance between us, his lips crash into mine with a desperation that steals my breath.
He pulls my bottom lip between his teeth, sucking and tugging softly, the slight sting sends a jolt of pleasure straight to my groin.
I groan into his mouth, the sound raw and needy, and he moans in response, the vibration of it hums against my lips.
His hands slide down my back, fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt before he shoves it up, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over my head.
I do the same to him, our shirts discarded somewhere behind the couch, forgotten.
His skin is warm under my palms, smooth and flushed, his chest rises and falls with ragged breaths.
I trace the line of his collarbone with my tongue, savoring the salty taste of him, the way his breath hitches when I suck a mark into the dip of his throat.
I don’t care about the admonishment he will definitely get from whoever does his makeup in the morning.
Let them scold him. Let them see the proof of this, of us.
His pulse flutters against my lips, fast and erratic, and I can’t help the possessive satisfaction that curls in my gut, tight and hot.
Mine. Cyaire Reed is mine. At least for now, tonight, in my arms, he’s mine.
His fingers fumble with the zipper of my jeans, the sound of the metal teeth parting loud in the quiet of the room.
I lift my hips, helping him shove my pants down just enough to expose my ass, my dick springs free with a wet slap against my belly.
The cool air hits my skin, making me gasp, but the sensation is quickly replaced by the heat of his body as he presses closer.
I tug on his joggers, pulling them down slowly, deliberately, watching with hungry eyes as his dick comes into view.
The head is flushed dark, the tip glistening with precum, and I swallow hard, my mouth watering with the need to suck on it.
Later, I tell myself. There’s time. There’s all the time in the world tonight.
I let Cyaire take control for a second, let him rut against me with that same frantic energy, his hips snap forward in short, sharp thrusts.
His dick is hot and hard against mine, the slide of skin on skin makes my vision blur.
His broken, needy whimper, sends a jolt of pleasure straight to my core, my balls tighten with the need for release.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice rough, desperate. His fingers dig into my shoulders, his nails bite into my skin. “Jamie, please—”
I don’t make him beg. I lick my palm and wrap my hand around both of us, stroking in tight, slow pulls that have his hips stuttering.
His forehead drops to my shoulder, his breath comes in sharp gasps against my skin, each exhale a brand.
The tension coils in him, his body trembles on the edge, and his thighs clamp around me like he’s trying to fuse us together.
“You feel so good,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to his temple, my lips linger against the damp heat of his skin. The scent of him, sandalwood and something uniquely Cyaire, fills my nose, intoxicating. “So fucking perfect.”
He whimpers, his fingers tighten around the nape of my neck, he’s getting close.
His body tenses, his dick swells in my grip, his thighs shake with the effort of holding back.
I speed up, twist my wrist, forcing more precum from both our tips, the slickness makes my strokes easier, faster.
His breath catches, his hips jerk forward, and then he cums with a broken cry, spilling over my fingers, his release slick and hot against my skin.
The sight of him, flushed and wrecked and so fucking mine, sends me over the edge.
My orgasm hits me like a freight train, white-hot and all-consuming, leaving me gasping, my vision whiting out for a second.
I spill over my hand, my release mixing with his, the warmth of it dripping down my fingers, my wrist.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. We just breathe, our chests pressed together, our hearts pounding in sync.
His fingers trace idle patterns on my shoulders, up and down my arms, his touch featherlight, like he’s memorizing the shape of me, the dips and planes of muscle, the way my skin prickles under his touch.
I don’t want to let him go. The thought hits me out of nowhere, sharp and sudden, and I pull him closer, unwilling to put even an inch of space between us.
He notices, of course he does. His fingers still, and then he pulls back just enough to meet my eyes.
Still dark, pupils blown wide, but there’s something softer there now.
Something vulnerable. Something that makes my chest ache, a deep, visceral need to protect him, to keep him.
No matter the outcome of all this, the obstacles in our way, the logistics of our very active lives, I want to make him mine.
Not just for tonight, but for as long as he’ll let me.
“We should talk,” he says, his voice still rough from moaning, from the way he’d cried out my name like a prayer, like a benediction.
I nod. He’s right, we should, but not yet.
Not when he’s still in my lap, his skin still warm against mine, his breath still mingling with my own.
Not when the air between us is thick with the scent of sex and sweat and something deeper, something that feels like more.
I brush a thumb over his cheekbone, tracing the faint flush there, the way his skin heats under my touch.
His eyelashes flutter, he sighs at the contact.
“Later,” I murmur, my voice rough. Later, we can have the tough conversation that I know awaits us.
The one that speaks of timelines and deadlines, of schedules and obligations, of the real world waiting just beyond the walls of this house.
Not now. Not when the night is still young, and the possibilities are endless.
He exhales, a shaky laugh escaping him, and then he kisses me again, slower this time.
Softer. His lips are gentle, almost reverent, his tongue slides against mine in slow, deep strokes.
It’s different from the frantic hunger of before, but no less intoxicating.
If anything, it’s more dangerous, because it feels like a promise.
A promise that, God, I want us both to keep.
His hands slide down my back, fingers splay over the curve of my ass, pulling me closer. The hard length of him presses against my thigh, and I groan into his mouth, my hips rock forward instinctively. He chuckles, low and dark, the sound vibrates against my lips.
“Greedy.” His teeth graze my jaw, my throat.
“For you?” I pant, tilting my head back to give him better access. “Always.”
His lips curve against my skin, and then he pulls me down onto the couch, his body covers mine, his weight a delicious pressure.
The fabric of the cushions is cool against my back, a stark contrast to the heat of him.
His mouth finds mine again, and I lose myself in the taste of him, in the feel of him, in the rightness of this moment.
Later, we’ll talk. Later, we’ll figure it out.
For now, there’s only this, only us.