If you don't terrify people, what's the point.

The passenger door shut, and the quiet almost hurt.

No bass. No flashing lights. No Santos yelling from the dance floor, no Robby laughing somewhere behind you, no Liv’s hand squeezing yours before she disappeared into the night with Brown Eyes and a location pin turned on. Just the low rumble of Jack’s truck when he started it, the clean, warm scent of him in the cab, and the fact that your mouth still felt like his. 

Your pulse did something stupid.

He did not look at you right away. He adjusted the mirrors, checked the lot, and kept both hands exactly where they belonged, like the steering wheel was the only thing in the city with a chance of keeping him civilized. Then his eyes flicked to you.

“Seatbelt,” Jack said.

You looked at him.

His gaze stayed forward. “Don’t look at me like that. Seatbelt.”

Your mouth curved before you could stop it. “Bossy in the car too?”

Jack’s jaw flexed. He put the truck in reverse. “You’re about five seconds from finding out I’m bossy everywhere.”

Heat moved through you so fast you forgot how to answer. Jack saw that. His mouth barely moved, but something in his expression sharpened as he backed out of the parking space. You reached for the seatbelt. The click sounded too loud in the quiet cab.

“There,” you said.

Jack glanced over once. “Good.”

The word landed exactly where he meant it to. Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them. Jack looked back at the road, but his hand tightened on the wheel. You noticed. He noticed you noticing. Neither of you said anything for a full block.

The club disappeared behind you, swallowed by the dark streets and yellow streetlights. The city moved past the windows in broken pieces. Storefronts. Parked cars. A crosswalk. The reflection of Jack’s profile in the glass beside you.

He drove like he did everything else. Controlled. Focused. One hand on the wheel, the other resting low near the gearshift. His forearm flexed every time he turned, the tendons shifting beneath skin you had already had your mouth too close to and your fingers wrapped around.

You looked at his hands. You knew you should not. You did anyway.

Jack exhaled through his nose. “Don’t start.”

Your eyes lifted to his face. “I’m sitting here.”

“I know,” Jack said.

His voice had gone lower. “That’s the problem.”

Your stomach dipped. You turned toward the window because looking at him was starting to feel like touching him, and touching him was the one thing you could not do with his hands on the wheel and both of you trapped in the unbearable quiet between the club and his house.

Your reflection looked back at you in the glass. Mouth swollen. Eyes too bright. Hair a little mussed from his hands, his door, his body crowding yours against the truck. You touched your lower lip before you realized you were doing it.

Jack’s eyes cut toward you. “Don’t.” 

Your hand froze. Slowly, you looked at him. “Don’t what?”

Jack kept his eyes on the road, but his jaw was tight enough to tell on him.

“That,” Jack said.

You let your finger drag once over your lip before lowering your hand. His grip tightened on the wheel. The reaction moved through you like a spark catching.

“You’re very observant,” you said.

Jack’s mouth barely curved. “Been told.”

You shifted in your seat, turning toward him more fully. The movement was small. The space was not. His eyes flicked down for half a second, then back to the road.

“You always this careful?” you asked.

Jack’s answer came too fast. “No.”

Your breath caught. He glanced at you then. Only briefly. Long enough for you to see the heat there. Long enough for it to matter. Then he looked back at the road.

“Just with things I don’t want to fuck up,” Jack said.

The words hit harder than you expected. Not because they were sweet. They were not, exactly. They were too blunt for sweet. Too low. Too honest.  

Your teasing fell quiet in your throat.

Outside, the streetlights moved over his face in flashes, catching on the hard line of his jaw, the tired set of his eyes, the control he kept putting back together every time your gaze touched him.

The truck slowed at a red light. For one suspended second, there was no motion to hide behind. Jack looked over. Really looked. His gaze moved over your face, your mouth, the bare line of your throat where his lips had been in the parking lot. His expression did not soften exactly, but something in it changed. Something quieter. More dangerous.

“You can still change your mind,” Jack said.

Your pulse tripped. There it was. Not a warning. Not a test. A door left open.

You looked at him. “Did you?”

His jaw flexed. The light turned green. Jack looked back at the road and drove through it.

“No,” he said.

Your stomach dipped.

Then his eyes cut toward you, dark and steady. “But you can.”

For a second, you forgot to breathe. It should not have made you want him more. It did. So much that it almost annoyed you.

You looked down at your hands in your lap, then back at him. “I’m not changing my mind.”

Jack’s hand tightened once on the wheel. “Good.” 

The rest of the drive passed in a kind of unbearable quiet. Not awkward. Not empty. Just full of everything neither of you could do yet. Your knee shifted once toward the center console, and Jack’s eyes dropped to it. His thumb moved once against the steering wheel. You watched his hand. He watched the road. Both of you pretended that was enough.

It was not.

When he turned onto a quieter street, your pulse started climbing again. You knew without asking. His place. The truck slowed in front of a townhouse set back from the sidewalk, porch light glowing soft over the steps. It looked like him, somehow. Quiet. Solid. Not showy. Lived-in without being messy. The kind of place a man came home to when he did not want the world following him inside.

Jack pulled into the drive and put the truck in park. The engine cut off. The silence after it was worse. Neither of you moved. Jack’s hand rested on the keys. Yours rested on the seatbelt. The house sat dark and quiet in front of you, and suddenly the night felt very real. Not like a club. Not like a parking lot. Not like heat and music and bad decisions hidden under flashing lights.

This was his driveway. His house. His door. His life, waiting on the other side.

You turned toward him. Jack was already looking at you. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Yours dropped to his. For one breath, you thought he might kiss you right there. You wanted him to. You leaned closer before you could think better of it. Jack’s hand tightened around the keys.

“Inside,” he said.

Your mouth parted. The word went through you with a warm, sharp pull.

You looked at him. “Still not here?”

His gaze moved over your face, slow and heated. “Not in my driveway.” 

You smiled. “You have a lot of rules.”

Jack unbuckled his seatbelt. His eyes stayed on yours.

“You keep making new ones necessary,” Jack said.

Then he got out of the truck before you could answer. You sat there for half a second, pulse loud in your ears, staring through the windshield at his front door. Then Jack appeared at your side. He opened your door and held it, one hand braced on the frame, the other offered to you. Not because you needed help. Because he wanted to touch you. Because he had decided this was allowed.

You put your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours, warm and firm, and your body remembered the exact pressure of them at your hip, your jaw, your throat. You stepped down from the truck. The ground felt less steady than it should have. Jack’s hand shifted to your waist immediately, catching you before you could even pretend you needed it. You landed close to him, too close, your hand still in his and your chest inches from his.

His eyes dropped.

Your breath caught. For a second, the driveway disappeared. There was only the porch light, the quiet, and Jack’s hand at your waist, holding you like he knew exactly how easy it would be to pull you back against the truck and finish what he had stopped in the parking lot.

His jaw flexed. Then he turned, keeping his hand at the small of your back as he guided you toward the front door. The walk was short. It did not feel short. Every step was a decision. Every brush of his hand against your back was a promise he had not made out loud.

At the door, Jack reached around you to unlock it. His chest brushed your shoulder. Barely. You closed your eyes. Jack paused behind you. Just for a second. 

Then the lock clicked.

 The door opened, and he let you step inside first. The house was quiet in a way that made your skin feel too warm. No music. No neon. No bodies moving around you. No laughter spilling from the bar or bass shaking through the floor. Just the soft click of the door shutting behind Jack. Just the sound of him locking it.

Just the sudden, impossible awareness that you were inside his house with your mouth still swollen from his and your pulse still too high to pretend this was casual.

Jack moved past you, close enough that his arm brushed yours, and set his keys down on the small table by the door. The sound was ordinary. Small. Final.

Then he turned back to you.

For one second, neither of you moved.

The only light came from somewhere deeper in the house, low and warm, catching along the side of his face and the black of his T-shirt. He looked different here than he had in the club. Still controlled. Still guarded. Still Jack. But quieter. More real.

Your breath felt too loud.

Jack’s eyes moved over your face. Your mouth. Your throat. The red top that had apparently been a problem all night. His jaw flexed.

You swallowed. “What?”

Jack crossed the space between you. 

That was the only warning you got.

His hand came to your jaw, firm and certain, and then his mouth was on yours again.

Your back hit the wall beside the door.

The sound you made disappeared into his mouth.

Jack followed you in, one hand braced against the wall near your head, the other sliding from your jaw to the side of your neck. He kissed you slower than he had in the parking lot, but that somehow made it worse. Deeper. More deliberate. Like he finally had time and intended to make every second of it count.

Your hands caught in his shirt. Jack made a low sound against your mouth when you pulled him closer, and the hand at your neck tightened just enough to make your stomach flip.

There was no truck door at your back now. No parking lot. No reason for him to stop. The thought made you arch into him before you could help it. Jack felt it. Of course he did. His mouth left yours and moved to your jaw, then lower, dragging heat down the side of your throat.

“Jack,” you breathed.

His hand pressed against your waist.

“Yeah,” Jack said against your skin. “I know.”

You did not know what he knew. That you wanted him. That you were already losing your mind. That every careful thing he did made you worse. Maybe all of it. Your hands moved over his shoulders, down his arms, finding the warm strength of him beneath the sleeves of his shirt. You felt the flex of his forearm under your palm, and Jack’s mouth curved against your neck.

“You still want this?” Jack asked.

You huffed a breathless laugh, almost offended he had to ask.

“Yes,” you said. “So badly.”

His hand tightened at your waist. “Good.” 

The word went through you.

Your knee knocked against his when you tried to shift closer, and your shoe caught awkwardly against the edge of the rug. You stumbled half an inch. Jack caught you immediately, one hand firm at your hip, his mouth still close enough to yours that you felt his laugh before you heard it.

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”

His mouth twitched. “Didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did,” you replied. 

Jack’s expression shifted, amused and heated all at once. “That right?”

You pushed at his chest, but there was no force behind it. “Shut up.”

Jack kissed you again instead.

You forgot what you were arguing about.

Your shoe came off somewhere near the wall. Then the other. Jack stepped out of his own shoes without looking away from you, his mouth finding yours between every clumsy shift and half-laughing breath. It should have broken the tension. It did not. It made it worse. More real. More intimate. More like you were both trying to strip the night down to nothing but touch and heat and Jack’s hands on your body.

His fingers found the hem of your red top. He stopped. Not far away. Not cold. Just stopped. His mouth brushed yours once, barely there, and his eyes lifted to yours.

The question was silent. 

You answered by lifting your arms.

Jack’s jaw flexed. Then he pulled the top over your head.

The fabric disappeared somewhere near your shoes.

And Jack stopped again. Only for a second. But you felt it. The pause. The shift. The way his breath left him slower than before. There was nothing underneath but skin. Jack’s eyes dropped. His jaw went tight.

“Fuck,” he said.

The word was low. Rough. Almost unwilling. Heat rushed through you so hard your knees almost forgot their job.

Then Jack was on you again.

His mouth caught yours, hungry and deep, and his hands came back to your waist like he had run out of whatever thin patience had gotten you both inside. His palms slid over bare skin, up your ribs, across your back, learning the shape of you without apology now.

You made a sound against his mouth. Jack swallowed it. His hand spread at your back, dragging you closer, and the other moved up your side, thumb brushing high enough to make your breath catch. That was all the permission he seemed to need. 

His mouth left yours and found your throat again, hot and open, then lower, dragging over your collarbone with a rough breath that sounded too close to restraint breaking.

Your fingers caught in his hair. “Jack,” you breathed.

His hand tightened at your waist.

“Yeah,” Jack said against your skin. “I know.”

His mouth moved lower. The first touch of his lips against your chest made your back arch. A low sound left him, rough and pleased, and his hand slid to your lower back, holding you there as his mouth opened against you.

Your head tipped back. The wall was cool behind you. Jack was hot everywhere else. His tongue moved, slow and deliberate, and your knees threatened to become useless. You tugged at his hair without meaning to. Jack made another sound against your skin, and the vibration went through you.

“Careful,” he said, mouth still pressed to you.

Your laugh came out breathless and ruined. “I don’t want careful.”

Jack went still. His mouth lifted from your skin. For one second, you thought you had said the wrong thing. Then he looked up at you. His eyes were dark. Focused. Gone warm around the edges in a way that made your stomach dip.

“That’s not what careful means,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. His hand slid to your hip, firm enough to make the point.

“Careful means I’m paying attention,” Jack said.

His thumb pressed once into your skin. “Careful means I know exactly how hard you’re breathing.”

His mouth brushed your chest again, barely enough to count. “Exactly where you go quiet.”

Another kiss. Lower. Hotter. “Exactly what makes you pull my hair like that.”

Your fingers tightened in his hair before you could stop them. Jack’s mouth curved against your skin.

“There,” he murmured. “Like that.”

Heat rushed through you. You swallowed. “That’s not fair.”

Jack’s hand pressed into your lower back, keeping you arched into him.

“No,” Jack said. “It’s careful.”

Then he sucked, slow and firm, and the rest of your answer disappeared into a broken sound.

Your answer broke apart in your throat.

Jack stayed there for another second, mouth hot against you, hand firm at your back like he knew exactly how close your knees were to giving up.

Which was unfair. Because he was the reason. You dragged in a breath and tugged harder at his hair. Jack’s mouth lifted from your skin. His eyes found yours. Dark. Focused. Too pleased by what he had done to you.

“You look smug,” you said, but your voice had no strength behind it.

Jack’s thumb moved once against your waist. “Do I?”

“Yes.” You breathed. 

His mouth brushed yours. “Observant.”

You made a frustrated sound and caught the hem of his shirt again.

This time, Jack let you pull.

The black fabric dragged up his body, and your knuckles brushed warm skin, the firm plane of his stomach, the solid rise of his ribs. He helped only when your hands got impatient, reaching back and pulling the shirt over his head in one smooth motion before dropping it somewhere near yours. For one second, you forgot what you were doing.

The corner of Jack’s mouth shifted. “Problem?”

Your hands landed on his chest. 

“No,” you said, quieter than you meant to. “Not a problem.”

He was warm under your palms. Solid. Real. Not the fantasy you had built from forearms and black cotton and the way he leaned back in a booth like he owned the right to be tired. This was Jack without the shirt, without the club, without the convenient distance of a crowded room.

Your fingers moved over him slowly. His chest. His shoulders. The old scars and lived-in strength of a body that had been through things and kept going anyway. Jack watched your face as you touched him. You felt it immediately. Not insecurity, exactly. Not embarrassment.

But attention.

He was reading you with the same brutal focus he seemed to bring to everything else, waiting for the smallest shift. A flinch. A pause. Some sign that the reality of him was not what you had wanted.

He did not get one.

Your hands moved over his chest again, firmer this time, because now you could. Because you had wanted to know what he felt like all night. Because the answer was somehow better than your imagination, and your imagination had been doing impressive work.

Jack’s breath changed. You looked up at him. His eyes had gone darker, but there was something quieter under it now. Something more exposed. You touched his jaw. Jack turned his face just enough for his mouth to brush your palm.

The tenderness of it hit you so sharply that your teasing vanished. Then your hand slid down his chest. Lower. 

Jack’s hand closed gently around your wrist before your fingers reached his belt. 

You stilled immediately.

His breathing had changed again. Not colder. Not distant. Just careful in a different way.

You looked up at him. “Jack?”

His eyes stayed on yours. “There’s something you should know.”

For one awful second, you thought he was taking it back. You made yourself breathe. “Okay.”

Jack’s thumb moved once over the inside of your wrist.

“My right leg,” Jack said. “Below the knee.”

Your gaze flicked down before you could stop it. Not far. Not long. Then it came back to his face. He saw it.

“Prosthetic,” Jack said.

The word was plain. Controlled. Offered without apology. But something in his face had gone guarded in a way that made your chest ache. 

You did not move away. You did not let go of his hand. You did not look at him like anything had been taken from the room. Because nothing had. Your pulse was still too fast. Your skin was still too warm. His mouth was still too close, and you still wanted it back on yours badly enough to ache.

So you moved closer.

Slowly.

Close enough that he could stop you if he wanted.

He did not.

Your free hand touched his chest, light at first, then steadier when his breath caught.

“Okay,” you whispered.

You kissed the side of his neck.

Jack went still. Not cold. Not distant. Still.

Your mouth brushed the warm skin beneath his jaw, soft enough to ask, sure enough to answer.

“Tell me what you need,” you murmured against him.

Jack’s hand tightened around your wrist. Only once. His voice came lower. “I’ll handle it.”

You kissed him again, just below his ear, and felt his control shudder under your mouth.

“Okay,” you said.

Jack moved. Fast enough to steal your breath. His hand left your wrist and caught your jaw, firm and certain, and then his mouth was on yours again. Not careful in the slow way. Not hesitant. Not like the quiet had cooled anything down.

He kissed you like that one word had undone him more thoroughly than any teasing could have. Like the thing that finally broke his restraint was not your mouth at his neck or your hand near his belt, but the way you had listened.

The way you had stayed. The way you had said okay and meant it. Your back hit the wall again, and Jack followed, crowding you there with a rough sound low in his throat. His hand slid from your jaw to the side of your neck, his thumb beneath your chin, tilting you open for him.

You gave.

Jack felt it.

His kiss deepened, hot and hungry, and the hand at your waist dragged you closer until there was no space left between you.

When he broke the kiss, his mouth stayed close to yours. His breathing was rough. So was yours.

“Bedroom,” Jack said.

Your lips brushed his when you answered. “Okay.”

His eyes darkened at the word. Like it still did something to him. Like it might always. Jack kissed you once more, hard and brief, then took your hand. This time, when he led you deeper into the house, there was no pause at the door. No driveway. No almost.

Just Jack’s hand around yours, your shirt on the floor behind you, and the impossible knowledge that you were still going. That he still wanted you. That you still wanted him so badly it was starting to feel less like a choice and more like a condition.

The hallway was dim.

You caught pieces of his house as he moved you through it. A framed print on the wall. A pair of boots by the back door. A jacket thrown over the arm of a chair. A kitchen light left off. A living room that looked quiet and lived-in and entirely too Jack.

You wanted to see all of it later. 

Right now, Jack’s hand was warm around yours, and every step toward his bedroom made your pulse climb higher. He pushed the bedroom door open and let you in first. The room was dark except for the low light he turned on near the bed. Warm light spilled over rumpled sheets, a dresser, a chair in the corner, the ordinary intimacy of a space that belonged to him.

Your breath caught again.

Jack shut the door behind you. The click was softer this time. It still felt final. You turned toward him. He was already watching you. Shirtless. Mouth swollen. Hair slightly ruined from your hands. His gaze moved over you, bare from the waist up, standing in his bedroom like this was still something either of you could slow down.

Then Jack stepped closer.

His hand came to your waist again, familiar now, and the other brushed your hair back from your face with a gentleness that made the heat twist into something more dangerous.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

The question was quiet. Real. You nodded, then remembered him. Remembered the way his eyes sharpened when you tried to get away with less than words.

“Yes,” you said. “I’m okay.”

Jack studied your face for one more second. Then his thumb moved along your cheek.

“Good,” he said.

You smiled faintly. “There’s that word again.”

His mouth curved.

“Seems to work on you,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. His eyes dropped to your mouth.

Then he kissed you again.

The room seemed to shrink around it.

Jack’s hands found your waist, and yours found his shoulders, and for a few seconds there was nothing careful about the way you came together again. Your bare skin met the heat of his chest, and both of you made a sound at the contact. His was lower. Yours was less controlled. Jack noticed.

His mouth curved against yours. “There it is.”

You pulled back just enough to glare at him. “Do not sound smug.”

“I’m not,” Jack said.

“You are,” you said.

Jack’s hand slid down your side, slow and warm, and his thumb pressed into your hip. “Maybe a little.”

You bit his lower lip. Not hard. Enough. Jack’s smile disappeared. His hand tightened, and the next kiss was hotter, rougher, his mouth opening over yours as he stepped you backward toward the bed.

Your knees hit the mattress.

You sat because there was nowhere else to go. Jack followed, one hand braced beside your thigh, his body leaning over yours, mouth still on yours like he had not finished proving a point. You let yourself fall back onto your elbows, and Jack’s gaze dropped, moving over you with a heat that made your stomach pull tight.

Then he stopped.

Not abruptly. Not in a way that made the room cold. He just drew in a breath and pressed one last kiss to the corner of your mouth before straightening.

“I need a second,” Jack said.

You sat up immediately. “Okay.”

His eyes flicked to yours. Something passed over his face. Not surprise exactly. Closer to relief, maybe. You did not make him explain. You did not reach for him right away.

You just stayed where you were, sitting on the edge of his bed with your shirt somewhere by his front door and your heart beating too hard in your chest.

Jack turned slightly and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. For a second, he was close enough that your knee brushed his thigh, and the ordinary intimacy of it hit harder than you expected. Not kissing. Not touching. Just being there in his room while he trusted you with the unglamorous part.

The real part.

Jack leaned forward and reached for his belt. You watched his face first.  His jaw was set, his eyes focused, his movements practiced and efficient. There was no ceremony to it. No apology. No invitation for you to make it softer than it was. So you did not. You let him handle it. Because he had said he would. Because you believed him.

He opened his belt, then the button of his jeans, moving with the same controlled precision he brought to everything else. You stayed quiet for exactly three seconds. Then you moved. Jack glanced over his shoulder as you shifted onto the bed behind him.

You settled on your knees, close enough that your bare chest brushed the warm skin of his back when you leaned in. His hand paused at his zipper. Your mouth touched the side of his neck. Jack’s shoulders went still. You kissed him again, softer this time, just below his ear.

His breath left him through his nose. “What are you doing?”

You let your lips move down to the slope of his shoulder. “Nothing.”

Jack huffed once. “That’s not nothing.”

You smiled against his skin and kissed lower, following the hard line of his shoulder, then the warm plane of his back.

He was solid beneath your mouth. Scarred in places. Tense in others. Real everywhere. Your hand slid carefully around his side, resting against his stomach, and you felt the muscles tighten beneath your palm. Jack’s head dropped forward a fraction.

“You’re making it hard to focus here,” he said.

Your answer was to open your mouth against his shoulder and bite him. Gently. Enough to feel. Enough to make his whole body react.

“Fuck,” Jack said.

The word came out rough and immediate. Your stomach flipped. You kissed the spot after, soft and pleased, and Jack turned his head just enough to look at you over his shoulder. His eyes were dark. Warning. Wanting.

“You think you’re cute?” Jack asked.

You let your mouth brush his shoulder again. “A little.”

His jaw flexed. “You’re trouble.” 

You smiled against his skin. “You keep saying that like you don’t like it.”

Jack stared at you for one heated second. Then he looked forward again, breathing a little harder than before.

“I’m trying to take my pants off,” Jack said.

You kissed down his back, slow enough to make his shoulders tense again. “I noticed.”

His hand closed over yours where it rested at his stomach.

“Behave,” Jack said.

The word should not have worked on you. It did. Your fingers curled lightly against him. Jack felt it. His thumb dragged once over your knuckles.

“Yeah,” he said, voice lower. “Thought so.”

You pressed one more kiss between his shoulder blades, then rested your forehead there for half a second. Not hiding. Not pitying. Just close. Jack’s grip on your hand changed. Softer now. Still firm.

You lifted your head. “I’m still here.”

He went quiet. You had not meant to say it like that. Maybe you had. Jack’s thumb stopped moving. For a second, the room held still around you. Then he brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles once.

Quick. Rough. Almost too small to count. But you felt it everywhere.

“I know,” Jack said.

Then he let go of your hand and finished handling his jeans.

You stayed behind him, kneeling on the bed, your hands resting loosely at your sides even though every part of you wanted to touch him again.

Jack moved with practiced efficiency. 

Jeans first. Then the rest. Then the prosthetic, handled and set aside with quiet care.

Just Jack, doing what he needed to do, exactly like he had said he would. You watched his shoulders while he moved. The shift of muscle. The old tension beneath his skin. The way his head angled slightly, focused and calm, like he had done this a thousand times and did not need you to make it easier by pretending not to notice. So you noticed. And you stayed.

When he was done, Jack sat there for half a second, one hand braced beside him on the mattress. You moved closer before you could overthink it. Your hand touched his shoulder. Lightly. Not asking for anything. Just there.

Jack turned his head. His eyes found yours over his shoulder. For one second, his expression was impossible to read. Then his gaze dropped to your mouth. That was easier to understand. You leaned in and kissed the corner of his jaw.

Jack’s eyes closed for half a breath. You felt it. The smallest surrender. Then it was gone. His hand came up, caught the side of your neck, and pulled you around into another kiss. You went willingly, shifting until you were beside him instead of behind him, one knee pressed into the mattress near his hip, your hand sliding over his chest as his mouth opened over yours.

The kiss was hot immediately.

No slow build. No careful return. Just the two of you crashing back into the thing you had interrupted, except now there was something else under it. Something steadier. More intimate. More dangerous than want by itself.

Jack’s hand moved down your back, then to your hip, pulling you closer until your bare chest met his again. You made a sound against his mouth. Jack swallowed it and turned into you, guiding you back against the bed. Your spine met the mattress. His mouth moved to your throat. Your hands went into his hair.

“Jack,” you said, already breathless again.

His teeth grazed the side of your neck. You arched. He felt it.

“You keep saying my name like that,” Jack said, voice rough against your skin.

Your fingers tightened in his hair. “Like what?”

His hand slid down your side. “Like you want me to do something about it.”

Your stomach flipped. You opened your mouth, but his hand moved to the button of your jeans before you could answer. He stopped there. Eyes on yours. The pause was not hesitation. 

It was a question.

Your breathing changed. Jack’s gaze sharpened.

“Words,” he said.

You hated him a little for how fast heat moved through you.

“Yes,” you said.

His thumb rested just beneath the waistband. “Yes, what?”

Your face warmed. Jack waited. Not impatient. Not smug. That was a lie. A little smug.

You swallowed and held his eyes. “Take them off.”

Jack’s expression changed. Barely. Enough to make your pulse jump.

“Good,” he said.

Then he did. Slowly. Too slowly. His fingers opened the button, drew the zipper down, and hooked into the waistband. He watched your face as he eased the denim over your hips, like every hitch in your breathing was something he intended to file away and use later.

You lifted your hips when his hands guided you. Jack’s eyes flicked up to yours.

“There it is,” he said.

Your breath caught. “What?”

His hands slid the jeans lower. “The part of you that listens.”

The words went through you so sharply your hips almost lifted again. Jack saw that too. His mouth curved, barely.

“Yeah,” Jack said, voice rough. “Thought so.”

You covered your face with one hand. Jack stopped immediately. His hand closed around your wrist and drew it away.

“Don’t hide from me,” Jack said.

You looked at him. He was not smiling now. Not teasing. His thumb moved once over your wrist.

“Not now,” he said.

Something in your chest went soft and hot at the same time.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Jack held your gaze for one second longer. Then he lowered his mouth to your stomach and kissed you there, just above where your jeans had stopped. Your breath caught. His mouth moved lower, following the denim as he eased it down your legs, kissing skin as he uncovered it. Not rushed. Not careless. Like he had meant what he said earlier.

Careful meant paying attention.

And Jack was paying attention to everything.

By the time your jeans joined the rest of your clothes, you were warm all over and unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with standing.

Jack did not move away.

His hands came back to your legs, sliding slowly up from your knees to your thighs, his gaze following the path like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of rushing. Your breathing caught when his thumbs brushed the edge of your underwear. Jack looked up at you. The pause was small. Barely a pause at all. Still, you felt the question in it. Your hands tightened in the sheets.

“Yes,” you said before he could ask.

His mouth curved.

“Good girl,” Jack said, low enough that the words felt like they belonged against your skin.

Then his fingers hooked into the fabric and drew it down your legs with the same infuriating patience he had used on your jeans. Slow. Controlled. Like he knew exactly what the waiting was doing to you. Like he liked it.

You lifted your hips when his hands guided you again, and this time Jack did not tease you for listening. Not with words. His eyes did it for him. By the time he tossed your underwear aside, your face was hot, your pulse was everywhere, and Jack looked entirely too satisfied with the state of you.

Then he looked up at your face, and whatever he saw there made his jaw flex.

“Come here,” Jack said.

You pushed yourself up on your elbows. He shifted back against the pillows, settling with the kind of practical ease that reminded you again that he knew his body. Knew what he needed. Knew exactly how to move without making you guess.

You thought he wanted you in his lap.

So you moved toward him. Jack’s hand caught your thigh.

“Not there,” he said.

You froze. His gaze lifted to yours. 

Then he nodded higher. “Up here.”

Your breath stopped. Jack watched as understanding hit your face. His mouth curved. Not smug.

No, that was a lie.

A little smug.

“Jack,” you said.

His eyes stayed on yours. “Hands on the headboard.” 

The words went straight through you. You stared at him. Jack stared back. Waiting. Patient in the most unfair way.

Your mouth felt dry. “You want—”

“Yes,” Jack said.

The answer was immediate. No hesitation. No embarrassment. No room for you to make it smaller than it was. Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them.

Jack saw, and his eyes darkened.

“Come here,” he said again.

This time, you moved. Slowly at first, because your body knew what he meant now, and knowing made every inch feel impossible. You climbed higher on the bed, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his head, one hand reaching for the headboard because he had told you to.

Jack’s hands came to your thighs. Warm. Steady. Guiding.

Not pulling yet.

Just showing you where he wanted you. You settled above him, breath already trembling, fingers curling around the headboard.

Jack looked up at you. 

The sight of him there should not have done what it did to you.

But it did.

His hair was mussed from your hands. His mouth was swollen. His eyes were dark and focused, fixed on you like the rest of the room had stopped existing. Like this was not a novelty to him. Not a performance. Not some half-drunk idea born from a club and too much tension.

This was a decision. Jack’s decision. And he looked entirely too calm about it. You were not calm. You were barely breathing. His hands slid up your thighs. You hovered. Not much. Enough. Jack’s eyes flicked to your face.

“Don’t hover,” he said.

Your stomach flipped. “I’m not,” you said.

His brows lifted. You huffed a breath. “Okay, maybe a little.”

His thumb moved against your thigh. “Why?”

You swallowed. The answer got stuck for a second, not because you did not know it, but because saying it out loud made you feel too exposed. Jack waited.

You glanced down at him. “I don’t want to make it harder for you.”

His expression changed. Not offended. Not hurt. Clear.

“Then listen to me,” Jack said.

Your fingers tightened on the headboard. His hands slid higher, firm enough to make your breath catch.

“If I need something different, I’ll tell you,” he said.

You nodded, but he did not look satisfied.

“Words,” Jack said.

Your breath shook. “Okay.”

His gaze held yours.

“You told me to tell you what I needed,” Jack said. 

His hands tightened. “I’m telling you.”

Heat went through you so hard you almost forgot how to stay upright. Jack’s arms looped around your thighs. Not tentative. Not careful in the way you had misunderstood. Careful in the way he meant. Certain. Attentive. Devastating.

“Right now,” Jack said, voice rough, “I need you closer.”

Then he pulled you down to his mouth. 

Your breath broke.

Both hands tightened on the headboard as sensation shot through you, hot and sudden and so sharp your hips jerked before you could stop them.

Jack held you there.

His arms locked around your thighs, forearms firm against your legs, keeping you exactly where he wanted you as his mouth opened against you. Not hesitant. Not polite. Not even close.

His tongue moved against you, slow at first, deliberate enough to make your spine arch and your fingers grip the headboard harder.

You gasped his name.

The sound tore out of you before you could make it pretty. Jack made a low noise against you, pleased and rough, and the vibration went straight through your body. Then his tongue pressed firmer. More certain. Your elbows nearly bent. His arms tightened.

“No,” Jack said, voice rough against you. “Stay.”

You whimpered. There was no other word for it. You hated that. You loved that. Jack’s mouth curved against you like he knew both things were true.

“Good,” he said.

Then he went back to it. His tongue found the place that made your hips jerk and stayed there.

Your head dropped forward between your arms. Your fingers gripped the headboard hard enough to ache. The world narrowed to Jack’s mouth, Jack’s tongue, Jack’s hands, Jack’s arms around your thighs, Jack beneath you and somehow still in complete control.

You had never understood how someone could be under you and still make you feel like you were the one being taken apart. Now you did.

Jack knew exactly what he was doing. That was the problem. Not guessed. Not hoped. Knew. He found what made your breath catch and stayed there. He found what made your hips jerk and did it again. He found what made you go quiet and changed the pressure until sound broke out of you.

Careful meant paying attention. Careful meant he was learning you in real time and using every bit of it against you. His tongue dragged over you again, slower this time, and your body gave itself away with a full, helpless shudder. Jack’s hands shifted on your thighs.

“There,” he said, rough and low. “That’s better.”

You made a broken noise. You could feel him smile. Your hips moved before you could stop them. Once. Then again. The motion was small at first, almost accidental, your body chasing the pressure of his tongue before your brain could catch up and tell you to be embarrassed.

Jack went still for half a second. Not stopping. Reacting.

Then a rough sound left him, low and pleased, and his hands shifted on your thighs like he had just found something he liked far too much.

Your face burned. You almost froze. Jack felt it immediately. His arms tightened around your thighs.

“No,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. His tongue dragged over you again, slow and devastating, and your hips rocked into his mouth before you could stop them. Jack groaned. Actually groaned.

The sound went straight through you.

“Again,” Jack said.

The word hit you like a command. Like permission. Like praise. Your hands tightened on the headboard, and you did it again, rolling your hips against his mouth with a broken sound you could not keep in your chest.

Jack’s grip turned firmer.

His tongue met you this time, pressure perfect, rhythm changing to match yours like he had been waiting for you to stop holding back.

You were not hovering now. You were not careful now. You were moving against his mouth because he had told you to, because he wanted it, because the sound he made when you did it again made you feel powerful and ruined all at once.

Jack loved it.

You could tell. You could feel it in the way his hands held you there. In the way his mouth followed you. In the way his voice came rough and pleased against you.

“That’s it,” Jack said. “Take it.”

You were going to die here.

That seemed obvious.

You were going to die in Jack Abbot’s bed with your hands on his headboard and his arms locked around your thighs, and the most humiliating part was that you were probably going to thank him for it.

The thought shattered when he changed the angle.

His tongue moved harder, more focused, and your breath caught so sharply it hurt. Jack noticed.  He stayed there. Your body went tight. Your hands slipped against the headboard. Jack’s arms tightened again.

“Don’t pull away,” Jack said.

Your breath broke. “Jack—”

He hummed against you. Like he knew. Like he could feel it coming before you could make sense of it. Your thighs trembled around his head, and the sound that left you was barely a word.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped.

Jack’s grip turned almost punishing. Not enough to hurt. Enough to hold. Enough to make it clear he had absolutely no intention of letting you go anywhere. A rough sound left him, low against you, and then he dragged you closer.

“I’ve got you,” Jack said, voice rough. “You’re doing so good.”

That did it.

The words hit you at the same time as his tongue, and your body broke open around the feeling.

“Jack—oh—fuck, Jack!” You came saying his name.

Not quietly. Not prettily. Not with any of the control you had been pretending to have. Jack held you through it. He did not let you disappear from it. Did not let you pull away from its force. His arms stayed firm around your thighs, his mouth softer now but still there, his tongue easing you through every last wave until your body trembled so hard you could barely keep your hands on the headboard.

By the time the last of it rolled through you, you were breathing like you had forgotten how air worked. Jack eased his hold slowly. Carefully. Actually carefully this time. His hands stayed steady at your thighs as he guided you down, like he knew your body had forgotten how to do simple things.

Which was fair.

It had.

You ended up half-kneeling over him, one hand still braced against the headboard, the other pressed to his shoulder, staring down at him like he had just ruined the entire concept of sex for everyone else.

Jack looked up at you. Mouth wet. Hair wrecked. Eyes dark and too pleased with himself. Worse, he had earned it.

Holy shit.

The thought arrived slowly, almost stupidly, through the static in your head.

Holy shit.

That was the best orgasm of your life.

Not close. Not even in the same category. Your body knew it before your brain could make language out of it. There was no polite way to compare it to anything else, no reasonable little caveat you could attach to make it less dramatic.

It had not been like that before. Ever. You were not even sure you had known it could feel like that.

Jack’s thumb moved once against your thigh. Your eyes refocused on his face. And that was the problem. Because you were in so much trouble.

You were going to want that again.

Not vaguely.

Not in some distant, theoretical way.

You were going to want it again tonight.

Tomorrow.

Every time you saw his hands.

Every time he said “Careful.”

Every time his eyes dropped to your mouth, like he knew exactly what you tasted like.

Again and again and again.

Jack’s mouth curved. “There you are.” 

You tried to answer. Nothing came out. Jack’s smile faded by a fraction. Not completely. Just enough. His hand slid from your thigh to your waist, then higher, steadying you with a touch that had gone less possessive and more careful in the way he had taught you to understand.

“Hey,” Jack said.

You blinked down at him. 

His eyes moved over your face, sharp now. Focused. “Are you okay?”

You nodded too quickly. Jack’s brows drew together.

“Words,” he said.

The command should not have affected you after that. It did anyway. You swallowed. “Yeah.”

His hand stayed at your waist. “Yeah?”

You let out a shaky laugh, half embarrassed, half still somewhere above your own body. “I’m okay.”

Jack studied you for one more second. “You sure?”

You nodded, slower this time. “I’m sure.”

His thumb moved once against your skin. Only then did the edge leave his face. Not all of it. Enough. You looked at him again.  His wet mouth, his dark eyes, the absolute wreckage of his hair from your hands and heat rushed back in so fast it nearly made you dizzy.

Jack noticed that too.

His mouth curved again, but softer this time. “Good.” 

Your laugh came out breathless. “Good?”

Jack’s hand tightened at your waist, grounding you.

“Good,” Jack said again. “Because we’re not done.”

The words went through you like a spark catching.

Your body was still trembling. Your breath still had not figured itself out. You were still half-kneeling over him, one hand on his shoulder, the other braced near his head, trying to understand how the hell you were supposed to keep functioning after that.

And Jack was looking at you like he had every intention of making it worse. You should have said something smart. Something teasing. Something that made you feel like you had even one piece of yourself left.

Instead, you kissed him. Hard. Messy. A little desperate.

Jack caught you with one hand at your waist and the other at the back of your neck, steadying you as your mouth opened over his. You tasted yourself on him, and the realization made your whole body go hot again, fast enough to make you dizzy. Jack made a rough sound against your mouth.

You pulled back just enough to breathe. “I want you.”

His eyes darkened. Your hand moved down his chest, over the warm, solid strength of him, lower this time without stopping. Jack’s breath changed. Not cautious now. Not guarded. Hungry.

“You sure?” Jack asked.

You looked at him. Really looked. At his swollen mouth. His wrecked hair. The way his hand stayed firm at your waist, grounding you even while his eyes made it very clear he wanted you spread out beneath him again.

“Yes,” you said. “I’m sure.”

Jack held your gaze for one second longer. Then he shifted, reaching toward the nightstand. You watched him open the drawer. Your stomach flipped at the ordinary sound of it. The slide of wood. The small pause.

The foil packet in his hand when he turned back to you. Protection should not have felt like part of the heat. With Jack, somehow, it did.

Practical. Certain. Adult.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing and had no interest in pretending otherwise.

His eyes flicked to yours. “Still yes?”

Your breath caught. You nodded, then corrected yourself before he could.

“Yes,” you said.

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Good.”

The word still worked on you. Annoyingly. Devastatingly.

He tore the packet open, and for a second your brain shorted out at the sight of his hands. Those hands. The same ones that had held your thighs open, guided your hips, kept you from pulling away when your own body tried to run from how good it felt. You were in so much trouble. You already knew that.

Jack rolled the condom on with efficient, practiced focus, and you hated how hot that was too. Everything he did was calm. Competent. Unrushed. Like he had all the time in the world to ruin you properly. When he looked back up, his gaze moved over your face.

“You with me?” Jack asked.

Your mouth felt dry. “Yes,” you said. “Very much with you.”

His hand came to your thigh. “Then come here.”

You moved before you had a chance to think better of it. Jack guided you into his lap, hands steady at your hips as you straddled him. The position should have made you feel in control. It did not. Not really. Not with the way he looked at you from beneath lowered lids. Not with the way his thumbs moved slowly against your skin. Not with the way he sat back against the headboard like patience was something he had weaponized.

Your hands settled on his chest. His skin was warm beneath your palms. His heart was beating faster than he looked like it was. That made something inside you turn over. Jack was not untouched by this. He was just better at hiding it.

You shifted above him, and his jaw tightened. There. You saw it. The crack. Small, but real.

Your pulse jumped. Jack’s eyes lifted to yours.

“You like that?” he asked.

You swallowed. “What?”

“Seeing what you do to me,” Jack said. 

Your fingers curled lightly against his chest. You wanted to lie. You could not.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Jack’s hands tightened at your hips. “Then look,” he said.

Your breath stopped. He guided you down slowly. So slowly, your whole body tensed with it. The first press of him into you made your eyes flutter, and Jack’s hands flexed at your hips immediately.

“Look at me,” Jack said.

You forced your eyes open. He was watching your face. Of course he was. The stretch of him filled your body inch by inch, slow and overwhelming, and your mouth fell open because there was no way to stay quiet through it.

Jack’s jaw locked.

His head tipped back against the headboard for half a second, and the sight of it almost ruined you. Then his eyes found yours again. Dark. Focused. Barely controlled.

“There you go,” Jack said, voice rough.

Your hands pressed harder against his chest. You sank down the rest of the way, and both of you went still. For one breath, there was nothing. No teasing. No smug little smile. No careful corrections. Just the two of you trying to survive the first full second of it. Jack’s thumbs pressed into your hips.

“Breathe,” he said.

You tried. It came out broken.

His mouth curved faintly, but his voice stayed rough. “Close enough.”

A laugh caught in your throat and turned into a moan when you shifted. Jack’s hands tightened. You felt him everywhere. Deep. Heavy. So real it made the room tilt. You looked down at him and thought, wildly, that this was what you had wanted in the club.

This exact thing. Jack beneath you. Jack watching you. Jack trying not to let you see how badly he wanted to take over.

You moved again. Slowly. His jaw flexed. You did it again. Jack’s breath left him through his nose. His eyes stayed on yours. Patient. Hungry. Dangerous. He was letting you have it.

That was the worst part.

He let you set the rhythm. Let you rock down against him, let you find what felt good, let you watch his control tighten and tighten and tighten beneath your hands. He let you see the exact second it started costing him.

You felt powerful for maybe thirty seconds. Maybe less. Then the angle caught something deep enough to make your rhythm falter. Jack’s mouth curved. Barely. Meanly.

“That all you’ve got?” he asked.

Your breath caught. The callback hit you low and hot. You glared at him, but it was ruined by the way your hips stuttered. Jack’s hands slid fully around your hips.

“Careful,” you said, breathless, trying to make it sound like a warning.

His eyes darkened. “We covered that.” 

Then he moved you. Your whole body jolted. His grip took over the rhythm you had lost, guiding you down onto him with a slow, firm pull that made your hands clutch at his chest.

“Jack,” you gasped.

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

“You wanted to see if I’d last,” Jack said.

His hands dragged your hips down again. Slow. Devastating. “Now you know.”

Your head dipped forward. He caught your jaw before you could hide. Not hard. Enough.

“Uh-uh,” Jack said. “I said look.”

You looked. You had to. His eyes were on you, dark and intent, watching every reaction like he had already decided to memorize them all and use them against you later.

Your thighs started to shake. He felt that too. Jack’s hands slowed, but the pressure did not ease. He let you feel every inch of him. Every drag. Every deep, overwhelming second. You were warm everywhere. Loose and trembling and still somehow wound too tight to breathe right.

Jack’s thumb moved at your hip.

“There,” he said, voice rough. “That’s it.”

You made a sound you did not recognize. His jaw tightened at it. The pleasure built differently this time. Not the sharp, blinding shock of his mouth. This was deeper. Heavier.

A slow heat gathering low in your body with every drag of him, every firm pull of his hands, every rough breath he let out when you moved just right. Your hands pressed hard against his chest.

“Jack,” you said.

His eyes sharpened. “Yeah?”

Your hips stuttered again. You tried to keep going. Tried to hold the rhythm. Tried to stay above him like you had any control left at all. Jack’s hands tightened.

“Oh,” he said, low and rough. “There you are.”

Your breath caught. He knew. Of course he knew.

“I’m—” you started.

Jack pulled you down harder, and the rest of the sentence broke into a moan. His mouth curved.

“You’re what?” he asked.

You hated him. You wanted him so badly you could barely see straight.

Your nails dragged lightly over his chest. “I’m close.”

Jack’s expression changed. The smugness did not disappear. It sharpened. His hands shifted on your hips, holding you steady as he guided you through another slow, devastating roll.

“Good,” Jack said.

Your whole body clenched. He felt it. His jaw flexed.

“Fuck,” he said, almost under his breath.

The sound of him losing that much control nearly did it by itself. Your rhythm faltered completely. Jack took over. From underneath you, somehow, he took over.

His hands held your hips exactly where he wanted them, guiding you down onto him again and again, each movement controlled and deep and timed like he knew your body better than you did.

Maybe he did. Maybe that was the problem. Your head fell forward. Jack’s hand came to your jaw again.

“Look at me,” he said.

Your eyes opened. Barely. Enough. His gaze locked on yours.

“There,” Jack said. “Stay with me.”

Your breath broke. “Jack—”

“I know,” he said.

His thumb moved against your jaw. “I’ve got you.”

You shook above him, thighs trembling, hands slipping against his chest. Jack held you there. Kept you moving. Kept you taking him. Kept you looking at him until there was nowhere for the feeling to go except through you.

“You’re doing so good,” Jack said.

That did it. Your body broke around him. You came with his name in your mouth, sharp and helpless, your hands clinging to his chest as Jack’s grip turned firm enough to keep you upright through every wave.

He watched you through all of it. His eyes dark. His jaw tight. His body locked beneath yours like watching you fall apart on top of him was testing every piece of control he had left.

“Fuck,” Jack said, rough and low. “That’s it.”

You were still shaking when Jack pulled you down into a kiss. Hot. Deep. Almost rough enough to steal the last of your balance. When he broke it, his mouth stayed against yours.

“Turn over,” Jack said.

Your whole body reacted. The words went through you before your brain could catch up. You stilled. Jack felt it immediately. His hand softened at your hip. His eyes searched your face.

“Only if you want it,” he said.

Your pulse hammered. You looked at him, at the care under the command, at the restraint under all that heat, and wanted him so sharply it nearly hurt.

“I want it,” you said.

His gaze held yours. “You sure?”

You nodded, then remembered. “I’m sure,” you said.

Jack kissed you once. Hard. Approving. Then his hands shifted, guiding you carefully off him and onto the mattress. There was nothing hurried about the way he moved you. Nothing careless. He was intense, yes. Hungry, yes. But every motion still carried that same infuriating attention.

Careful meant paying attention. You understood that now. You turned over because he had told you to. Because you wanted to. Because the sound he made when you did sent heat crawling up your spine.

Jack’s hand came to your hip. Then the other. He settled behind you, his palms spreading over your skin, and for one suspended second, he did not move. He just looked. You felt it. The weight of his gaze. The exact fantasy clicking into place. Your fingers twisted in the sheets.

“Jack?” you asked.

His hand tightened at your hip.

“This,” Jack said, voice rough at your shoulder. “This is what I kept thinking about.”

Your breath caught. His mouth brushed your skin.

“Your hips under my hands,” Jack said.

His fingers flexed. “Your mouth trying to stay quiet.”

Heat rushed through you. You pushed back without meaning to. Jack went very still. Then he laughed once. Low. Disbelieving. Rough enough to make your whole body tighten.

“Fuck,” Jack said. “You are trouble.”

Then he pushed back into you. Your arms nearly gave out. The angle was different. Deeper. Sharper. Enough that the air left your lungs all at once. Jack’s hands held your hips, keeping you exactly where he wanted you as he started to move. Not frantic. Not out of control. Worse than that. Controlled. Certain. Hard enough to make your fingers clutch at the sheets, slow enough to make you feel every second of it. You buried your face in the mattress to muffle a moan. Jack noticed. His hand slid up your spine.

“Don’t do that,” he said.

Your voice came out broken. “Do what?”

His mouth brushed your shoulder. “Go quiet on me.”

Your body clenched around him. Jack’s grip tightened.

“Oh,” he said, rough and low. “You like that too.”

You could not answer. Not properly. Not with him moving like that. Not with his hands on your hips and his voice at your back and the memory of his mouth still burning through your body.

“Words,” Jack said.

You dragged in a breath. “Yes.”

His hand slid around your waist. “Yes what?”

You made a helpless sound. Jack slowed. Cruel. Patient. Waiting.

Your fingers twisted in the sheets. “Yes, I like it.”

His mouth touched the back of your shoulder. “Good.”

Then he moved again, and your answer dissolved into a moan. It built differently this time. Not fast and blinding like before. This was deeper. Heavier. A slow heat gathering low in your body with every drag of him, every firm pull of his hands, every rough breath he let out against your skin.

Jack’s control was fraying. You could feel it now. In the way his grip tightened. In the way his breathing turned uneven. In the way his mouth found your shoulder and stayed there, open and hot, like he needed somewhere to put the sound building in his chest.

You pushed back again. His hips stuttered. Only once. But you felt it. Jack’s hand came down beside yours on the bed.

“Careful,” he said, but it was wrecked now.

Not the lesson from before. Not the warning from the truck. Something closer to a plea.

You smiled into the sheets, breathless and ruined. “I thought that wasn’t what careful meant.”

Jack’s hand slid to your jaw. He pulled you up. Not roughly. Not too fast. Just enough to bring your back against his chest, your body held upright by the steady grip of his hand at your jaw.

Not your throat. Your jaw. Firm. Certain. Keeping your face turned enough that he could see you. Keeping you with him. His other hand moved low over your stomach, spreading there with a pressure that made the feeling of him sharper, deeper, impossible to ignore.

Your breath broke. Jack felt it and his mouth brushed the side of your neck.

“There,” Jack said, voice rough against your ear. “Stay with me.”

You tried to nod. His hand at your jaw held you still.

“Words,” Jack said.

Your eyes fluttered. “I’m here.”

His hand pressed lower on your stomach. Just enough. Your whole body jolted. Jack’s breath went rough against your ear.

“You feel that?” he asked.

Your fingers scrambled for something to hold onto and found his forearm.

“Jack—”

His hand pressed again, careful and devastating. “You feel me?”

The sound that left you barely counted as an answer. Jack’s grip at your jaw tightened by a fraction.

“Words,” he said again.

Your whole body shook against him.

“Yes,” you gasped. “Fuck, yes, I feel you.”

A rough sound left him, and his forehead dropped briefly to your shoulder like the answer had done something to him too.

“Good,” Jack said.

Then he moved again, and there was nothing left in your head but him.

Only him. His chest against your back. His hand at your jaw. His arm around your body. The deep, relentless drag of him inside you, each thrust controlled enough to make you feel every second and rough enough to make your thoughts scatter before they could become words.

Your fingers locked around his forearm. Not pulling him away. Holding on.

His mouth brushed your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth from the side.

His breathing was rough now. Uneven. The kind of uneven that made heat curl low in your stomach because Jack had been so controlled all night. So deliberate. So infuriatingly sure of himself.

And now he was starting to sound wrecked.

His hand pressed low over your stomach again, and the angle made your whole body jolt. You clenched around him. Jack swore against your throat.

“Fuck,” Jack said, low and broken.

The sound did something to you. Not composed. Not smug. Not careful. Broken. You turned your face toward him as much as his hold allowed, and his mouth caught yours in a kiss that was more breath than anything else, hot and messy and badly aimed.

It was not pretty.

Nothing about either of you was pretty anymore. Your body was trembling. His breathing was harsh. The sheets were twisted beneath your knees, and your skin was damp where his chest pressed to your back. His hand at your jaw held you there like he could not stand the thought of losing your face now, not when he was this close.

“Jack,” you said, and his name came out softer than you meant it to.

His rhythm stuttered. Only once. But you felt it. His forehead dropped to your shoulder.

“Don’t,” Jack said.

You swallowed. “Don’t what?”

His laugh was rough and breathless against your skin. “Say my name like that unless you want this to be over.”

Heat curled through you, slow and vicious. You should have let him have that. You should have been merciful. You were not.

“Jack,” you said again.

His whole body went tight behind you. The sound that left him was rough enough to make your stomach flip. Not quite a groan. Not quite your name. Something worse. Something dragged out of him. His hand left your stomach and caught your hip, holding you steady as he drove into you with less control than before.

“There,” Jack said, voice wrecked at your ear. “Fuck, there.”

Your fingers dug into his forearm. He felt it. His mouth pressed to your neck, open and hot, and the next sound he made was unmistakable. A groan. Deep. Rough. Dragged out of him. His hand tightened at your hip.

“I’m gonna fucking come,” Jack said, voice wrecked against your skin.

Your whole body went molten. The words hit you low and hot, and you turned your face toward him as much as his grip at your jaw allowed.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His rhythm stuttered. Only once. Then he drove into you again. Once. Twice. A third time, harder, his breath breaking against your neck.

“Oh fu—” Jack’s voice snapped off into a rough groan. “Oh, fuck.”

His hand at your jaw gentled even as the rest of him went tense behind you. 

He came like that.

 With his mouth against your skin. With that broken sound still caught in his throat. With your name rough and helpless on the next breath. You felt every second of it. The hard shudder through his body. The broken rhythm. The way his grip on your hip tightened, then loosened, then tightened again like he did not know whether to hold on or let himself fall apart.

He held you through it.

Or maybe you held him. Maybe it was both. For a few seconds, neither of you moved. Jack’s forehead rested against your shoulder. His breathing was harsh against your skin. Your own body still trembled in little aftershocks, too sensitive, too warm, too aware of every place he touched you. Then Jack’s hand slid from your jaw to your cheek. Gentle now. So gentle it almost hurt worse.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

You nodded before you remembered.

“Yes,” you said, voice hoarse. “I’m okay.”

His thumb brushed your cheek. “Sure?”

You let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “Jack.”

“That’s not an answer,” Jack said.

You turned your face toward him, tired and warm and still entirely too aware of him. “I’m sure.”

His eyes searched yours for another second. Then his mouth touched your shoulder. Soft. Brief. Nothing like the way he had kissed you before. 

“Okay,” Jack said.

He helped you down carefully, one hand at your waist, the other braced beside you. The shift made you hiss softly, and Jack stopped immediately. Your hand covered his.

“I’m okay,” you said.

His eyes flicked to yours. You managed a faint smile. “That one was preemptive.”

Jack huffed a breath that might have been a laugh if either of you had the energy for one.

“Smartass,” Jack said.

His voice was softer now. Still Jack. But softer. He moved away only long enough to deal with the condom and get a washcloth. Practical. Quiet. No performance, no awkwardness, no sudden distance after all that heat.

You stayed where you were for a second, cheek pressed to the sheets, trying to convince your body it belonged to you again. It was not going well.

Jack came back and sat beside you on the bed. The mattress dipped. His hand touched your hip first, warm and steady. “Can I?”

You nodded into the sheets, then caught yourself.

“Yes,” you said.

His mouth curved faintly. “Good.”

You did not have the strength to be annoyed by how much that still worked on you. He cleaned you up with the same infuriating care he seemed to bring to everything, his touch gentle enough to make your chest ache and matter-of-fact enough to keep you from feeling exposed.

That might have been the worst part. Or the best part. The way he did not make tenderness feel fragile. The way he made it feel practical. Expected. Like of course he would take care of you. Like of course he would not leave you to figure out what to do with yourself after he had taken you apart.

Your throat tightened. You blamed exhaustion. Mostly. When he finished, Jack tossed the washcloth into his laundry basket and looked down at you.

His hair was a disaster. His mouth was swollen. His eyes were still dark, but the edge had gentled into something quieter. You pushed yourself up slowly. Your arms felt untrustworthy.

Jack noticed and reached for you immediately, one hand steadying your waist.

You let him. That should have worried you. It did not. You sat back on your heels and looked around for your clothes, reality creeping in around the edges of the room.

Your jeans were somewhere on the floor. Your underwear too. Your red top was still by the front door. Fantastic. You shifted like you were going to climb off the bed. Jack’s hand stayed at your waist.

“Where are you going?” Jack asked.

You glanced back at him. “Just getting my clothes.”

His expression changed. Not much. Enough.

“You don’t have to,” Jack said.

You blinked. “I don’t?”

His thumb moved once against your side. “Not if you don’t want to.”

The room went very quiet. Your first instinct was to make a joke. To shrug it off. To say something easy and casual and painless, because that was what people did after nights like this, wasn’t it? They found their clothes, fixed their hair, checked their phone, made the night smaller before it started asking for anything.

But you could not make this small. Not with Jack looking at you like that. Not with his hand still warm at your waist. Not with your body still aching in ways that made your stomach flip every time you shifted. 

You were in trouble. Real trouble. Because it had been one night. One bad decision. One club. One black T-shirt. And already you knew. You were going to want him again. Again and again and again.

Jack’s eyes moved over your face, and whatever he saw there made his mouth soften.

“Hey,” Jack said.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He reached for the black T-shirt he had dropped near the bed and held it out to you.

“Put this on if you’re cold,” Jack said.

You looked at the shirt. Then at him. Something warm and dangerous moved through your chest.

“Bossy after sex too?” you asked.

Jack’s mouth curved.

“You complained less during,” Jack said.

A laugh broke out of you, tired and unsteady. Jack’s expression shifted at the sound. Like he liked it. Like he was relieved by it. You took the shirt from him and pulled it over your head. It fell soft and warm around you, smelling like him, and that should not have done anything to you after everything that had just happened.

It did anyway.

Jack watched you for a second too long. Then he shifted back against the pillows and opened one arm. Not demanding. Not assuming. Just offering.

You hesitated for half a breath.

Then you crawled back into bed. Jack’s arm closed around you when you settled against him, careful with your body, firm enough that you knew he wanted you there. Your cheek rested against his chest, and his hand moved slowly over your side, grounding and warm.

For a minute, neither of you said anything. The quiet was different now. Still charged. Still too intimate. But softer around the edges. You listened to his breathing settle beneath your ear.

Your eyes grew heavy despite yourself.

Then the thought slipped out before you could stop it.

“So,” you said, voice muffled against his chest. “That was careful?”

Jack’s hand paused on your side. Then his chest moved under your cheek with a quiet laugh.

“For now,” Jack said.

Your eyes opened. “For now?”

His hand resumed its slow path over your side.

“Sleep for a little while,” Jack said.

You tilted your head enough to look at him. “A little while?”

Jack’s thumb moved against your waist. His eyes met yours, dark and warm and entirely too sure of himself.

“You’ll need it,” Jack said.