All Drury

jack kisses like he speaks—soft, careful, like he’s worried you might break under his hands. but when you shift in his lap, pressing closer, his fingers tighten on your hip. not rough, not yet, but there’s something there, something wound tight under all that golden-boy sweetness.

you test it. move again, just a little grind, and—oh. his breath hitches, barely more than a whisper against your mouth, but his grip clenches, and when he exhales, it’s a slow, shuddering thing.

“fuck,” he murmurs, like he’s scolding himself, and his hands are already smoothing down your back, settling on your ass. not squeezing, not pushing—just holding, feeling.

you want to tease him, make some crack about him being shy, but then he shifts under you, and you feel it. fuck. not shy at all.

his lips are back on yours before you can say anything, and it’s different now—hungrier, mouth parting, tongue slipping in to taste. still careful, but not in the same way. not because he’s timid, but because he’s taking his time. like he’s savoring it. savoring you.

his fingers flex on your ass, just a little, and he hums against your lips. “been thinking about this all night.”

his voice hasn’t changed. still soft, still sweet. but his hands start to move, slow, dragging over your thighs, slipping under your shirt, his palms warm against your skin. he doesn’t rush, just traces, like he’s mapping every inch.

his breath brushes your ear when he speaks again. “you don’t mind if i take my time, do you?”

your hands bury in his hair, and you don’t care if it messes up that perfectly tousled blond mop. “please,” you breathe, and you feel him smile against your jaw.

his fingers dip lower, teasing at the waistband of your pants. “good,” he says, still so gentle. still so fucking polite. and then—then he yanks your hips down, grinding you against him, and the sound you make is embarrassing, but he just groans, quiet but wrecked.

his other hand comes up, slides under your chin, tilting your head back just enough so he can kiss down your throat. open-mouthed, slow, a tease. his teeth scrape, but he doesn’t bite—not yet. he’s playing with you.

his fingers work your button open, then your zipper, the whole time moving so fucking unhurried, like you’ve got all the time in the world, like he’s perfectly content to just sit here and ruin you inch by inch.

his voice is still so soft when he asks, “you gonna let me have you right here?”