Favorite Man in Uniform
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 15, 240
Summary: You and Jack have been keeping your relationship quiet for months. It works, mostly, until a firefighter comes in as a patient and one of his teammates decides to flirt with you right in front of him. Jack trusts you. He does. But standing five feet away while another man acts like you’re available? That is a very different problem.
Warnings: 18+ only, smut, secret relationship, workplace flirting, jealous Jack, possessive/protective Jack, bratty reader, light restraint with a belt, oral sex, fingering, protected sex, dirty talk, praise, “good girl,” begging, mild brat-taming energy, love confessions.
Author’s Note: Huge thank you to the lovely @jackr-abbott who requested this one. “He’s supposed to be your favorite man in uniform” immediately rewired my brain, and jealous, careful, secretly-in-love Jack was so much fun to write. I fear this may be my new favorite smut fic I’ve ever written. I hope this is everything you were hoping for.
Xoxo, Del
The firefighter came in bloody, pissed off, and trying very hard to pretend he was not in pain. It was just after two in the morning, which meant the emergency department had settled into that strange night-shift rhythm where everything felt too bright and too quiet until it suddenly wasn’t.
Crus was at the nurses’ station attempting to fix a jammed printer. Shen was half a hallway down, talking to a drunk college student about the emotional consequences of a fractured wrist. Ellis was already pulling gloves on when the ambulance bay doors opened. And Jack was beside you at the foot of trauma two, expression calm in the way that meant he had already started building a plan before the stretcher crossed the threshold.
“Thirty-four-year-old male, firefighter, injured on scene,” the paramedic said as the stretcher rolled in. “Partial ceiling collapse during overhaul. Took debris to the shoulder and left flank. No loss of consciousness. Vitals stable en route.”
The firefighter on the stretcher opened one eye. “You make it sound dramatic.”
“You got hit by part of a ceiling,” another firefighter said, walking in beside the stretcher with the run sheet in one hand. “It was dramatic.”
The patient frowned. “I walked out.”
His teammate looked down at him. “You were carried out.”
“I assisted,” the patient said.
“You complained,” the other firefighter corrected.
You bit back a smile as you stepped toward the bed. “Sounds like he’s alert.”
The teammate’s mouth curved. “Unfortunately.”
Jack’s mouth did not move, but you felt the almost-smile in him anyway. Jack braced one hand on the rail. “On three. One, two, three.”
The team transferred the firefighter to the trauma bed. He hissed through his teeth, jaw tightening hard as you helped guide his injured side down.
“I’m fine,” the firefighter said.
Jack looked at him over the end of the bed. “That usually means you’re not.”
You almost smiled again.
The firefighter’s teammate noticed. His attention shifted to you, quick and interested, and his mouth curved like he had decided the night had improved.
You held out your hand for the run sheet. “And you are?”
“Mason Brooks,” he said, passing it over. “Station Four.”
You glanced down at the paperwork. “Patient’s name?”
“Ryan Hale,” Mason said. “Lieutenant. Stubborn. Hero complex. Bad at following directions unless there’s active fire involved.”
Hale turned his head on the pillow. “I can still hear you.”
“Good,” Mason said. “Maybe this time it’ll sink in.”
You scanned the sheet. “Any meds? Allergies?”
Mason shifted closer to the end of the bed. “No known allergies. No daily meds. Unless coffee counts.”
“At this hour, it does,” you said.
Mason’s grin widened. “See, I knew I liked you.”
Jack’s hand paused for half a second on the bed rail. Half a second. Nothing more.
You kept your attention on the patient. “Lieutenant Hale,” you said, leaning into his line of sight. “I’m going to cut through your shirt so we can look at your shoulder and ribs, okay?”
Hale grimaced. “Whatever you need.”
Mason leaned a little closer, eyes still on you. “That offer extend to the rest of us, or just him?”
Crus, who had just stepped into the room, looked up immediately. Shen appeared in the doorway at exactly the wrong time, chart in hand. Ellis stopped opening a pack of gauze. You did not look at any of them. You also did not look at Jack. You could feel him perfectly well without that.
“Patient first,” you said, sliding the trauma shears through the fabric of Hale’s shirt. “Flirting never.”
Mason laughed, low and pleased, like you had given him exactly the answer he wanted. His eyebrows lifted. “Never?”
Jack reached over and adjusted the monitor lead near Hale’s shoulder. He did not need to. You knew that because you had already placed it. Still, his forearm came briefly into your space, a clean line of muscle and restraint under fluorescent light.
“Brooks,” Jack said.
The room went still in the way a room could only go still while everyone inside it kept working. Mason glanced at him.
Jack did not look away from the patient. “She needs room.”
Mason lifted both hands, grin still there. “I’m out of the way.”
Jack finally looked at him. “More.”
Crus looked down at the supply cart with sudden, religious interest. Shen pressed his lips together. Ellis coughed once into her shoulder. Mason took one step back. But he did not stop smiling. That was probably what did it. Because he was not being creepy. He was not interfering. He was not saying anything you could not handle. He was just obvious. Obvious enough that everyone in the room knew exactly what he was doing. Obvious enough that Jack had to stand beside you and pretend he did not care.
You palpated carefully along Hale’s shoulder. “Left shoulder tenderness. Possible clavicle involvement.”
Jack moved with you. Again. He stepped in at Hale’s other side, close enough that the two of you fell into the old rhythm before you could think about it. You checked the shoulder. Jack checked the ribs. You reached for gauze, and he passed it to you before you asked. Your fingers brushed. Barely. It was nothing. It was everything.
Jack kept his eyes on Hale. “Any trouble breathing?”
Hale shook his head. “No.”
Jack’s hand stilled near the bruising along Hale’s side. “Pain when you take a deep breath?”
“Some,” Hale said.
Jack nodded once. “Chest X-ray. Shoulder films. CBC, CMP. Pain control.”
You reached for the tablet beside the bed. “Already paging X-ray.”
Jack’s gaze cut to you. For one second, there he was. Your Jack. Not Dr. Abbot. Not the attending pretending he had not kissed you against your apartment door less than eight hours ago. Your Jack. The one who knew how you took your coffee on the night shift. The one who texted you to make sure you got inside when you drove home after dark.
Then he blinked, and the wall came back up. “Good,” Jack said.
Not thank you. Good. Professional enough to pass. Intimate enough to make your stomach turn over.
Mason glanced between you again, and even though he could not possibly know, you hated that he sensed something.
“So,” Mason said, looking at you while Jack checked the bruising along Hale’s flank, “you always make trauma look this easy?”
You reached for tape. Jack got it first. Again. He handed it to you without looking away from Hale. You stared at the roll in his hand for half a second before taking it.
“Only when men in uniform behave,” you said.
Crus made a strangled noise. Shen turned halfway toward the door like he needed a moment.
Ellis muttered, “Jesus Christ,” under her breath.
Despite yourself, your mouth curved. It was small. Barely there. The kind of smile you would have swallowed immediately if you had realized anyone was watching.
Mason saw it anyway. His own smile turned delighted.
“There it is,” Mason said.
You looked at him. “There what?”
Mason leaned lightly against the wall, still at the distance Jack had ordered him to keep. “That smile. I was starting to think you were going to make me work for it all night.”
Jack set the chart down. Quietly. Too quietly. Crus froze. Shen looked at Ellis. Ellis looked at you.
You kept your voice light, but final. “Mason.”
Mason held your gaze for one second, then nodded like he knew he had found the line.
“Too much?” he asked.
You gave him a pointed look. “Yes.”
Mason lifted one hand in surrender. “Got it.”
And he did. He stepped back, posture still easy, but his mouth finally closed, which you appreciated more than you wanted to admit. Jack moved to Hale’s other side, all precise hands and unreadable expression.
Jack glanced at Mason. “Anything else clinically relevant from the scene?”
Mason looked at him. This time, he did not smile. “No, sir,” Mason said.
Jack nodded once. “Good. Then we’ll take it from here.”
Mason looked toward Hale. “I’ll check back when they decide you’re not dying.”
Hale closed his eyes. “Bring coffee.”
Mason huffed. “You don’t deserve coffee.”
You smiled despite yourself. Mason saw it. Jack saw Mason see it. You knew because Jack stepped closer to the bed, blocking Mason’s line of sight like it was an accident. It was not an accident. Your breath caught. Mason’s gaze flicked to Jack’s back. Then to you. Then he nodded once, like something had finally clicked enough to make him curious.
“Nice to meet you,” Mason said.
You gave him a polite nod. “You too.”
Jack did not move until Mason left the room. Then the trauma bay exhaled. Crus was the first one brave enough to breathe like a person.
He looked at the supply cart. “I’m going to take these somewhere else.”
Jack did not look at him. “Good.”
Crus picked up a pack of gauze. “Great.”
Shen backed toward the doorway with the chart still in his hand. “I have a wrist fracture.”
Ellis gave him a look. “You personally?”
Shen ignored her and left. Ellis glanced between you and Jack, then dropped the unopened gauze onto the counter. “I’ll check on X-ray,” Ellis said.
Jack’s eyes stayed on Hale. “Thank you.”
Ellis left, too. Which left you with Jack, the patient, the beeping monitor, and the awful knowledge that Jack was standing close enough to touch you and still refusing to do it. Hale opened one eye.
“I’m on pain meds,” he said carefully, “so I’m going to pretend I didn’t notice any of that.”
Jack closed his eyes for half a second.
You pressed your lips together. “Notice any of what?” you asked.
Hale looked at you. Then at Jack. Then back at you.
“Exactly,” Hale said.
The corner of Jack’s mouth almost moved. Almost. Then the wall came back up.
“Rest,” Jack said.
Hale shut his eyes. “Yes, sir.”
The trauma bay emptied out in pieces after that. Hale went to imaging. Mason left with the rest of Station Four. Crus disappeared the second Jack gave him another look, though you knew he would be back the moment he thought it was safe to breathe near you again. Shen pretended to have somewhere to be. Ellis actually did. Which left you at the counter outside trauma two, finishing the chart with one hip pressed against the cabinet and the leftover adrenaline of the call still humming beneath your skin.
Jack stood a few feet away, reviewing Hale’s orders on the computer. He had not said much since Mason left. That was not unusual for Jack during a shift. It was unusual for Jack with you. You were still trying to decide whether you should say something when another night shift nurse, Drew, slid up beside you with a fresh roll of tape in one hand and a grin already working its way across his face.
“So,” Drew said.
You did not look up from the chart. “No.”
Drew laughed. “I didn’t even say anything.”
“You were about to,” you said.
Drew leaned his shoulder against the cabinet. “I was about to say Station Four was looking very heroic tonight.”
You paused. Across the counter, Jack’s typing stopped. Only for a second. Then it resumed. You felt your stomach tighten. Drew did not notice. Of course, he did not notice. He lowered his voice in the exact way people did when they thought they were being subtle and absolutely were not.
“Brooks was flirting hard,” Drew said.
You sighed. “He was doing a handoff.”
“Please.” Drew rolled his eyes. “He was doing a handoff, making prolonged eye contact, and trying to get your number through trauma paperwork.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. Tiny. Controlled. You saw it anyway.
“Drew,” you warned.
Drew smiled wider. “What? He was cute.”
“I’m not dating a firefighter,” you said.
Drew frowned. “Okay, but we love a man in uniform.”
Jack went still. Not enough for anyone else to call it that. Not enough to be obvious. But the air around him changed again. You hated that your first instinct was to look at him. You hated more that you could not. Because looking at Jack right now would say too much. Instead, you kept your eyes on the chart and forced your voice to stay light.
“We?” you asked.
Drew pointed the roll of tape at you. “As a community.”
You gave him a look.
Drew shrugged. “A broad and beautiful community of people with eyes.”
Despite yourself, you almost laughed. Almost. Jack closed the chart on his screen. A little too carefully. You heard the click of the mouse. You felt it somewhere behind your ribs.
“I’m good,” you said.
Drew made a face. “You’re still doing that no-dating thing?”
You swallowed. The no-dating thing. Right. The harmless lie you had told people months ago when you and Jack had started becoming something neither of you had wanted to expose to hospital fluorescent lighting.
No dating. Too busy. Not worth the complication.
A clean little excuse that had felt easy at the time.
Now, with Jack standing five feet away while another nurse encouraged you to go for a firefighter who had made him spend an entire trauma case pretending not to know you, it felt cruel.
“I’m good,” you repeated, softer this time.
Drew studied you for a second, then shrugged. “Suit yourself. But if Brooks comes back asking about you, I’m telling him you’re single and mysterious.”
“Drew,” you said.
He lifted both hands. “What?”
You pointed at him. “Do not do that.”
Drew grinned. “Fine. Single and terrifyingly unavailable.”
Jack looked up then. You felt it. His gaze on you. Not long. Not enough. Just a brief, controlled flick of his eyes that landed like a hand around your wrist.
Drew finally seemed to register the temperature of the room. His gaze shifted from you to Jack, then back again.
“Oh,” Drew said.
Your heart kicked once. Jack’s expression did not change.
“What?” you asked.
Drew blinked. “Nothing.”
“Drew,” you warned.
“Nothing,” he repeated, suddenly fascinated by the roll of tape in his hand. “I’m going to restock three.”
He left too quickly. You stood there with your pen in your hand, your chart unfinished, and the awful knowledge that Jack was still looking at you. For one second, neither of you moved. Then Jack lowered his gaze back to the computer.
“Patient in four needs discharge papers,” Jack said.
Professional. Careful. A clean line drawn in the middle of the hallway.
You nodded, even though he was not looking at you anymore. “Okay.”
Jack clicked into another chart. You watched the muscle in his jaw move once. Then nothing. No comment about Drew. No sharp little confession. No hint that he cared whether Mason thought you were single, mysterious, available, unavailable, or anything else. Just Jack going quiet in the exact way that meant he was locking something down before it could get loose.
That was worse, somehow.
Because you knew him well enough to hear everything he refused to say. I know you are not going to go for it. I know you do not want him. I know this is not your fault. I still hated every second of it.
For the next twenty minutes, Jack stayed close. Not close enough for anyone to call it anything. Close enough that you noticed. He took the chart from your hand before Shen could reach for it. He stepped in beside you when Hale came back from imaging. He passed you gauze before you asked, tape before you reached, a fresh pair of gloves when yours tore at the wrist. Every touch almost happened. His knuckles almost brushed yours. His shoulder almost grazed your back. His hand almost settled at your waist when he moved behind you in the narrow space between the counter and the supply cart. Almost. Almost. Almost.
And each time, Jack pulled back before contact could become evidence. It was maddening. It was careful. It was so painfully him that you wanted to scream.
When Mason came back to check on Hale, Jack was already at your side.
Mason stopped near the doorway, gaze flicking from Hale to you. “How’s he doing?”
“He’ll live,” you said.
Hale groaned from the bed. “Barely.”
Jack looked at the tablet in his hand. “No fracture. No pneumothorax. Observation for pain control and repeat exam.”
Mason nodded, but his eyes came back to you. “Good. I’d hate to think I left him in the wrong hands.”
You opened your mouth. Jack answered before you could. “She has it handled.”
The room went quiet. Mason’s brows lifted slightly. You looked at Jack. Jack did not look at you. His eyes stayed on Mason, calm and unreadable.
Mason’s mouth curved, slower this time. “I can see that.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. You set the tablet down before either of them could say another word.
“Lieutenant Hale needs rest,” you said, voice light but firm. “And I need both of you to stop having whatever conversation you think you’re having over his bed.”
Hale opened one eye. “Thank you.”
Mason laughed once, lifting both hands. “Fair.”
Jack finally looked at you. There was heat there. Frustration. Something too sharp to be professional and too controlled to be anything else. You held his gaze for half a second too long. Then Jack looked away first.
“Brooks,” Jack said, voice even. “You can check back in after he’s had some rest.”
Mason nodded once. “Yes, sir.”
He looked at you one last time. “Good seeing you again,” Mason said.
You gave him a polite nod. “You too.”
Jack moved before Mason fully cleared the doorway. It was subtle. A step to the side. A shift of his body. Nothing anyone could call possessive. But it put him directly between you and Mason’s line of sight. Your breath caught. Mason saw it. You knew he saw it because his expression changed just enough. Curiosity. Recognition. Not understanding, exactly. But close. Then Mason left.
Hale looked between you and Jack from the bed.
“I’m still on pain meds,” Hale said carefully, “so I’m going to pretend I didn’t notice that either.”
Jack’s eyes closed again. You pressed your lips together. From the doorway, Crus made the mistake of appearing with Hale’s updated paperwork. He looked at Jack. Then at you. Then at Hale.
“I can come back,” Crus said.
Jack turned his head. “Crus.”
Crus nodded. “Coming back.”
He disappeared immediately. You exhaled through your nose and grabbed the tablet from the counter.
“I’m going to restock,” you said.
Jack’s gaze followed you. “Now?”
“Yes,” you said, not looking at him. “Now.”
You made it halfway down the hall before Jack caught up. He did not call your name. He did not say anything at all. He just reached past you, opened the supply closet door, and said, low enough that only you could hear, “In.”
Your pulse jumped. You looked up at him. “Excuse me?”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “Please.”
That was worse. That was much worse. You stepped inside. The second the door clicked shut, Jack’s hand closed around your wrist. Not hard. Just firm enough to turn you back toward him before you could take another breath.
“Jack—”
He kissed you.
The word disappeared against his mouth. For one stunned second, you froze, caught between the metal shelf at your back and the heat of him in front of you. Then your body caught up faster than your brain did. Your hands found his scrub top, fingers curling into the fabric as Jack stepped closer and kissed you like he had been holding himself back all night. Because he had. You knew it in the way his mouth moved over yours.
Controlled, but only barely. Careful, but not calm.
His hand slid to your waist, pulling you in once before he seemed to remember where you were and stopped himself from dragging you fully against him. When he broke the kiss, his breath was uneven. You stared up at him. Jack’s eyes were dark.
Your lips parted. “Oh.”
His jaw flexed. “Don’t.”
“You’re jealous,” you said.
Jack looked toward the closed door like it had personally offended him. “I’m not doing this here.”
“You pulled me into a supply closet and kissed me,” you replied.
Jack exhaled. “I needed to talk to you.”
You lifted your brows. “That wasn’t talking.”
Jack’s eyes cut back to yours. There he was. Irritated. Wound tight. Too handsome for your peace of mind.
“You’ve been acting strange all night,” you said.
Jack dropped his hand from your waist, but he did not step back. “I’ve been working.”
Your eyes narrowed, “You’ve been keeping me within arm’s reach.”
Jack did not answer. That silence landed harder than a confession.
You softened your voice. “Jack.”
His gaze stayed on yours, stubborn and hot and miserable.
“Is this because of Mason?” you asked.
Jack laughed once, short and humorless. “Mason,” he repeated, like the name tasted bad.
You bit the inside of your cheek. Jack looked away, but this time there was something grumpy and sharp tucked into the movement.
“Drew had plenty to say about him,” Jack said.
The memory came back immediately. Station Four was looking very heroic tonight. He was cute. Okay, but we love a man in uniform.
Your mouth curved before you could stop it.
Jack saw it. His eyes narrowed. “What?”
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
“That’s not nothing,” Jack replied.
You tilted your head. “You’re mad about what Drew said.”
Jack replied instantly. “I’m not mad about what Drew said.”
You gave him a look.
Jack’s mouth tightened. “He said you should go for it.”
You sighed softly. “He was teasing.”
“He said everyone loves a man in uniform,” Jack replied, short, slightly clipped.
You stepped closer, letting your hands smooth slowly up his chest.
“And you think I was looking at Mason in uniform?” you asked.
“I think,” Jack said, each word too controlled, “Brooks knew exactly what he looked like walking into that room.”
You hummed. “Did he?”
Jack's tone sharpened into a warning, “Baby.”
There it was. The first slip. The first crack in the professional distance he had forced between you all night.
Your stomach flipped, but you did not let him off the hook. “He’s not the man I want to see in uniform.”
Jack went still. Not tense. Not cold. Still. Like the words had gone straight through him.
“No?” Jack asked.
You shook your head. “No.”
The supply closet felt smaller suddenly. Too quiet. Too warm.
Jack’s eyes held yours. “Careful.”
You continued despite Jack’s warning. “You are.”
His mouth parted slightly. You let your gaze move over him, slow enough to be cruel.
“And you know exactly what you look like in your SWAT gear.”
Jack’s hand braced on the shelf beside your head. He was not touching you. Not yet. But his body crowded yours, all heat and restraint, and your pulse jumped like it had been waiting for permission.
“I pulled you in here because I was jealous,” Jack said, voice rough. “And now you’re talking about SWAT gear.”
“No,” you said, fingers curling in the front of his scrub top. “I’m telling you, Mason could never.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your hands.
You tugged him closer by a fraction. “He could never make me feel like you do.”
Jack’s eyes lifted back to yours.
“He could never kiss me like you do,” you said.
Jack kissed you again. Harder this time. The shelf pressed into your back as his mouth found yours, and you made a soft, startled sound that disappeared into him. Jack swallowed it like it belonged to him. His hand returned to your waist, fingers tightening once, and the possessive edge of it made your knees go weak. He kissed you like a man trying to prove a point he had no business proving at work.
Then he pulled back just enough to breathe. You should have stopped. You did not. You caught his wrist before he could move his hand away.
Jack’s eyes sharpened. “Baby.”
You held his gaze and guided his hand back to your waist. “He could never touch me like you do.”
Jack’s fingers flexed against you. You moved his hand lower, slow enough that he could stop you if he wanted to. He did not. His palm settled over your ass, firm and hot through your scrubs, and his jaw went tight enough to make your stomach flip.
Your voice dropped. “Never.”
Jack’s breath left him roughly. His hand tightened once before he forced it still.
“You need to stop,” Jack said.
You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his scrub pants and pulled him closer. Not much. Just enough. Jack’s hips pressed into yours, and the sound he made was low, wrecked, barely controlled.
You looked up at him. “He could never fuck me like you do.”
Jack snapped.
His mouth was on yours before you could take another breath. This kiss was not careful. Not at first. It was hot and rough and immediate, his hand tightening on your ass as he pinned you back against the shelf with the solid heat of his body. Your fingers twisted in his waistband, pulling him closer while his mouth opened over yours, swallowing the small sound that slipped out of you. For one dizzy second, there was no hospital. No night shift. No Mason. No Drew. No secret. Just Jack’s mouth, Jack’s hands, Jack’s body pressed hard against yours as if he needed you to feel exactly how much he had been holding back.
Your hand slid up his chest. Jack’s hips pushed into yours again, and your breath broke against his mouth.
“Jack,” you whispered.
He kissed you once more, deep and hungry, and then stopped like it hurt. His forehead dropped to yours. Both of you were breathing too hard. His hand stayed on you for one more second. Then his fingers loosened.
“Not here,” Jack said.
Your eyes opened slowly. “Jack.”
His voice was rough, almost unsteady. “Not because I’m jealous.”
Your fingers were still hooked in his waistband. You could feel the tension in him, the restraint pulled tight through every line of his body. He lifted his head enough to look at you.
“Not at work,” Jack said. “Not where anyone can walk in and make you pay for it.”
Your chest squeezed, even through the heat still crawling under your skin. “You think I’d regret it?” you asked.
Jack’s expression softened for half a second, but his voice stayed wrecked. “I think I care about you too much to find out in a supply closet.”
You stared at him. “That is so annoying.”
His mouth twitched, though his eyes were still dark. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” You let go of his waistband slowly, even though it cost you. “Responsible. Principled. Deeply inconvenient.”
Jack’s hand slid from your ass back to your waist. Just once. Firm. Careful. Then he let go. He leaned close again, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear.
“Finish the shift,” Jack said.
Your eyes fluttered. “And then?”
Jack stepped back, putting space between you like it physically hurt. His gaze moved over your face, lingering on your mouth before coming back to your eyes. “Then you come home with me.”
Your pulse jumped. You tried to smile. “And?”
Jack reached for the supply closet door, but he looked back before opening it. “And then you can say all of that again.”
You stepped out of the supply closet first. That had been Jack’s idea. He gave you thirty seconds, like that would somehow fix your mouth, your breathing, your pulse, or the fact that your whole body still felt marked by his hands. You made it three steps before Crus appeared at the end of the hall. He looked at you. You looked at him. Crus’s eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. Then he looked at the supply closet door behind you.
You lifted a finger. “Don’t.”
Crus nodded immediately. “Wasn’t going to.”
Your eyes narrowed, “You were thinking.”
“I can stop,” Crus said.
You nodded once, “Do that.”
Crus pointed vaguely toward the nurses’ station. “I’m going to go over there.”
You nodded. “Great idea.”
Crus took two steps backward before turning around completely. You waited until he disappeared, then pressed the heel of your hand beneath your collarbone like that would keep your heart where it belonged. Thirty seconds later, Jack came out. You did not turn around. You did not need to. You felt him behind you the same way you had felt him all night. Close. Controlled. Ruining your life with restraint. Jack passed you without touching you, but his voice dipped low enough that only you could hear. “Breathe.”
Your eyes closed for half a second. “Don’t start.”
Jack paused beside you, his shoulder nearly brushing yours. “I’m not starting anything.”
You looked up at him. “You absolutely started something.”
His mouth twitched, but he kept his eyes on the hall. “Finish the shift.”
You exhaled shakily. “You keep saying that like it’s easy.”
Jack’s gaze cut to yours. For one second, the supply closet was there again. His mouth on yours. His hand at your waist. His voice against your ear. Then Jack looked away first.
“I didn’t say easy,” he said.
Your stomach flipped. He walked away before you could answer. You stood there for one more second, furious with him for being principled and even more furious with yourself for finding it attractive.
You lasted eleven minutes. That was generous, considering the state Jack had left you in. Eleven whole minutes of pretending you could chart, restock, answer Drew’s question about room six, and not think about Jack’s mouth on yours in the supply closet. Eleven minutes of watching him move through the department like he had not just pinned you to a shelf and then ruined your life by being responsible about it. He was at the nurses’ station when you looked up again, one hand wrapped around a paper cup of coffee, the other scrolling through something on his phone. His shoulders were relaxed. His face was calm. He looked controlled.
That annoyed you. It annoyed you enough that you reached into your scrub pocket for your phone. The photo was not new. You had taken it two nights ago in Jack’s bedroom, sitting on the floor in front of his mirror while he was in the shower. Your face was hidden behind your phone, one knee bent, your other leg folded beneath you. Lace hugged your hips, one strap sitting soft against your shoulder, the whole thing intimate and quiet and unmistakably meant for him.
It did not show everything.
It did not have to.
Jack knew what that set looked like in person. Jack knew what it looked like on his bedroom floor. You stared at the photo for half a second. Then you looked across the department. Jack lifted his coffee to his mouth. You selected the photo. Underneath it, you typed: For the record, Mason never got one of these.
You pressed send. Across the station, Jack’s phone lit up. He glanced down. His thumb moved over the screen. For one second, nothing happened. Then his coffee stopped halfway to his mouth. Your stomach flipped. Jack lowered the cup slowly. Very slowly. His jaw tightened.
Your phone buzzed in your hand.
Jack: Fuck. You’re beautiful.
Your breath caught. For half a second, all the smugness drained out of you. Then another message appeared.
Jack: And you know exactly what you’re doing.
Your mouth curved. You typed back. You: Good.
Across the station, Jack looked up. His eyes found yours immediately. Dark. Focused. Not even close to calm. Your phone buzzed again. Jack: Careful.
You slipped your phone back into your pocket and picked up the chart in front of you. Jack kept looking at you. You did not look back. That was the point.
For the rest of the shift, you behaved. Mostly. You answered call lights. You updated Hale’s chart. You helped Drew turn over room three. You gave Ellis the lab results she had been waiting for and listened to Shen complain about discharge instructions with the appropriate amount of sympathy. And every so often, you made Jack’s life worse. Not loudly. Never obviously. You were smarter than that. You brushed past him in the narrow hallway with just enough space between you for plausible deniability and not nearly enough for mercy. Jack’s hand tightened around the chart he was holding. You did not smile until you were past him.
Five minutes later, you reached around him at the counter for a roll of tape you did not actually need. Jack went still when your chest nearly touched his arm.
You kept your voice sweet. “Excuse me.”
His eyes cut to yours. “There are three rolls on the other side.”
You looked down at the tape in your hand. “I like this one.”
Jack’s mouth tightened. Drew passed behind you with a stack of blankets, looked between you and Jack, and immediately changed direction.
“Nope,” Drew said.
You turned toward him. “What?”
Drew kept walking. “I have no questions.”
Jack leaned closer under the cover of reaching for a pen. His voice dropped low enough that only you could hear. “You’re being a brat.”
Your pulse jumped. You looked up at him, all innocence. “Am I?”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “Yes.”
The word landed low in your stomach. You swallowed. Jack noticed. For one second, the corner of his mouth almost moved. Then he straightened, professional mask sliding back into place like he had not just knocked the air out of you with one word.
“Room four needs vitals,” Jack said.
You narrowed your eyes. “Yes, doctor.”
His gaze flicked to your mouth. “Careful,” Jack said.
You smiled because you had no survival instinct left. “Trying.”
You were not trying. You both knew it.
By six, the department had thinned into the gray, half-awake quiet that came right before day shift started filling the halls with fresh voices and clean coffee. Hale had been admitted for observation. Mason had not come back. Drew had given you exactly one suspicious look and then wisely chosen to become fascinated by a supply cabinet. Shen had avoided the trauma hallway entirely. Ellis handed you a stack of discharge papers without comment, then looked at your face for half a second too long.
You narrowed your eyes. “What?”
Ellis lifted one shoulder. “Nothing.”
You exhaled. “That sounded like something.”
“It was internal,” Ellis replied.
You nodded. “Keep it that way.”
Ellis nodded in return. “Absolutely.”
From the attending station, Jack signed off on a chart and handed it to Crus. Crus took it carefully, like it might explode.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
Crus shook his head. “Nothing.” Jack stared at him. Crus swallowed. “Lots of nothing this morning.”
You pressed your lips together and turned away before you could laugh. Jack’s gaze found you anyway. It landed on the side of your face, warm and heavy and impossible to ignore. You looked down at the chart in your hand and tried to remember how to read. When your shift finally ended, you made it to the staff room before Jack did.
A little after seven, you changed out of your scrub top with fingers that were not as steady as you wanted them to be. You shoved your things into your bag, checked your phone, then checked it again, even though nothing had changed. Jack had not texted. He did not need to. You both knew where you were going. Still, when you stepped into the hallway and found him waiting near the exit, your breath caught. He had changed into a dark jacket over his T-shirt, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding his keys. He looked tired. He looked composed. He looked like the man who had stopped himself in a supply closet and expected you to survive that information.
Jack’s eyes moved over you once. “You ready?”
You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Are you?”
His jaw shifted. You watched him fight a smile and lose by half an inch. “Car’s this way,” Jack said.
You followed him into the parking garage without another word. The walk to his truck felt longer than it should have. Neither of you touched. Neither of you spoke. Your hands kept brushing close enough that you could feel the almost of it, and by the time Jack unlocked the truck, you were so aware of him it felt embarrassing.
He opened the passenger door. You looked up at him. “Still being responsible?”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Trying.”
You quirked a brow, “How’s that going?”
His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Poorly,” he said.
You slid into the seat before you could do something stupid in the parking garage, too. Jack closed the door with more care than necessary. The drive to his place was quiet. Not awkward. Just charged. The kind of quiet that had weight. The kind that pressed between your ribs and reminded you of everything waiting on the other side of his front door.
Jack kept one hand on the wheel. The other rested near the gear shift. Halfway there, you reached over and touched his wrist. Jack’s fingers flexed once, but he did not look away from the road.
You traced your thumb over the inside of his wrist. “You okay?”
His throat moved. “No,” Jack said.
Your chest tightened. He glanced at you then, quick and honest in the dark cab of the truck. “But I will be.”
You nodded and left your hand where it was. Jack turned his wrist beneath your touch and threaded his fingers through yours. It was the first real contact since the closet. His thumb dragged once over your knuckles. Slow. Controlled. The way he did everything when he was trying not to lose his mind. You looked down at your joined hands and felt your pulse jump. He was touching you now. He was still holding back.
Jack pulled into the small driveway behind his townhouse and cut the engine. For one second, neither of you moved. Your hand was still in his. His thumb moved once across your knuckles, slow and absent, like he was reminding himself you were there.
You looked over at him. “Jack.”
His eyes stayed forward. “I know.”
You waited. Jack exhaled through his nose, then turned his head enough to look at you. The porch light cut across his face, catching the tired set of his eyes, the rough edge of his restraint, the stubborn line of his mouth. He looked like he had survived the shift. Barely.
“You coming inside?” he asked.
Your heart kicked. You nodded. “Yeah.”
Jack’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. Then he opened his door. You watched him get out, watched him come around the front of the truck, watched him open your door like the silence between you was not doing half the work for him. He held out his hand. You took it. Jack helped you down, then let go immediately.
You frowned. “Really?”
He shut the passenger door. “Inside.”
The word landed low in your stomach. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and followed him toward the back door. He did not touch you while he unlocked it. He did not touch you when he stepped aside to let you in first. He did not touch you when the door closed behind him, and the lock clicked into place. That was how you knew you were in trouble. You stepped into the familiar quiet of his townhouse, and something in your chest softened before you could stop it. His boots were lined up neatly by the door. Your shoes from two nights ago were tucked beside them. The mug you always stole was upside down in the drying rack. The blanket you liked was folded over the back of the couch, neater than you had ever left it.
The sweatshirt you kept stealing was draped over the stair railing. Evidence. Everywhere. Tiny, domestic evidence that you belonged here. Jack set his keys in the bowl by the door. You watched his hands. Slow. Controlled. Infuriating. Then he turned back to you.
“Bag down,” Jack said.
Your breath caught. You lifted your eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
His eyes held yours. “You heard me.”
You stared at him for a second. Then, because apparently you had learned nothing from the supply closet, you smiled. “Is this the part where you get bossy?”
Jack stepped closer, not rushing, not touching, just taking up space until the air between you felt thinner. “This is the part where you listen.”
Your stomach flipped. “Because I sent you a picture?”
Jack’s gaze moved over your face. “Because you sent me that picture at work.”
“You liked it.”
His eyes darkened. “I loved it.”
The honesty in his voice nearly ruined your smugness. Nearly.
You tilted your chin up. “Then I don’t see the problem.”
Jack’s mouth curved, but it was not soft. Not yet.
“The problem,” he said, “is that you knew exactly what you were doing.”
You let your bag slide off your shoulder and drop gently beside your feet. “There,” you said. “I listened.”
Jack glanced at the bag. Then back at you. “Good.”
The single word moved through you like a hand. You swallowed.
His expression shifted by half a degree, the corner of his mouth barely moving.
“There she is,” he said quietly.
Your pulse jumped. “What?”
Jack stepped closer. “You were very brave at work,” he said.
You held his stare. “Was I?”
His hand came to the wall beside your head, not touching you, not yet. “Sending pictures. Brushing past me. Reaching for things you didn’t need.”
Your back met the door. Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “You had a lot to say for someone who still had a shift to finish.”
Your breath came shallow. “You told me to finish it.”
“I did,” Jack replied.
You inhaled. “So I did.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “You made it difficult.”
You smiled, slow and sweet. “Good.”
His hand finally came to your waist. Firm. Warm. Possessive enough to make your knees feel unreliable. Jack leaned in, his mouth near your ear.
“That’s the last time you say that without thinking first,” he said.
Your eyes fluttered shut. For one second, the brat in you went quiet.
Then you opened your eyes and turned your face toward his. “Or what?”
Jack went still. The room changed. His hand tightened at your waist once, not enough to hurt, just enough to tell you he had heard every bit of challenge in your voice. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark. But there was something else there, too. Something tired. Something honest. Something that made your chest ache even while your body was still humming from the way he had you against the door.
“Or,” Jack said, voice low, “you’re going to make me forget what I actually need to say to you.”
Your smile faded. “Oh.”
His thumb moved once against your waist. “Yeah,” he said.
You softened under his hand. “Jack.”
He looked at you for a long second. Then the confession started, quiet and rough and bigger than the jealousy. “I hated it,” he said.
Your chest went still. You searched his face. “Mason?”
Jack shook his head once. “No.”
You waited. His jaw worked like the words were fighting him on the way out.
“I hated standing there like I didn’t know you,” Jack said.
Your throat tightened. He looked away, but only for a second. When his eyes came back to yours, there was no professional distance left in them.
“I hated hearing him talk to you like you were available,” Jack said. “I hated Drew saying you should go for it and knowing I couldn’t say a damn thing.”
You lifted your hand to his chest. “Jack.”
“I know why we’re careful,” he said.
His voice was low. Controlled. But not cold anymore. Never cold. “I know why it matters. I know what people can be like, and I know your career matters more than me needing to prove a point in a trauma bay.”
You stepped closer. “It’s not more than you.” Jack’s expression shifted. You held his gaze. “My career matters. So do you.”
He swallowed once. “I know you didn’t want him,” Jack said.
“I didn’t,” you agreed.
“I know,” he said again, softer this time. “That was never the problem.”
You took another careful breath. “Then what was?”
Jack looked at you for a long second. Then he said it. “Careful felt a hell of a lot like pretending tonight.”
Your breath caught.
His eyes stayed on yours, tired and dark and finally honest. “And I don’t want to keep pretending I’m not in love with you.”
The room went quiet. The kind that settled around the two of you and made every other sound disappear. You stared at him. Jack’s hand tightened once at your waist. For the first time all night, he looked uncertain. That did something worse to you than the jealousy had. Worse than the supply closet. Worse than his hand on your waist, his mouth at your ear, his voice telling you to finish the shift.
You slid your hand up his chest. “You’re in love with me?” you asked.
His eyes searched your face. “Yes.”
The word was simple. No defense. No sarcasm. No place to hide. Your heart folded in on itself.
You touched his jaw. “Good.”
Jack’s brows drew together. “Good?”
You nodded, your thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble along his cheek. “Because I’m in love with you too.”
Jack’s breath left him slowly. Your chest ached with it. “With me?” he asked.
You gave him a look, even though your eyes were starting to sting. “Jack.”
His mouth curved faintly, but the vulnerability in his eyes stayed. “I had to ask.”
You shook your head. “You did not.”
“I did,” Jack replied.
You shook your head again and stepped closer until your body nearly touched his. “You are a ridiculous man.”
Jack’s hand finally settled more firmly at your waist. Like he had needed to hear it first. Like he had been waiting for permission to believe you. You covered his hand with yours and pressed it harder against you. His eyes darkened.
“There,” you whispered. “That’s better.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “You have been a problem all night.”
Your mouth curved. “I have?” He gave you a flat look. You widened your eyes. “Was it the photo?”
Jack’s hand flexed at your waist. “Among other things.”
“I took that for you,” you said.
Jack nodded once. “I know.”
You slid your hands down his chest, watching the restraint settle back into his body for a very different reason now. “No one else gets that,” you said.
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “No?”
You shook your head. “No.”
His thumb moved once against your waist. You let your voice soften into something sweet enough to be dangerous.
“No one else gets me in your room,” you said. “No one else gets your shirt on my floor. No one else gets those pictures.”
Jack’s breathing changed.
You lifted your chin. “And no one else gets to touch me the way you do.”
His eyes snapped back to yours. There he was. The same heat from the supply closet. The same jealousy. The same need. But now there was no hospital around it. No door someone could open. No chart waiting. No secret making him stand five feet away. Just Jack’s townhouse. Jack’s hand on your waist. Jack looking at you like he had finally stopped pretending.
“You said something like that earlier,” he said.
Your stomach dipped. “I said a lot earlier.”
His mouth curved, slow and rough at the edges. “You did.”
You held his gaze. “Which part?”
Jack’s other hand came to your hip. “The part where you said he could never.”
Your pulse jumped. You let your hands slide lower, fingers catching lightly at the waistband of his jeans this time.
“He couldn’t,” you said.
Jack stepped into you. Your back met the door again. The sound was soft. The shift in him was not. He crowded you slowly, giving you every chance to stop him, every chance to push back, every chance to choose something else. You chose him. You hooked your fingers more firmly into his waistband and pulled him closer. Jack’s breath caught.
You looked up at him. “He could never make me feel like you do.”
His hand slid from your waist to the door beside your head.
You smiled, because apparently you had not learned a single thing. “He could never kiss me like you do.”
Jack leaned in, his mouth hovering over yours. His voice was low. “You’re still being a brat.”
Your stomach flipped. You held his stare. “Maybe you’re still jealous.”
Jack’s eyes darkened. “Yes, baby,” he said. “I’m jealous.”
Your breath caught. His mouth brushed yours, barely a kiss. “But I’m also in love with you,” Jack said. “So if you want to keep being a brat about it, you’d better be very sure.”
Your fingers tightened in his waistband. You smiled against his mouth. “I’m sure.”
Jack kissed you then. Not like the supply closet. Not like a man trying to steal something before the rest of the world noticed. This was slower. Deeper. Worse, somehow, because there was nowhere for either of you to go now. No alarms. No monitors. No hallway footsteps. No coworker who might round the corner and force Jack to become Dr. Abbot again. There was just his townhouse. The locked door at your back. His hand at your waist. His mouth moving over yours like he finally had permission to take his time. You made a small sound into the kiss and felt his fingers tighten.
Jack pulled back just enough to breathe. “Say it again.”
Your eyes opened. He was close enough that his nose brushed yours, close enough that you could see every careful piece of him coming apart.
You swallowed. “I’m sure.”
Jack’s gaze darkened. “Not that.”
Your chest went soft. Oh. You slid your hand up the side of his neck. “I’m in love with you.”
His breath left him. For one second, he did nothing but look at you. Then Jack kissed you again, harder this time, one hand sliding to the back of your neck while the other pressed at your waist and pulled you fully against him. You went willingly. Of course you did. You had been going willingly all night, even when you were being impossible about it. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, and Jack made a low sound against your mouth when you pulled. You did it again, just to hear it.
He broke the kiss with his lips still brushing yours. “Careful.”
You smiled against his mouth. “You keep saying that.”
“And you keep not listening,” Jack replied.
You tugged at his shirt. “Maybe you should do something about it.”
Jack went still. Only for a second. Only long enough for you to feel the air shift.
Then his hand covered yours, stilling your fingers against his chest.
“You are really committed to testing me tonight,” he said.
You opened your mouth, but Jack kissed whatever answer you had been about to give right out of you. Your back hit the door again, softer this time, his body crowding you in. He did not trap you. Not really. The space was there if you wanted it. You did not want it. You wanted him closer. You slid both hands beneath his jacket and shoved it off his shoulders. Jack let you get one sleeve down before he helped, shrugging out of it and dropping it somewhere near your abandoned bag. Your fingers went right back to his shirt. Jack caught your wrists.
You huffed against his mouth. “Jack.”
His grip stayed firm. “Slow down.”
“I waited all shift,” you replied.
Jack exhaled. “You teased me all shift.”
You lifted your chin. “You survived.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. Your pulse jumped. “That mouth,” he said quietly.
You smiled. “You like my mouth.”
His gaze dropped to it. “I love your mouth.”
The words went straight through you. Before you could recover, Jack’s hand slid to the hem of your top. His eyes lifted to yours. You nodded. Only then did he pull it up. You raised your arms, and Jack drew the fabric over your head, tossing it aside without looking away from you. His gaze moved over your bare shoulders, your chest, the rise and fall of your breathing. Not rushed. Not careless. Like he was taking inventory of every inch he had been denied all night.
Your breath caught. “Jack.”
“I know,” he said.
His hand came back to your waist, his palm warm against your skin. His thumb brushed the line where your bra met your ribs, slow enough to make your stomach tighten. You reached for his shirt again. This time, he let you. Your fingers dragged the fabric up his stomach, over his chest, and Jack ducked his head enough for you to pull it off. You dropped it beside your scrub top and forgot about it immediately. Because Jack was there. Warm skin. Bare chest. The muscles in his stomach shifting as he breathed. The dark look in his eyes when he realized you were staring. Your mouth went dry.
Jack’s hand slid up your side. “Still thinking about Mason?”
You almost laughed. It came out breathless instead. “No.”
His brow lifted. “No?”
You set both hands on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “I told you. He could never.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. You felt it under your fingers, that tiny fracture in his control.
“He could never what?” he asked.
You knew what he was doing. You knew he wanted to hear it. You also knew you had spent the entire shift making him wait.
So you gave it to him. “He could never make me feel like this.”
Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. “Good girl,” he said.
Your knees nearly gave out. His mouth found yours again, and the kiss turned messy for the first time. Not uncontrolled. Jack was never uncontrolled. But rougher. Hungrier. His hand slid to your back, unclipping your bra with a practiced motion that made your entire body go hot.
You broke the kiss to look at him. “That was fast.”
His mouth brushed the corner of yours. “I’m a doctor.”
You laughed once, breathless and ruined. “That is not a medical skill.”
Jack slid the strap down your shoulder. “It is today.”
Your laugh caught when the bra slipped down your arms. Jack’s gaze followed. His expression changed. Not dramatically. Not in some obvious, theatrical way. But enough that your teasing vanished.
His thumb brushed beneath your breast, barely touching. “Fuck.” Your breath shook. Jack looked back up at you. “Beautiful.”
Your chest tightened at the softness in his voice. You reached for him again, but Jack caught your wrist and pressed your hand back to the door beside your head.
“Not yet,” he said.
You stared at him. “Not yet?”
His mouth curved faintly. “You heard me.”
You swallowed. Jack leaned in, his lips brushing your jaw, then the sensitive place beneath your ear. His hand moved slowly down your body, over your ribs, your waist, your hip, stopping at the waistband of your scrub pants.
“You were very brave at work,” he said against your skin.
Your eyes fluttered. “Was I?”
“Sending that picture,” Jack said. “Brushing past me. Reaching around me for tape you didn’t need.”
You gripped the doorframe with your free hand. “I liked that tape.”
Jack’s teeth grazed gently beneath your ear. Your breath caught.
“You liked making me watch you pretend you weren’t doing it on purpose,” he said.
You turned your face toward his. “Maybe.”
His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your pants. Your hips shifted toward him before you could stop yourself.
Jack’s mouth curved against your jaw. “There she is.”
You hated how much you loved when he said that. You hated more that he knew.
Jack drew back enough to look at you. “Say my name.”
Your lips parted. “Jack.”
His eyes darkened. “Again.”
You swallowed. “Jack.”
He kissed you once, deep and slow, then hooked his fingers in your waistband and started to pull. You lifted your hips from the door just enough to help him. Jack lowered your pants inch by inch, taking your underwear with them, his eyes on yours until the fabric slipped down your thighs. You stepped out of them. He stayed standing. Still half dressed. Still in control. Still watching you like he had all the time in the world. You were bare in front of him, goosebumps erupting across your skin. Jack followed your gaze. His mouth twitched.
You narrowed your eyes. “It’s cold.”
Jack’s hand slid to your bare hip. “Baby, you are shaking for reasons that have nothing to do with the temperature.”
Your face warmed. “You’re very smug right now.”
“I’m very patient right now,” Jack corrected.
You gave him a look. “Are you?”
Jack’s eyes moved over you once, slow and devastating. “No,” he said. “But I’m trying to make a point.”
Your stomach dipped. “What point?”
He stepped closer, his jeans brushing your bare thigh. “That you are going to remember exactly who you came home with.”
Your breath left you. Jack’s hand came to the back of your neck, tipping your face up.
“Who did you come home with?” he asked.
You stared at him. “You.”
His thumb brushed the side of your throat. “Say my name.”
“Jack.”
His mouth ghosted over yours. “Good girl.”
You surged up to kiss him, but Jack pulled back before you could catch his mouth. You made a frustrated sound. He smiled then. Just barely. Mean enough to make your pulse trip.
“Upstairs,” Jack said.
Your body went still. “What?”
His hand slipped from your neck to your jaw, holding you there gently. “Upstairs,” he repeated.
You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “Like this?”
Jack’s gaze dropped over you. Then came back to your face. “Yes.”
Your breath caught. You glanced toward the stairs, then at his jeans, still very much on, still entirely unfair. “You’re dressed.”
“I am,” Jack replied.
You glared. “That seems uneven.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “You had your fun at work.”
You blinked at him. “So this is revenge?”
His expression softened for half a second, just enough to remind you that underneath all of this, he loved you. Then his thumb brushed your lower lip. “No,” Jack said. “This is me taking my time.”
Your stomach flipped. You turned toward the stairs, trying very hard to pretend your legs felt steady. They did not. Jack stayed close behind you as you started up, close enough that you could feel the heat of him without him touching you.
You looked back over your shoulder halfway up. “You coming?”
His eyes dragged over you, slow enough to make you regret the question. “Keep walking,” Jack said.
You faced forward immediately. Behind you, Jack made a low sound that might have been amusement. You gripped the railing and kept going. By the time you reached his bedroom, your skin felt too tight, every nerve lit with the awareness of him behind you. The room was dark except for the faint glow from the hallway and the weak morning light edging around the curtains. You had been in this room before. You knew the dresser. The bed. The chair in the corner where Jack folded his clothes too neatly. The mirror where you had taken the picture that had started all of this. But with Jack behind you and your clothes scattered downstairs, it felt different. It felt like a consequence. Jack stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. You turned toward him. He looked at you for one long second. Then his gaze flicked to the bed. “Sit,” Jack said.
You sat. Jack did not move right away. He stood near the closed bedroom door, shirtless, jeans low on his hips, hair slightly mussed from your hands, and looked at you like you were something he had been waiting all night to get alone. Your knees pressed together on instinct.
His gaze dropped briefly, then came back to your face. “Don’t hide from me now,” he said.
Your breath caught. You eased your knees apart. Not much. Enough.
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Good girl,” he said.
The praise went straight through you. You gripped the edge of the mattress. “Jack.”
He stepped closer. “What?”
You looked up at him, bare and aching and already tired of him being so controlled. “Come here.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “That sounded like an order.”
You lifted your chin. “Maybe it was.”
His eyes darkened. For a second, you thought he might make you take it back. Instead, Jack crossed the room slowly, each step measured, until he was standing between your knees. Close. Still too dressed. Still too smug. You reached for his waistband. Jack caught your wrist. Your pulse jumped.
His grip was gentle, but it stopped you completely. “No,” he said.
You blinked up at him. “No?”
Jack’s thumb moved over the inside of your wrist, the same place you had touched him in the truck. “You’ve had your hands where you wanted them all night.”
Your stomach flipped.
“You sent me a picture at work,” Jack said. “You brushed against me every chance you got. You reached around me for tape you didn’t need.”
“I liked that tape,” you murmured.
“And now,” he said, ignoring you completely, “you think you get to decide when you touch me.”
Your mouth went dry. Jack looked down at your hand, still caught in his. Then his other hand moved to his belt. The buckle clicked open. Your fingers went still.
His gaze lifted to yours. “There she is.”
Your breath caught. “Jack.”
He slid the belt free slowly, leather dragging through denim, the sound quiet and devastating in the dark room. Your thighs tensed around his legs. Jack folded the belt once in his hand. Then he stopped. His expression changed, just enough that the heat in the room made space for something steadier.
“Tell me no, and it goes on the floor,” he said.
Your chest rose and fell once. Then again. You looked from the belt to his face. He was not smiling now. He was waiting. Making sure. Letting you choose.
“Yes,” you said.
Jack did not move. “Yes, what?”
Your pulse beat hard beneath his fingers. “Yes,” you said, quieter now. “Use it.”
Only then did Jack move. He brought your hand to your other one, gathering your wrists together with a care that made your throat tighten. He looped the belt around them once, then again, not tight enough to hurt, not tight enough to frighten you, just enough that when he held the end in his fist, your hands belonged exactly where he put them. Jack slid one finger beneath the leather, checking the space. Your stomach fluttered.
“Too tight?” he asked.
You shook your head. His eyes held yours. “Words.”
“No,” you said. “It’s not too tight.”
“Good.” He lifted your bound wrists and kissed the inside of one. The gentleness almost ruined you. Then he guided your hands above your head and pressed them to the mattress as he leaned over you. Your back met the bed. Your breath left you. Jack hovered above you, one hand holding the end of the belt, the other planted beside your head. His body did not cover yours yet. Not fully. He was making you feel every inch of space. Every second of waiting. Every consequence of what you had done to him all night.
“You still feel brave?” he asked.
You swallowed. “A little.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “A little?”
You tugged experimentally at the belt. His hand tightened. Not rough. Certain. Your body reacted before you could pretend it hadn’t.
Jack’s gaze sharpened. “Oh,” he said softly. “More than a little.”
Your face warmed. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Yes,” Jack said. The honesty made your stomach drop. He leaned down, mouth brushing your jaw, then your throat. “I loved the photo.”
Your eyes fluttered shut.
“I loved knowing you took it for me,” he said against your skin. “Loved knowing no one else gets that.”
His mouth moved lower, over your collarbone, down the center of your chest. Your wrists shifted above your head. Jack held them there.
“But you knew exactly what it would do to me,” he said.
You arched when his mouth brushed your breast. “Jack.”
He paused. His eyes lifted to yours. “Say it again,” he said.
Your mind felt slow. “What?”
“My name.”
Your breath shook. “Jack.”
His mouth closed over you. Your back arched off the mattress. Jack’s grip on the belt held firm, keeping your hands above your head while his tongue moved over you with the same patience that had been ruining you all night. You pulled against the restraint. He did not let you move. You made a frustrated sound.
Jack lifted his head. “What do you want?”
You stared at him. “You.”
“You have me,” Jack answered.
You exhaled, “Jack.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Use your words.”
Your thighs shifted restlessly. “Touch me.”
He kissed the center of your chest. “I am touching you.”
You wanted to hit him. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to never stop hearing him sound like that. “More,” you said.
Jack’s eyes darkened. “There you go.”
He kissed lower. Slowly. Too slowly. Down your stomach, over your hip, along the inside of your thigh until you were trembling before he had even put his mouth where you needed it. You tried to reach for him. The belt stopped you.
Jack looked up from between your thighs. “Hands stay there.”
Your breath caught. “You’re holding them there.”
“I know,” he answered.
You huffed. “Then why are you telling me?”
His mouth brushed your inner thigh. “Because I like hearing you try to listen.”
Your eyes closed. “You’re impossible.”
Jack kissed higher. “You love me.”
Your chest went soft and hot at the same time. “I do,” you whispered.
Jack went still. Not completely. Just enough. Then his eyes lifted to yours. “Say it again.”
Your breath caught. His hand loosened on the belt slightly, not enough to free you, just enough for his thumb to brush over your knuckles.
You looked at him, your chest tight, your body aching. “I love you,” you said.
Jack’s expression shifted. For one second, all the teasing left him. All the controlled heat. All the jealousy. There was only Jack, looking at you like he had heard something sacred. Then he turned his head and kissed the inside of your thigh.
“I love you too,” he said against your skin.
Your eyes burned. Then his mouth found you. Your thoughts scattered. “Oh—” Your back arched. “Jack.”
He hummed low, one arm hooking beneath your thigh to hold you open, the other still keeping the belt steady. His mouth moved like he had been waiting all night for this too, like every second of restraint had sharpened into focus. You tried to close your thighs around him. He did not let you. “Jack, please.”
He lifted his head just enough to answer. “Please what?”
You made a sound that was almost a sob. “Please don’t stop.”
His eyes darkened. “That’s better,” he said.
Then he went back to you. You lost track of the room after that. There was only Jack’s mouth, his hand, the belt around your wrists, the rough warmth of his voice when he told you to keep saying his name.
“Jack,” you gasped.
His fingers joined his mouth, careful at first, then certain when your body opened for him. Your hips moved. Jack held you down with one forearm across your lower stomach.
“Stay,” he said.
You shook your head against the mattress. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” Jack replied.
You started to say, “Jack—”
“You wanted to make your point,” he said, voice rough. “Make it.”
You blinked down at him, dazed. “What?”
His fingers curled. Your whole body jerked. Jack’s eyes stayed locked on yours. “Who makes you feel like this?” he asked.
Your breath came in short, broken pulls. “You.”
He did it again. You cried out. “Say my name,” he said.
“Jack,” you said immediately.
His fingers curled inside you. “Again.”
“Jack, please,” you moaned.
His mouth returned to you, and the sound you made was not quiet. You pulled hard against the belt, your body tightening, thighs trembling around his shoulders. Jack did not stop. He did not rush. He kept you there, right on the edge, until you were almost crying with it.
“Tell me,” he said.
You could barely think. “Only you.”
Jack’s fingers slowed. Not stopping. Threatening to.
Your eyes flew open. “No, no, please.”
“Only me what?” he asked.
Your breath broke. “Only you can make me feel like this.”
His eyes flashed. “Keep going.”
You shook beneath him. “Only you can touch me like this.”
“Good girl.”
Your body tightened at the praise. Jack felt it. His mouth curved against you, and then he gave you exactly what you had been begging for.
You came hard.
Hard enough that your vision went white at the edges. Hard enough that your voice broke around his name. Hard enough that your wrists strained against the belt and your back bowed off the mattress while Jack held you through it, mouth and fingers working you through every second until you were shaking too much to do anything but take it.
“Jack,” you gasped. “Jack, Jack—”
“That’s it,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “There you go.”
You were still pulsing around his fingers when he lifted his head. His mouth was wet. His eyes were dark. He looked absolutely ruined. And somehow, somehow, he was still wearing his jeans.
You stared at him through the haze. “That is so unfair.”
Jack’s mouth curved. He withdrew his fingers slowly, and your whole body twitched. “Careful,” he said.
You laughed once, breathless and weak. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”
Jack kissed your thigh, then your hip, then your stomach, moving back up your body with devastating patience. When he reached your mouth, he kissed you deeply. You tasted yourself on him and whimpered. Your wrists shifted above your head. The belt held.
Jack pulled back just enough to look at you. “You okay?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
His eyes searched your face. “Tell me.”
Your chest rose and fell beneath his. “I’m okay.”
The last bit of tension in his jaw eased. His thumb brushed over the inside of your bound wrist. “Still good?” Jack asked.
Your throat went tight at the care in it. “Yes,” you said. “Still good.”
“Any pain?” he asked.
You shook your head. “No.”
His gaze stayed on yours for one more second. Then the heat came back into his face. Slow. Certain. Dangerous. “Good,” Jack said.
You reached for him on instinct. The belt stopped you. Your breath caught. Jack looked at your wrists, then back at your face.
His mouth curved faintly. “I didn’t say you were done listening.”
Your stomach flipped. “Jack.”
He stood at the edge of the bed, shirtless and still in his jeans, the loose end of the belt wrapped securely in his hand. You were naked beneath him. Still shaking. Still trying to catch your breath. Still so sensitive that the way he looked at you felt like another touch. Jack’s gaze moved over you slowly. Then he said, “Watch me.”
Your mouth went dry. He kept one hand on the belt as his other moved to his jeans. The button was already open. The zipper followed. The sound moved through the room like a warning. Your wrists shifted again.
Jack’s eyes flicked to them. “Hands stay there.”
You exhaled, “They are there.”
His mouth curved. “Good girl.”
Your breath caught. Jack pushed his jeans lower on his hips, just enough, and your whole body went hot. He was hard. Thick. Flushed. Affected. For all his control, for all his patience, for all the ways he had made you fall apart first, there was no hiding what you had done to him.
Your voice came out thin. “Jack.”
His hand wrapped around himself. You pulled against the belt before you could stop yourself.
Jack’s gaze snapped to yours. “No,” he said softly.
You swallowed. “I want to touch you.”
“I know,” he replied.
“Please,” you said, barely a whisper.
His hand moved once, slow and firm. Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt. Jack watched your face as he touched himself, his jaw tight, his eyes dark, the muscles in his stomach shifting with the effort of his restraint.
“This is what that picture did,” he said. Your body clenched around nothing. His mouth parted slightly as his hand moved again. “This is what you did every time you brushed past me,” Jack said. “Every time you looked at me like no one else in that hospital knew what you were thinking.”
“Jack,” you whispered.
His grip tightened around the belt. “Say my name again.”
You obeyed. “Jack.”
His eyes closed for half a second. Only half. Then they opened, and the look on his face nearly ruined you all over again.
“Only me?” he asked.
Your chest rose and fell too fast. “Only you.”
His hand moved over himself again. You whimpered. Jack’s gaze dragged down your body, then back to your face. “Only I get you like this?”
You nodded quickly.
His eyes narrowed. “Words.”
“Yes,” you said, breathless. “Only you get me like this.”
Jack’s breathing changed. You could see it now. The crack in him. The place where his control had thinned to almost nothing. He touched himself once more, slower this time, deliberately enough that your thighs shifted apart without you meaning to.
His mouth curved, rough and pleased. “Look at you.”
Your face went hot. “Jack.”
“You came two minutes ago,” he said, his hand moving over himself again. “And you’re still looking at me like that.”
Your wrists strained against the belt. Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “You want more,” he said.
Your breath shook.
His mouth curved. “Tell me.” Jack’s thumb moved over the head of himself, and your wrists strained against the belt. You glared at him weakly. His hand slowed. You made a small, desperate sound. Jack’s gaze sharpened. “Tell me what you want,” he said.
You answered immediately. “You.”
Jack grinned. “You have me.”
Your breath shook. “I want you inside me.”
Jack went still. There it was. The shift. The end of patience. He let out a rough breath, then leaned over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other holding the belt.
His mouth hovered over yours. “Say it again,” he said.
You lifted your hips toward him. “I want you inside me.”
His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Good girl,” Jack said.
Then he kissed you. It was not gentle. It was not patient. Not anymore. Jack kissed you like the last piece of his restraint had finally snapped, one hand still gripping the belt above your head while the other braced beside your shoulder. His body came down over yours, hot and solid and finally close enough that you could feel how much he wanted you. You arched into him. Jack groaned into your mouth. The sound went straight through you.
Your wrists pulled against the belt on instinct. “Jack.”
He broke the kiss just enough to breathe. “I know.”
You gasped. “You don’t.”
His eyes lifted to yours. “Don’t I?”
You shook your head, already gone enough to be honest. “I need you.”
Jack’s expression shifted. Something hot. Something pleased. Something almost undone. His hand tightened around the belt. “Say my name.”
Your breath caught. “Jack.”
His mouth brushed yours. “Good girl.”
You whimpered, hips lifting toward him. Jack’s gaze dropped between your bodies. Then he cursed softly under his breath.
“Turn over,” he said.
Your pulse jumped. You stared at him. “What?”
His eyes came back to yours, dark and focused. “Hands stay where they are. Turn over.”
Your stomach flipped hard. “Jack—”
He leaned down, mouth at your ear. “You said he could never.”
Your breath caught.
His lips brushed the side of your jaw. “You were right.”
You swallowed. Then you nodded. Jack loosened his hold on the belt enough to guide you carefully, never letting the restraint pull too hard, never letting your wrists twist uncomfortably. Even now, with his control hanging by a thread, he moved you like you were something precious. Something his. You rolled onto your stomach, then shifted onto your knees when his hand settled at your hip. The belt stayed around your wrists. Your hands pressed into the mattress above your head, and Jack gathered the loose end in his fist again, holding it with just enough tension to remind you that he could move you exactly where he wanted you. Your cheek brushed the sheets. Your whole body trembled. Behind you, Jack went quiet. Too quiet. You turned your face enough to look back over your shoulder.
He was staring at you. His jeans were pushed low, his hand wrapped around himself, his chest rising and falling like the sight of you had cost him something.
Your voice came out soft. “Jack?”
His jaw flexed. “You have no idea what you look like right now,” he said.
Your thighs pressed together. Jack’s hand came to your ass, broad and warm, smoothing over the curve of you once before gripping. Your breath caught. “Open,” he said.
You shifted your knees apart. His hand tightened. “More.”
Your face went hot, but you listened. Jack exhaled roughly. “That’s it,” he said. “Good girl.”
The praise made you clench around nothing.
Jack’s thumb dragged along your hip. “Look at you.”
You swallowed. “What?”
His hand tightened, just enough to make your body answer before your mouth could. “So good when you want something.”
Your eyes fluttered shut. “Jack.”
He bent over you, his chest brushing your back. His mouth found your shoulder. “You were very mouthy downstairs,” he said.
You shivered. “You liked it.”
His teeth grazed your skin. “I did.”
His hand slid along your side, then down between your legs from behind. You jerked when his fingers found you. Jack made a low sound against your shoulder. Your wrists strained against the belt. Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “You want more,” he said.
Your breath shook. His mouth curved against your shoulder. “Tell me.”
You closed your eyes. “I want more.”
“More what?” Jack asked.
You made a frustrated sound. “Jack.”
His fingers slowed. You almost sobbed. “More what?” he repeated.
You turned your face into the sheets. “More of you.”
His breathing changed behind you. “There you go,” Jack said.
He withdrew his hand, and you heard him shift behind you. Your body went tight with anticipation. Then Jack paused. One hand slid up your spine, warm and grounding. “Hey,” he said.
You turned your face enough to see him. “What?”
His eyes searched yours. “Still good?”
Your chest softened. “Yes,” you said.
Jack’s thumb brushed along your back. “No pain?”
You replied instantly. “No.”
“You need me to stop, you tell me,” Jack said.
“I know,” you whispered.
His gaze held yours.
You swallowed. “I promise.”
The last bit of tension in his face eased. Then the heat returned. Slow. Dark. Certain. Jack reached toward the nightstand and pulled open the drawer. You heard the quiet tear of foil, the rustle of movement, the sound of his breath catching once as he rolled the condom on. The waiting nearly killed you. You shifted back toward him. Jack’s hand landed on your hip.
“Still,” he said.
You bit your lip. He noticed. His thumb pressed into your skin. “Don’t.”
You released your lip slowly. Jack’s hand moved from your hip to your jaw, turning your face just enough for him to see you.
“That’s mine too,” he said.
Your breath left you.
He leaned over you, mouth brushing yours from the awkward angle. “Say it.”
Your eyes stung with how badly you wanted him. “Only you.”
His eyes darkened. “Only me what?”
“Only you get me like this,” you answered.
Jack kissed you hard. Then he pulled back and lined himself up behind you. The first press of him made you gasp. Jack froze. One hand stayed on your hip. The other still held the belt.
His voice was rough. “Talk to me.”
You shook beneath him. “Don’t stop.”
His jaw tightened. “Baby.”
“Please,” you said. “Please, Jack.”
He pushed in slowly. Inch by inch. Careful enough to make you ache. Deep enough to make your hands curl uselessly against the mattress. Your mouth fell open. No sound came out. Jack stopped when he was only halfway inside you, his fingers digging into your hip like he was fighting himself.
“Breathe,” he said. You tried. It came out broken. He bent over you, his mouth at your shoulder, his voice low against your skin. “That’s it,” Jack said. “Take your time.”
You turned your face toward him. “I don’t want to take my time.”
A rough laugh left him. It barely sounded like a laugh at all. “You never do when you’re being a brat.”
You pushed back against him. Only a little. Enough.
Jack’s hand tightened on the belt. “Careful.”
Your breath hitched. “Make me.”
Jack went completely still. For one second, there was nothing but the sound of both of you breathing. Then his hand slid from your hip to the back of your neck, not pressing, just holding you there. His mouth brushed your ear. “There she is,” he said.
Your whole body went hot. Then Jack pushed the rest of the way inside you. You cried out. He groaned at the same time, low and broken, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as his body finally met yours completely. For a second, neither of you moved. You could feel him everywhere. The weight of him behind you. The belt at your wrists. His breath against your skin. The stretch. The fullness. The way your body had no idea what to do with finally having him after waiting all shift.
“Jack,” you gasped.
His hand tightened at your waist. “Say it again.”
“Jack.”
He pulled back slowly. Then pushed in again. Your eyes rolled shut.
“That’s it,” he said. “That’s my girl.”
The words broke something open in you. You clenched around him, and Jack’s rhythm faltered. His curse was rough against your shoulder. “Do that again,” he said.
You barely managed a breath. “What?”
His hips rolled into yours, deeper this time, and your voice broke. “That,” Jack said. “When I call you mine.”
Your wrists pulled against the belt. “I am yours,” you gasped.
His pace changed. Not fast yet. Not careless. Just harder. More certain. Each thrust pushed you higher on the bed, and Jack held you where he wanted you, one hand gripping the belt, the other locked at your hip.
“You spent all night trying to make me jealous,” he said.
You shook your head against the sheets. “No.”
Jack thrust into you again. Your answer turned into a moan. “No?” he asked.
“I was trying to remind you,” you breathed.
His hand stilled on your hip for half a second. Then his body covered yours again, chest against your back, mouth near your ear. “Remind me of what?”
You turned your face enough to find his eyes. “That I’m yours.”
Jack’s expression broke. Just for a moment. Then his mouth found yours, messy and desperate from the angle, and he kissed you while he started moving again. This time, he did not hold back as much. The bed shifted beneath you. Your breath came in short, helpless sounds. Jack kept his mouth close to your ear, voice rough and low and entirely yours. “Who makes you feel like this?”
“You,” you gasped.
His hips drove into yours again. “Say my name.”
You gasped. “Jack.”
“Again,” he said.
“Jack, please,” you cried out.
His hand slid from your hip to your stomach, pulling you back into him, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. “Please what?”
You were shaking now. “Please don’t stop.”
Jack exhaled. “I’m not stopping.”
You began, “Jack—”
“I’ve got you,” he replied.
Your eyes burned. He did. He had you. Every part of you. The secret part. The soft part. The bratty, aching, desperate part that had sent him that photo and brushed past him all shift because you wanted him to know no one else even came close.
“Only you,” you said, voice breaking.
Jack’s rhythm faltered. “What?”
You swallowed a moan. “Only you can make me feel like this.”
His grip tightened. “Keep going.”
Your body tightened around him. “Only you can touch me like this.”
Jack made a rough sound behind you. “Good girl.”
You were close again. Too close. Already. It rolled through you fast, heat building low in your spine, your thighs starting to shake. Jack felt it. Of course he felt it. His hand slid between your legs, fingers finding you exactly where you needed him. You sobbed his name.
“There,” he said. “That’s it.”
“Jack, please,” you begged.
“You going to come for me again?” Jack asked.
You nodded desperately. His fingers slowed. Your eyes flew open.
“Words,” he said.
“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, please.”
“Only me?” he asked.
Your breath broke. “Only you,” you said. “Only you can make me come like this.”
Jack’s control snapped. He drove into you hard enough to make you cry out, his fingers working you in tight, perfect circles, his mouth at your shoulder, his voice wrecked in your ear.
“Come for me,” he said. “Say my name and come for me.”
You did.
You came with his name in your mouth, your whole body locking down around him as the pleasure ripped through you. It was harder than the first one, deeper, dragging every sound out of you until you were shaking beneath him, helpless against the belt and his hands and the way he kept talking you through it.
“That’s it,” Jack said. “Good girl. I’ve got you.”
You barely heard him over the rush of your own pulse. But you felt him. The way he held you. The way his rhythm turned uneven. The way his breath broke when your body kept tightening around him. He lasted three more thrusts before his control finally broke. You felt it happen. In the sudden uneven snap of his hips. In the way his hand tightened around the belt. In the rough sound that tore out of him when your body kept clenching around him.
“Fuck,” Jack breathed.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder. You felt his whole body go tense behind you, every muscle locking as he drove in deep and stayed there. Your name left his mouth. Low. Broken. Almost helpless. Then he came hard, hips jerking once, twice, his breath hot against your skin as he buried himself as deep as he could get and held you there through it.
For a few seconds, Jack did not move. He just breathed against you, heavy and uneven, his chest pressed to your back, his hand still wrapped around the belt like letting go too soon might undo him completely. For a moment, everything went still. Jack’s body was heavy over yours. His breath was hot against your skin. His hand loosened on the belt, but he did not let go completely. Not yet. You both stayed there, tangled and shaking, while the morning light edged slowly around the curtains. Then Jack kissed your shoulder. Once. Twice. Softer each time.
“You with me?” he asked.
Your throat felt raw. You nodded.
His mouth brushed your skin. “Tell me.”
You closed your eyes. “I’m with you.”
Jack exhaled against you. Then, carefully, he shifted his weight and eased out of you. Your body twitched at the loss. Jack noticed.
He kissed the back of your neck. “I know.”
You laughed weakly into the sheets. “You do not get to be smug right now.”
His mouth curved against your skin. “I’m not.”
“You are,” you replied.
“A little,” Jack admitted. You huffed, but it came out soft. His hand moved to your wrists. The belt loosened immediately. Jack unwound it with careful fingers, taking his time now for a different reason. When your hands were free, he caught both wrists and brought them down slowly, rubbing warmth back into your skin with his thumbs. You rolled carefully onto your back. Jack sat beside you, still breathing hard, still bare, still looking at you like he was trying to memorize whether he had hurt you anywhere. He checked one wrist, then the other. His thumb brushed over the place the leather had been.
“Okay?” he asked.
You nodded. “Okay.”
His eyes lifted to yours. “Really?”
Your chest went soft. You reached for his face. “Really.”
Jack turned his head and kissed your palm. The room went quiet again. Not charged this time. Warm. Full. He leaned down and kissed your wrist. Then the other. You watched him, throat tight.
“You know,” you said softly, “Mason really could never.”
Jack froze for half a second. Then his shoulders shook once with a quiet laugh. He looked up at you, exhausted and amused and so painfully yours that your chest ached.
“Baby,” Jack said. “I’m begging you.”
You smiled. His mouth curved. Then he climbed back onto the bed and gathered you carefully against his chest, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other hand still holding yours like he was not quite ready to stop touching you. You tucked your face against his neck. Jack kissed your hair. For a long moment, neither of you said anything. Then you felt his thumb move over your knuckles. Slow. Absent. Tender.
“Still jealous?” you asked.
Jack sighed against your hair. You felt his mouth curve. “A little.”
You pinched his side weakly. He caught your hand and kissed your fingers. “Completely in love with you,” he said. “The jealous part is secondary.”
Your heart folded. You lifted your head enough to look at him. “Secondary?”
Jack’s eyes softened. “Very secondary.”
You smiled. He kissed you once, slow and sweet and nothing like the door. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “No more pretending,” he said.
Your chest tightened. You brushed your thumb along his jaw. “No more pretending.”
Jack kissed you again. And this time, there was nothing careful about the way he held you.
Only sure.
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