We didn’t even make it halfway through the movie.

Jaxon had insisted we watch it on VHS, something about “authentic grain and artistic intent,” which was ridiculous because the plot involved Nicolas Cage, a stolen baby, and a motorcycle shaped like a hawk.

But I wasn’t really paying attention.

He handed me a blanket that smelled like his laundry detergent — citrus, something woodsy, definitely expensive — and sat close enough that our legs touched the moment I curled them under me.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

I raised an eyebrow. “This blanket smells like you.”

“Is that a complaint?”

I shrugged. “I’m still deliberating.”

He smirked. “Don’t act like you didn’t wear my hoodie three days straight.”

“Bold of you to assume I ever took it off.”

His grin deepened, and he leaned in, voice low. “Don’t tease, Torres. You’re not built for subtle.”

My heart tripped, stumbled, then tried to walk it off.

We made it ten minutes into the movie before Jaxon grabbed the remote and hit pause.

“I can’t focus when you’re sitting there pretending to enjoy this,” he said.

“I was enjoying it,” I replied.

He raised an eyebrow. “You were staring at my hand every time I reached for popcorn.”

“I was contemplating the structural integrity of your wrist.”

Jaxon smirked. “No, you were contemplating how fast you could climb into my lap.”

I opened my mouth to argue — but he was already kissing me.

And I didn’t want to argue anymore.

It was soft at first, the kind of kiss that asked a question and waited for an answer. I gave it to him with a hand in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan into my mouth.

“You’re impossible,” I whispered.

“Tell me again while you’re stripping me.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” he murmured, and I realized my hand had slid under his hoodie — skin on skin — and I had no intention of stopping.

“Shut up,” I said, and kissed him again.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to speak.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said, breath hot against my jaw.

“If you stop,” I told him, wrapping both arms around his neck and pulling him closer, “I’ll actually kill you.”

“Fair warning.”

His lips found mine again, hotter now, hungrier. We stumbled down the hall, hands tangled in fabric, knocking into doorframes and laughing in between kisses that didn’t stay innocent for long.

His room was a literal mess.

Clothes on the floor, a half-eaten protein bar on his desk, a laundry basket full of everything but laundry. But none of it mattered. Not the socks I stepped on, not the chair we nearly tripped over.

What mattered was his mouth on my throat, his fingers gripping my hips like they could anchor him, like maybe I was the only real thing in a world spinning too fast.

“You’re so smug,” I whispered, my breath catching as Jaxon kissed down my collarbone.
He grinned against my skin. “And you like it.”
“I like winning,” I shot back.
He looked up at me, eyes dark. “Then let me be your favorite victory.”

My shirt hit the floor. He followed.

“Zoe,” he said, voice hoarse, reverent.

I froze. Not in fear. Just a surprise.

He hadn’t called me that — not like this. Not without the teasing edge. Not like he meant it.

The kiss was slow, like he was learning every part of my mouth. His lips were warm, wet, coaxing mine open with a lazy, practiced ease. His tongue slipped in, dragging against mine, and I moaned into his mouth, my body already thrumming with need. His hands were on me, everywhere, sliding down my ribs, gripping my waist like he was claiming me. I could feel the heat of him through my clothes, his hardness pressing against my thigh.

I tugged at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin. He broke the kiss, just long enough to yank it over his head. My hands were on him immediately, raking my nails down his chest, his stomach. His eyes were dark, hungry, as he looked down at me.

“Who knew you had this side to you?” he murmured, his voice rough. His lips found my throat, nipping, sucking, leaving marks that would sting tomorrow. I arched into him, my fingers tangling in his hair, tugging him closer.

“You started it,” I gasped, my breath hitching as his hand slid down my body, cupping me through my jeans. He pressed against me, his fingers rubbing slow circles over my clit. I whimpered, my hips bucking against his hand.

He kissed me again, deep and filthy, his tongue in rhythm with his fingers. I was wet, so wet, my pussy aching for him. He knew it too. He smirked against my lips, his fingers slipping under the waistband of my jeans, sliding down to rub against my soaked panties.

“Fuck,” I moaned, my legs spreading wider for him. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of my panties, pulling them down my legs. I kicked them off, my heart racing as he looked at me, his eyes raking over my naked body.

He knelt between my legs, his hands gripping my thighs, spreading me open. His breath was hot against my pussy, and I shivered, anticipation coiling tight in my stomach. He leaned in, his tongue dragging through my folds, and I cried out, my back arching off the bed.

He ate me like a man starving. His lips wrapped around my clit, sucking hard, and I screamed, my hands fisting in the sheets. He didn’t let up, his tongue working me over relentlessly until I was writhing, moaning, begging for more.

When he finally pulled away, I was a trembling mess. He smirked up at me, his lips shiny with my wetness. He unbuttoned his jeans, sliding them down his legs along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, curving slightly upwards. I licked my lips, wanting to taste him, but he didn’t give me the chance.

He positioned himself between my legs, the head of his cock nudging against my entrance. He looked down at me, his eyes dark with lust.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice rough.

I nodded, unable to speak. He pushed into me slowly, inch by torturous inch, until he was buried to the hilt. I gasped, my walls stretching to accommodate him. He was so big, so thick, filling me completely.

He started to move, pulling out almost all the way before thrusting back in. The rhythm was slow, deliberate, each stroke hitting that sweet spot inside me. I moaned, my nails digging into his back, urging him on.

He picked up the pace, his hips slamming into mine, his cock driving deep. The room was filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, our gasps and moans echoing off the walls. I was close, so close, the tension in my body coiling tighter with every thrust.

“Come for me,” he growled in my ear, his teeth nipping at my earlobe.

I shattered, my orgasm crashing over me like a wave. My pussy clenched around him, milking his cock as I screamed his name. He followed me over the edge, his hips stuttering as he came deep inside me.

We collapsed together, breathless and sweaty. He stayed inside me for a moment longer before pulling out and flopping onto the bed beside me. His arm slung over my waist, pulling me close.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

Jaxon laughed softly, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. We lay there, tangled together, our bodies still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure.

He lay next to me, bare shoulder brushing mine, hand resting lightly on my hip like he didn’t want to let go, but didn’t want to make a big deal out of it either.

Our phones buzzed somewhere on the floor. We didn’t check them.

I stared at the ceiling, heart still racing. “We are so screwed.”

Jaxon let out a slow, satisfied sigh, grinning into the curve of my neck.

“Absolutely.”