The Honey - Don't List

His hands pause on the buttons. “Me?”

“Hotel sex.”

“You really want to talk about my exes right now?”

I swallow thickly. “Talking is relaxing me.”

He pushes out his bottom lip into this adorable pout as he considers. “Mathletes finals in San Jose. Her name was Allison, we were both seventeen. We spent an hour together in a Sheraton hot tub, and she invited me back to her room.”

“And?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I was nervous, but it was good.”

“ ‘Good’?”

“I’m not in high school anymore,” he says with a smile. “And you could say I’m a lifelong learner.”

I clear my throat and glance down at the floor. “Listen, I know I was pretty presumptuous earlier. We don’t have t—”

“You’re right. We don’t have to.” He takes a single step closer. “But I didn’t mind the presumption, and I’m very good at following instructions.”

“The qualities of a great assistant-in-training,” I whisper, and he laughs into a single, sweet kiss.

The last button is undone and he opens my shirt, fingers carefully pushing the fabric off one shoulder, and then the other. I can barely breathe. My eyes fall to his chest and with a little nod, he seems to understand, making quick work of his own buttons, stopping about halfway before reaching behind his neck and tugging the shirt up and over his head.

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he looks even better than he did last night by the pool: shadows more defined, bones sharper. The part of my brain that seeks out shapes and symmetry wants to capture this image and wallpaper my room with it. Last night I stared in frustration at these bland walls; now all I want to see is him.

We stand in front of each other in the bright diffuse light, with the enormous bed looming beside us. My hands follow the lines of his chest, down his stomach to where his belt sits low on his hips. With his eyes on me he brings his fingers to the clasp, and the sound of the leather as it slips through metal turns me on even more here, in the quiet room, than it did last night.

He pushes one hand into my hair and leans in, pants still closed but belt open. It’s like the pool all over again, our chests touching, his breath ghosting across my lips. With a rush of cold air from the vent overhead, goose bumps bloom across my skin; my nipples harden. His lips meet my cheek, my chin, my jaw, and with a quiet groan, he slides his mouth over mine.

It’s a hit of warmth and pressure, that indescribable satisfaction of a kiss that promises more. There’s only one kind of touch like that, one sensation that stimulates this kind of relief and hunger. It’s the pressing of his lips on mine, the small teasing bite, a shaking exhale, and a hungry moan that I lick off his lower lip. His other hand slides around my back, pulling us flush, and only now do I realize how acutely lonely I’ve been. How long has it been since I’ve had that quickening feeling shoving every other thought to the side?

I reach for him, gripping his wrist with one hand like I need an anchor when he comes back at a different angle, kissing me with more purpose, less caution. He licks my tongue, plays with me, smiling as he growls.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” he says, tilting his head, tilting mine. His hand slips down to my throat.

“Have you thought about it before last night?” I ask.

“Absolutely,” he admits.

“Me too.”

This is the same James I see every day, the same one who scowls down at his computer, who dresses for the job he wants, not the job he has. But this James also has hungry hands. He makes quiet noises in the back of his throat when I press against him, when my hands slide up his arms and over his shoulders.

This James sucks in a breath when I open my mouth, letting him in deeper. My hands trail along his skin, down his chest to where his heart pounds beneath my palms. I know he wants to help, but he’s patient and holds his breath when I unbutton his pants. The sound of his zipper is hilariously loud in this room full of quiet anticipation. I push his pants down his hips, along with his boxers. We both watch as I wrap my fingers around the hard heat of him.

It’s like a tiny bomb goes off in me. I think one goes off in him, too. My nerves are gone, and in their place is this ravenous monster of my former self, wanting to get as much of my skin touching as much of his as we can manage. I make a tight sound of impatience and urgency and he pulls back, searching my eyes.