Page 15 of Room 1212

Drew’s eyes were focused on my hand, and his lips parted with a soft exhale. I was enthralled by the way his tongue darted out to moisten his bottom lip. I wanted to taste him so badly, to kiss him, lick him, do all those naughty things I wrote about with him.

I moved closer still, his strong thighs pressed in on either side of me. My hand had traveled far enough that my thumb was nearly brushing against the hard length of his erection. I could see the outline through his pants, growing tighter by the second.

“Jordan…” Drew looked up at me then, a question in his gaze. He lifted a hand up, and I thought for a second that he was going to reach for me, but he paused in midair.

“Drew, please, just kiss me.”

“Okay,” he said.

It was like the dam had burst and all of his pent-up desire was unleashed. He gripped me by the back of the neck and dragged me in so he could slam his lips onto mine. He wrapped his other arm around my waist, fisting the back of my shirt, and pulled me flush against him, his cock digging into my stomach.

For someone who had resisted for so long, he was certainly invested now. His tongue invaded my mouth to massage against mine, and it didn’t matter that this wasn’t a relationship—in this moment, I let him own me. He was everything I’d dreamed of. I clung to him, moaning, slick trickling from my ass, but no matter how much he gave me, it wasn’t enough. I needed more.

I started tugging on his shirt, but he pulled back with a gasp. “No, not here.”

I blinked my eyes open, still in a lustful daze. “Not here… So, does that mean you would be willing to do it somewhere else?” I asked coyly.

He smirked. “Looks like you’ve convinced me. What can I say, your negotiating tactics are quite flawless.” We both stood, and he adjusted himself, groaning. “I get off work at nine. Are you busy later?”

“I’m my own boss. I’m sure I can make room for you in my schedule.”

“Perfect. Meet me back here?”

“It’s a date.” Kinda. Sorta. Not really.

8

Drew

Iwasafewminutes late leaving work because Kristoph took a spill, and Noelle needed help getting him into bed. I was lucky that Tanner, one of our volunteers, was still here to give me a hand. By the time I stepped through the doors, Jordan was already there, leaning up against the side of his car.

“Hey, I was starting to wonder if you were having second thoughts,” he said, trying to act casual but blushing all the same. His eyes flitted down my body; I’d changed into some jeans and a t-shirt that stretched across my chest, and it was clear he liked what he saw.

“Nope. You?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

After the kiss we’d shared in the closet, I wanted nothing more than to grab Jordan and reel him in for a repeat performance, but there were a few things I wanted to clear up first. “Can I give you a ride, or would you prefer to follow me? I promise your car will be safe here.” It was a nice car but not overly flashy, and we had security guards who kept an eye on the lot.

Jordan pushed off from his car and followed me to my rusty hatchback. “Are we going back to your place?”

I looked sideways at him; he was practically skipping. “Eager, aren’t you? No, I thought we would go to dinner first. We should probably talk, set some ground rules before we start anything.”

I opened the passenger door for him, and he paused before getting in. “Ground rules? Like… a safe word?”

I laughed, shaking my head. I wondered where his thoughts were headed. “If you think we need one, sure. I meant more like what our expectations are.”

“Oh…” He frowned and lowered himself into the seat, pulling on his seatbelt as I closed the door and rounded the hood to get in behind the wheel.

I liked having Jordan in my car. While I could’ve chosen to be embarrassed by my shitty ride, the threadbare upholstery, the squeaking brakes, I instead focused on his aroma filling my space, knowing that it would linger for days to come.

I had to remind myself that this was a short-term arrangement he was looking for, nothing serious, but the tension from our kiss earlier was still lingering between us, and it muddled my thoughts.

He was quiet as I pulled the car out of the parking lot and into traffic. I could feel his eyes on me, though, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. To fill the silence, I cleared my throat. “Can I ask… Sorry, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, I don’t mean to pry, but since it’s about to land you in my bed… why are you trying to change your writing style? Doesn’t it make you happy anymore?”

He turned away to look out the window. “No, it does, but… it’s also a little demoralizing sometimes. I read something someone else wrote and I get jealous, like I wish I had written that. Their stories are so much better than mine.”

“I don’t know about that. Writing is subjective, like any art. Like, Picasso was an extremely talented painter, but I’m more of a Dali fan myself. That doesn’t mean that one is better than the other.”

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