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Corbin fell back against the door, breathing hard, waiting for his heartrate to slow, his brain to be able to process anything except oh, wow, oh, fuck, oh my God. He was dimly aware of Jackson standing up, wiping at the corners of his mouth then sucking his fingers off and zipping himself up. When had he taken his cock out of his pants? Corbin felt disappointment that he hadn’t gotten at least a glance at it and wondered if he’d get another chance but dismissed that worry. Of course, he would.
Jackson put Corbin’s clothes back together, then steered him to the couch and pushed him onto its cushions before walking to the door.
“Wait!”
Pausing, Jackson looked back at him and gave him that sly smile once more. He cocked his head, waiting for Corbin to speak.
“You’re leaving?” Corbin finally managed.
“Right. Manners,” Jackson said. He came back, leaned down and gave Corbin a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for my gift.”
And with that, he was gone. Corbin was so stunned at his abrupt departure, he couldn’t move from the couch. And then, as the minutes ticked away, he was so embarrassed he couldn’t face returning to the club, so he didn’t. He stayed in his office, scrolling mindlessly through his phone until Sarina came to tell him the party was breaking up.
“Is Jackson still here?” Corbin asked.
Sarina shook her head. “He took off about a half an hour ago.”
Corbin didn’t have the heart to ask if he’d left with anyone, so he didn’t. “Thanks. I’ll be out in a couple of minutes to help with the clean-up.”
She gave him a concerned look, then shrugged. “Take your time. We’ve got it covered. You look pretty wrecked. Good thing you’ve got that vacation coming up, huh? Looks like you could use it.”
Corbin nodded in agreement. He took an annual white-water rafting trip. This year, he was heading back to the Rogue River up in Oregon for a week. It was one of his favorite rivers, and he’d done it several times already. The trip started in another couple of weeks, but after the night he’d just had, it couldn’t start soon enough.
Two weeks later, Corbin was in his happy place. Or what should have been his happy place. He was sitting in a raft navigating a tricky stretch of the Rogue River with three other experienced whitewater rafters. Even as he kept his attention focused on the rapidly moving water, looking ahead for rocks and snags of debris, a portion of his brain was trying to listen for sounds of disaster from the raft just behind theirs. The raft on which Jackson was sitting as cargo because the damn fool had never been on a river before but had decided to follow Corbin and try his hand at the Class III and IV rapids on the Rogue.
This year, the river was running high and fast due to some late winter storms, and it was throwing some curve balls that even Corbin was have difficulty navigating. He couldn’t imagine how Jackson was coping. The idiot.
“Over left!” the guide called from the back of the raft, and Corbin stopped thinking about Jackson as he moved to the opposite tube and helped weight that side of the raft down so the raft didn’t flip as the rapids tossed it.
“Back on the job!” the guide barked, and Corbin resumed his original position.
They were almost through this run of rapids, which was the last they’d see on the first day of the trip, and Corbin was more than ready for them to reach their camping spot. First night dinners were always great because the food was at its freshest, and this company really knew how to put on a good spread.
Another ten minutes saw them through the rapids and gliding into calmer, deeper water as the river widened out and everyone relaxed. They’d made it through with no swimmers. Corbin glanced at the line of rafts behind them and tried not to be too pleased that Jackson hadn’t gone into the water.
Honestly. What had Jackson been thinking? Corbin just about lost it when Jackson had shown up at their put-in that morning. He’d been late because of car trouble, so he hadn’t been at the meetup location, but arrived with one of the guides just before they’d gotten on the river, and Corbin had been worried his head was about to explode. He had no explanation for how Jackson would have known his vacation plans nor why the man assumed Corbin was happy to see him after the way things ended the night of his going away party.
Fortunately, Jackson saw Corbin’s expression and wisely chose a different raft for the first day. At lunch, he also kept his distance, chatting amicably with a group of women from Denver. By the time the lunch break was over, it was like they’d all been friends for years, and Jackson joined their raft for the afternoon’s run through the rapids.
Now they were about an hour from putting out. Two of the guides would set up everyone’s tents while the other two started on dinner prep, and the lead guide would get the pre-dinner snacks and beer set up. This particular trip was an adults-only that combined whitewater rafting with craft beer tasting, and Corbin had been looking forward to it for months.
He tried not to feel bitter about the intrusion nor dwell on the hurt he’d felt after Jackson walked out of his office. It was only five days. Five days, now almost down to four. He could ignore Jackson for that long. Right?
A burst of laughter from the raft behind his brought Corbin’s attention downriver. Jackson was straddling the tube, his right foot dangling in the water, his brown curls gilded from the light behind him. The man was wearing a loose-fitting tank top, his shoulders and arms burnished from a day spent in the sun. Corbin had never seen his bare arms before since Jackson always wore the Prowl uniform – black jeans and a long-sleeved black button up with the club’s logo on the left pocket. Jackson’s arms were toned and beautiful. Of course, they were. How many hours a week did the man spend throwing bottles in the air and shaking up cocktails?
Shit, Corbin thought as he turned around and faced the open river in front of him. Four days suddenly seemed like an eternity.
Jackson didn’t approach him at all that first night. They sat on opposite sides of the campfire, and Corbin tried not to notice the way Jackson’s long fingers curved around his beer. Or how his skin was completely sun-kissed. Or the way the firelight only threw his cheekbones into greater relief, gave his toned arms and legs a sculptural quality.
There was no way around it. The man was objectively gorgeous. Seeing him prowl around behind the bar at the club for the past two years while he teased and flirted and performed for customers was nothing compared to watching him relaxed and at ease, talking to people and getting to know them. He had an easy way with conversation, a dry wit, and an infectious laugh.
Looking around the campfire, Corbin could tell he wasn’t the only one smitten. Both men and women watched Jackson with varying degrees of longing and lust. Which pissed Corbin off, to be honest. I found him first, he wanted to tell them, back off. Of course, he kept silent, staring into the flames, and nursing his beer.
Every now and then, Corbin’s eyes would flick up and over to Jackson, which the man knew because he was watching Corbin the whole time. For some reason, that pissed Corbin off even more. If Jackson was so fucking interested, why had he done what he did the night of his party? Why was Jackson fucking with him? Corbin drained his beer and got up.
Since they were a good-sized group, there wasn’t a lot of space for being alone on this stretch of riverbank. Tents dotted the area that had been cleared of brush by high water, and the cooking and eating area was set off to the side in case any critters were attracted by the smell of food. After they ate, the guides would pack up the food and trash and stow it back on the oar boat. The guides had placed the portable latrine by the tents — easily accessible but far enough away that no one would be bothered by the smell.
Corbin wandered off in the direction of the tents. His own was a single person camping tent he’d brought along because he hated the idea of sharing a tent with a stranger. It wasn’t that he didn’t like being with people or wanted to be anti-social, it was that he was always with people at the club. This vacation was his time to decompress and unwind. Fifty-one weeks of the year, he had to deal with everyone’s issues, the stupid things customers did when they were drunk, and bartenders who were sexier than they should be and took up too much space in his brain. Fucking damn it! What was Jackson doing here?
