He goes absolutely still. Not flinch-still. Arrested-still. Like his whole body just hit pause mid-breath. The spoon stops suddenly. His shoulders rise slightly and don't come back down. I can feel him - his back an inch from my chest, the rigid line of his spine, the way his breath has gone shallow and fast.
"Like this," I murmur against the side of his neck. My lips almost touch his skin. Almost. I can feel the vibration of his pulse.
I'm not actually doing anything. Not really. I'm barely touching him. My hand over his, fingers laced loose, holding him there. And I'm close enough that if he turned his head we'd be breathing the same air and we both know it. My lips travel over him, still not touching.
"Rhys." Warning. That particular rough edge he gets when he's losing the argument with himself.
"Relax." I don't move back though. "I'm teaching."
"Then teach. Or let go."
I don't let go. I press even closer. My chest now fully against his back, my hips to his ass, and there's no hiding what this isdoing to me. He feels it. I know he feels it because his breath catches, his hand tightens on the spoon, every muscle in his body goes rigid and then —
He pushes back against me.
Just barely. Just enough. He presses into me and it's deliberate, it's a choice, and I make a sound I don’t mean to make, a moan, low and breathy in my throat, right against his ear.
"Fuck," he breathes.
He's turned his head now, just slightly, enough that I can see his throat working as he swallows, his eyes lustful and fixed somewhere just past my face, like if he looks at me directly something is going to happen that he can't take back. His pulse is going wild under my fingers where they rest at his wrist.
"You're the one who showed up here," I say.
"You told me to."
"I didn't though, not really." I tilt my head, lips close to his ear, close enough to see the goosebumps on his neck. "You wanted to, so tell me what you really want, Jamie."
Silence. His hand shifts under mine - not away, back. Just slightly, enough that his fingers curl around my wrist, reversing the grip, holding on. Like he can't help it. Like his hands made the decision before he did. "You always do this," he says. Rough now. His voice not quite steady.
"Do what?"
"Push me."
"You don't like it." It's not a question. "Then tell me you don't like it. Tell me to stop." I let my thumb trace once over the back of his hand. Feel him twitch. Just barely. "Tell me to stop, Jamie."
His grip tightens on my wrist and he grinds back into the hardness pressing firmly against him.
"Careful," he says. Barely audible.
"Or what?"
He turns. Fully. Right into my space, which means I have to tilt my chin up again to hold his gaze, which means there is less than nothing between us, enough to notice there are tiny specks of hazel dancing around in his eyes. His hand is still around my wrist and the other one has found my hip without him seeming to notice, fingers pressing in, and I can feel the hard line of him against my stomach.
"You don't want to find out," he says.
I wet my lips. Watch his eyes track the movement.
"What if I did?" I challenge. “What if I don’t want to stop?”
His eyes drop to my mouth and stay there this time and his grip on my hip tightens to where it’s almost painful and we are so close I can feel his chest rising and falling, can feel every place we're touching, and the whole kitchen has collapsed down to this, us, and how bad we’re both aching for it.
He leans in. Barely. Just enough. Stubble almost grazing my jaw, his mouth a breath from mine, and I can taste the almost of it, can feel it in my whole body, the wanting, the waiting—
"How long is this going to take? Are you guys actually making dinner or just—"
Blake.
Jamie moves back so fast it's like he teleported. Facing the stove. Spoon in hand. Every wall up and every expression sealed and nothing on his face at all, like the last ten minutes happened to someone else in a different kitchen. Blake stands in the doorway taking in the scene with the expression of someone who absolutely knows what he interrupted and is panicking about whether to acknowledge it or not.
