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“Any more questions, Mr. Filmmaker?” Oscar asks, tugging off his Yale tee, tossing it aside, and his attention suddenly pinpoints to a shelf. “Are those…?”
I turn around, following his gaze. Two golden statuettes of a winged woman cradling an atom rest in proud display. “Yeah, those are my Emmys.”
His grin overtakes his face. “You say that like those are bags of Doritos.”
I hook an arm around his shoulder and lead him backwards towards my desk. “In your world, aren’t Doritos equivalent to Emmys?”
“Quality, yes. But the former is a little harder to come by, Highland. I can’t exactly go pick up an Emmy at the local Quickie-Mart.”
My lips quirk. “Two is nothing. The producers who’ve been on We Are Calloway since the beginning have glass cases dedicated to their awards.”
He shakes his head, confusion cresting his brown eyes. “Even one is a big deal, Jack.” He says my name. Not a nickname, and it sobers the mood for a second. “Don’t compare yourself to other people to minimize what that is.” He points towards my shelf. “Give yourself more credit.”
He’s said that to me before. But before before. When we weren’t dating or barely even a thing.
His words bring me back.
I think of the reception for the newest season of We Are Calloway. The one that recently aired and focused on the car crash, the aftermath within the families, and the trip to Greece.
The critical praise has been astronomical. Calling it, “masterful art in documentary filmmaking” and “possibly the best season of the docuseries in its long, outstanding history”—and the success is not all mine. It was the whole crew.
The best footage could turn into the worst show without the right vision, without the right team.
It wasn’t just me.
But I know what Oscar is saying. It’s still my triumph and feat.
He rests his ass against the edge of my desk, his hands low on my waist. Dragging down towards my back pockets.
I keep a hand on my head and take a shallow breath. Focusing on his gaze, I reply, “I know I’ve met a lot of success, especially by twenty-seven, but there’s still more to do. More to achieve.”
His brows furrow. “Won’t there always be more? It sounds like you’re setting yourself up to never enjoy what you have.”
I drop my arm at my side. “Yeah, but I don’t know how to rewire this”—I point to my temple—“to be satisfied with where I’m at and not seek more, the it project that quells all desires, the white whale.” Quickly, I add, “And I’m not talking about us.” I laugh lightly. “You’re actually the first person who makes me feel like…this is enough.”
This is enough.
Those words quiet the air in a softness. A tranquility that draws something between him and me. His fingers brush gently against mine, and I lace our fingers in a feather-light hold.
“I didn’t take you for a Moby-Dick reader,” Oscar says softly.
“I took you for one,” I say back. He reads a lot of classic lit. “You got the white whale reference then?”
“Yeah.” He nods resolutely.
I let go of his hand to grip his shoulders. “You better watch your back, Os. One day you’ll find a couple bags of Doritos on your shelf, and I’m going to make sure you don’t touch them.”
Oscar fights a smile. “You wouldn’t.”
“They’re your Golden Doritos for being amazing.” I cup the back of his head and kiss the corner of his mouth. “And hot.” Our lips crush together.
He’s grinning.
I’m smiling.
And after a deeper, rougher kiss, he tells me, “I get a thousand Golden Doritos for being hot, Highland.” He grabs my ass.
My dick stirs. “A thousand then,” I negotiate. “But you still can’t eat them.”
“Sounds like the opposite of an award,” Oscar teases and unzips my jeans. Our ravenous kisses steal oxygen from my lungs. I slide a hand down his abs, lower, and grip hard to his bulge.
“Fuck,” Oscar mumbles, breaking from my lips.
I harden at the sound, even more as he yanks my jeans to my muscular thighs and palms the outside of my boxer-briefs.
I swallow an aroused knot in my throat. My abs flex, head dizzying already.
Squeezing each other, we’re moving in short, hungry strokes while our mouths fasten and explore. I don’t feel like breathing tonight. Just give me Oscar.
I thrust my hips against him, creating more friction against his large hand. It feels so fucking good to be in his grip. Our breaths synchronize in heavy, panting waves, and we free ourselves from the last confines of fabric, tugging down our boxer-briefs.
Jesus, the feeling of his palm stroking my full length. I retreat in these pleasured feelings and pump him with my own firm force. “Highland.” His voice is stern, along with his hands that push my shoulders down. Sexy. Sexy. Fuck, he’s sexy.
I ease to my knees.
