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“Like someone else I know,” Jaxon mutters, and the weight of those words hangs between us.
I set the baseball carefully on his desk, right next to his laptop. When I turn around, he’s right there, so close I have to tip my head back to look at him. My heart starts that familiar dance it does whenever he’s near, like it knows something my brain hasn’t figured out yet. Behind him, Mookie watches us with those judgmental blue eyes, like he’s waiting to see what happens next. Same, buddy. Same.
“Hi,” I whisper. Real smooth, Cam. The word comes out breathier than I intended.
His hands find my hips again, but this time there’s nothing casual about it. Nothing ambiguous in the way his fingers press into my skin through the fabric of my leggings. “Hi.” His voice is lower, rougher.
The air between us feels electric, charged with everything we’re not saying. Everything we should say but probably won’t. Because that’s what we do—we dance around the important,heavy shit. The tension is so thick even Mookie seems to feel it, his tail twitching as he watches us from his throne of pillows.
But right now, with his game-winning ball on his desk, his cat claiming squatter’s rights on his bed, and his hands on my hips like they belong there... running is the last thing on my mind. Even if I know I probably should. Even if I know tomorrow might bring more confusion, more watching him talk to Inez while pretending it doesn’t kill me inside.
Because here’s the truth about Jaxon: he’s like baseball itself. Complicated, unpredictable, and impossible to quit, no matter how many times you strike out.
I should say something clever, but I’ve got nothing when he looks at me like this. His fingers slip under the hem of his hoodie I’m still wearing, skating across my skin, and I forget how words and logic work.
“Cam,” he breathes against my mouth, and it’s not fair how he can make my name sound like that. Like a prayer. Like a promise. It makes me forget my rules, and I don’t appreciate that.
We end up in his bed like we always do. His sheets smell like him, and when he leans over me, one hand braced beside my head, everything else fades away. The game, the text, Inez—none of it exists here.
His eyes meet mine in the dim light from his window, and there’s something there I’m afraid to name. When he kisses me, it’s soft at first—almost careful, like he’s asking permission. Like we haven’t done this a hundred times before. His lips brush mine once, twice, and then I’m reaching up, threading my fingers through his still-damp hair, pulling him closer.
He makes this sound in the back of his throat, something between a groan and my name, and then there’s nothing careful about it anymore. He kisses me like he played tonight—all in,no holding back. Like he’s trying to tell me something his words can’t.
That he loves me? That he wants to get back together?
Hey, a girl can dream.
I kiss him back because I don’t want to think about anything but this.
Jaxon’s weight settles over me, solid and warm, and my legs part instinctively to make room for him. The cross chains tangle between us as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that makes me arch up against him.
“God, Cam,” he breathes against my mouth, his hand sliding under my shirt, spanning my ribs. His touch leaves fire in its wake. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you all night.”
I want to ask him what he means. What any of this means, but I don’t, and thinking becomes impossible. His hands are everywhere—in my hair, under my shirt, gripping my hip. Each touch feels like he’s writing something on my skin, marking me as his even though I’m not, even though we're just...
“Stop thinking so much,” he murmurs against my throat, and I can feel his smile. “Let me make you feel good.”
I laugh, but it turns into a moan when he rocks his hips against mine and his dick. He lifts his head to look at me, and even in the dark, I can see how blown his pupils are. His hair’s a mess from my hands, his lips swollen from our kisses. He’s the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen.
He sighs, giving me all his weight. I trace my fingertips over his jaw, to his neck, his chest. It feels romantic. Like I shouldn’t be touching him like this if this is just sex between us.
I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but his breath catches right before he kisses me, his lips welding to mine. He opens his mouth and lets me sweep my tongue inside, then grips the sides of my face, deepening the kiss. Slipping his hand behind my back, he unclasps my bra and takes it off.
“You’re actually taking my clothes off this time?” I tease.
“Yup.” Despite the tenderness in his movements, his words are playful.
“If this is your way of trying to get your hoodie back, it’s not gonna work. I’m taking it with me.”
“Don’t you have enough of my clothes by now?”
“Nope.”
When my chest is bare to him, his mouth sweeps over my collarbone, then lower to the tops of my breasts, but he doesn’t suck on my nipples yet. His breathing changes—unstable, hardly controlled through gasps.
His touch, his kiss—he doesn’t relent, and before I know it, he’s moving lower and his mouth is between my legs. Um, okay. This is good. We haven’t done this in a long time, but I’m here for it.
“Oh my God.” I grip his hair, beg for more, and he provides.