Page 25 of A Man To Remember (Skin on Skin #3)

JESSE

THE CLUB FEELS different tonight.

I can't put my finger on what exactly has changed—the same bodies grinding against each other in the dim lighting, the same bass thumping through the floor and into my bones, the same endless stream of drinks I'm mixing and pouring on autopilot. But something's different.

Or maybe it's me that's different.

I'm staring into space, lost in thoughts that won't form properly, when a hand waves in front of my face.

"You okay, man? You look like a ghost."

Sawyer's voice cuts through the fog in my brain, and I blink back to reality. He's standing right next to me, eyebrows raised.

"Mmm. Just...things on my mind."

He nods and doesn't push, which I'm grateful for.

No chance in hell I'd be willing to explain the origin of my current internal state to anyone, let alone a coworker.

Still, there's a pang of guilt in my chest. Sawyer's agreed to cover half my shift tonight.

He deserves better than my distracted grunts and a thousand-yard stare.

The alarm on my phone buzzes against my thigh some unspecified time later, and my stomach drops. Time to go.

The anxiety cranks up another notch as I bolt toward the staff room, muttering a thanks to Sawyer one last time on my way.

It's like every cell in my body has its own consciousness and is acutely aware that I'm just one shower and one change of clothes away from something that isn't exactly big , but feels enormous.

It takes me much longer than usual to get through my post-shift routine, my hands anything but steady as I wash and change.

My legs aren't doing much better as I walk through the club's maze of hallways, bumping into people, not really seeing them. My mind is already elsewhere.

The lights overhead flicker as I pass underneath them, casting strange shadows on the walls lined with doors I've never bothered to explore. The bass from the main floor vibrates through the soles of my feet, but it feels distant now, muffled by my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

A couple stumbles out of one of the rooms, giggling and adjusting their clothes, and I have to step aside to let them pass. They don't even notice me, too wrapped up in their own bubble of post-orgasmic bliss.

Must be nice to be that carefree about sex, that sure of what you want and how to get it.

I turn the last corner toward the blue door, and I'm just about to grab my phone to check the time, wondering if I'm too early, when the door opens and a tall, objectively attractive man steps out.

Which means I'm right on time.

I wait for the guy to walk past me, acknowledging him with an up-nod despite seeing him for the first time, which means one thing—I'm stalling.

With that, I turn the handle and enter.

My eyes find Austin immediately, even though he's in the corner fiddling with equipment. It's like my vision has been programmed to scan any space for that particular arrangement of dark hair and broad shoulders, to locate him before I consciously realize what I'm looking at.

He's packing up his camera gear. There's something almost meditative about the way he handles his equipment, like each piece has its exact place in his mental catalog. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and I can see the muscles in his forearms flexing as he winds up cables and closes cases.

He turns around and spots me, a smile spreading across his face as he walks toward the middle of the room. That smile does things to my nervous system that probably require a prescription.

We meet halfway, gravitating toward each other like we're following some invisible pull, and I'm about to lean in for a kiss hello when he ducks away with a grin that's both adorable and infuriating.

"Nuh-uh. Spill."

I grab his waist, pulling him closer. The solid warmth of him grounds me slightly, makes the anxiety subside just enough that I can think clearly.

Austin's hands settle on my hips, thumbs pressing into the bone.

"What's the rush, huh?" I tease. "I thought you loved surprises."

He rolls his eyes but doesn't let go of me. If anything, his grip tightens. "Talk."

My pulse quickens. I don't really have the guts to say it plainly, so I go for subtle.

Well, subtle for me.

"I did some shopping."

His head tilts like a confused puppy trying to work out a particularly complex trick.

"In my pocket."

There's a skeptical look on his face, but he puts his hand into my front pocket anyway. I let him rummage around for a bit, trying not to chuckle while his fingers brush against my keys, my wallet, some loose change, and the side of my cock. Only then do I say, "The other pocket."

He swats my chest and moves to the other side, and my heart hammers as I feel his fingers swirl around until they come to a stop, presumably now touching one of the two packets I stashed there. Lube or condom. I can't tell which.

I know he realizes what he's touching because his whole face shifts. It's like watching a movie on fast-forward as his expression goes from curious to shocked to horny and back to curious again in the span of two seconds.

"Jesse…"

I try for a teasing tone and go for a nonchalant shrug that probably looks anything but. "Since we were short last time."

His eyebrows shoot up so high they almost disappear into his hairline. "Last time?" Then he looks around like he's just realizing where we are and lowers his voice as if someone's eavesdropping. "You aren't suggesting— Now? Here ?"

I laugh, finding his sudden panic absolutely adorable. "I think these walls can handle it. They've seen some stuff."

He takes a sharp breath, probably to argue, but before he can speak, I sneak one hand between us and massage his cock through his jeans.

The effect is immediate and spectacular. His mouth falls open, whatever protest he was about to make dying on his tongue. His eyelids go heavy as he tilts his head back, exposing more of his throat.

I can't help but lean in and suck on the side of his neck. I don't stop until his cock is fully hard under my touch.

"You were saying?"

He shakes his head. "I wasn't saying anything."

It's a pure mess after that.

Clothes start flying off our bodies like we both have the same idea at the exact same moment and execution time is right fucking now. His hands are everywhere—tugging at my shirt, working my belt, pushing fabric aside with an urgency that matches my own frantic movements.

Our limbs get in each other's way, and it takes us twice as long as it would if we weren't suddenly so impatient.

His shirt gets caught on his watch, the fabric twisting around the metal band, and I have to help him untangle it while he's trying to undo my jeans with one hand.

My pants tangle around my ankles, and we're both laughing and cursing and trying to undress each other while simultaneously trying not to fall over.

There's something beautifully chaotic about it, this desperate scramble to get naked. None of the smooth choreography you see in movies, just two people who want each other so badly they can barely coordinate their limbs properly.

I kick my shoes off, sending one flying across the room where it hits the wall with a dull thud. He manages to get his shirt over his head, and the sight of his bare chest makes me forget temporarily that I still have one sock on.

When we're finally naked, we're both breathing like we've been running a marathon instead of just getting undressed.

The air conditioning hits my overheated skin, raising goosebumps along my arms and chest, but I barely notice. All my attention is focused on him—the way his cock curves slightly upward, head red, and swollen, and already leaking.

I take a step forward, already tasting the phantom sensation of his lips against mine, my body moving on autopilot toward what I want most. But Austin takes a step back at the same time, hands raised like he's stopping traffic, and I freeze mid-motion.

"What—"

"Wait."

That one word shuts me up completely. His voice is deep, authoritative in a way that makes my cock twitch and sends heat pooling in my belly.

He takes another step back, putting more space between us, and his eyes start roaming up and down my body like he's trying to memorize every freckle, every scar, every place where muscle meets bone.

Then he adds, "I want to look at you."

A tiny gasp escapes me, and there's this nudge to cover myself up, some leftover modesty trying to assert itself. But the urge to please the man in front of me is stronger, so I straighten up, and take a step back so he can get the full view.

Then I grab my cock and give myself a few long, lazy strokes, watching his face as I do it.

His pupils blow wide, and he groans like he's in physical pain. Like I'm denying him. Like he isn't just two steps away, free to touch, to claim, to do whatever he feels like doing.

What Austin feels like doing throws me for a complete loop.

"Can I take a picture?"

I open my mouth to ask if he's serious, but before I can speak, he adds, "Just for me."

The words echo in my brain.

Just for me.

Private photos.

Personal spank bank material.

I bite down on my bottom lip, considering. Erotic photography is one thing—artistic, professional, something that could theoretically be shown in galleries.

This? This would be porn.

Personal, intimate, meant for an audience of one.

But then...if he wants to use me as jerk-off material, who the fuck am I to deny him?

"Sure," I say, and before I can even finish that single word, he's already moving, pacing to his workstation with the kind of focused energy I recognize from watching him work.

He snatches up one of his cameras, checking the settings. A man with a passion, completely in his element even when that element is photographing his naked...whatever I am to him.

What comes next is a photo shoot. But not just any shoot. Not like any of our previous sessions. This one's different.

Because I'm different.