Thrusting my hips, flexing smoothly down and in.
My hand returns to his length. He shudders after two strokes, and I pull away again. The whimper on his lips sounds fragile. Our foreheads slide together. Breaths melding. “Os,” he pleads.
“Not yet,” I whisper.
My movements have slowed so much that I feel him trembling against me. Like he craves those two hard pumps either from my hand or my cock and I’m giving him neither.
But I want to eke out every last second of this.
If this is all we have.
Sweat coats our bodies, built between us like a blanket of heat. My hair sticks to my forehead, and Jack takes a hand off his head. Just to push my hair back for me. Tenderness wraps around us, and we’re practically cradling each other as I rock in and out of him. His muscled chest glistens in sweat, and he leaves his palm on my head. Fingers threaded into my hair now. I’m thanking every star and moon and sun for sending him to me.
My body aches for a pleasured release, and when I up the pace, Jack’s fingers coil in my hair. “OsOsOs.”
“Fuck,” I moan and groan, grabbing onto the headboard as I push harder, wanting deeper.
He glances down at his erection like he wants that touch.
I press my lips to his forehead. “No hands, meu raio de sol.”
Hand clutching the headboard, I thrust two more times with a firm, direct goal. I feel him shudder in a full-body release, and mine happens seconds later. The out-of-the-universe climax drains oxygen from my brain, and it takes a second to catch my bearings.
Slowly, I roll off him, and he immediately pulls me back into his arms. Hanging his bicep over my sweaty chest. We’re curled up together. Limbs threaded. Neither of us bother getting underneath the covers. “Oscar,” Jack breathes.
But that’s all he says.
That’s all he needs to say.
We just made love, and emotion still strings between us like a lit flame. His head buries against the crook of my neck. I am so in love with him.
And I’m so fucking scared of losing him.
37
JACK HIGHLAND
Keeping our marriage quiet for over two weeks has been harder than I thought it’d be. Considering, I’m the one who wanted time to decide on an annulment, I shouldn’t feel this need to tell people that Oscar Oliveira is my husband.
But there I was minding my own business at the WAC offices, eating a ham and cheese sandwich, casually scrolling through some entertainment sites, when I landed on an article about “the Pro” in Security Force Omega. Embedded in the story was a shirtless photo of Oscar. I recognized his yellow bathing suit trunks and the orange bandana. Sand beneath his feet. It was taken in California.
I scrolled to the comment section.
Oscar is HOTT.
Wow! He’s got to be “the pro” in bed, right?
YUM. So when Oscar’s done with Charlie and Jack? Can I get a bite of that?
And that last comment charged me up enough to almost type out the words: You can’t, I’m married to him. Okay, I did type out the words, but I restrained myself from posting. Partly because it wouldn’t change a thing.
I know that. Producer cred and all.
Still, I sit with these heavy feelings today. Jealousy mixed with indecision. And what am I jealous of? Some random person calling Oscar hot on the internet? Maybe I just want people to know that he’s really mine forever. To finally believe me when they keep doubting the truth because of the Oslie rumors.
But I’m aware that yelling “Oscar Oliveira is my husband!” would be short-term bliss.
Some people will just take the marriage as a PR ploy. Warp it into something it’s not. And that’s why I ultimately need the time to think the annulment over. Maybe if we actually wait to get married down the road, people won’t judge so harshly.
I hate that I’m factoring in other people in my future with Oscar. When really all I want is him, but it’s been my life—my career—to understand outside perception. What it all means.
FYI: I looked up how long I have to decide before we can no longer get an annulment. Five years. So I have five whole years to live in this unbearable limbo.
Can’t wait that long—that’s all I know.
And at least I know something, right?
Finished with the WAC shoot today, I stuff my camera into its bag. Luna’s wiping her swollen eyes with tissues I handed her. Sharpie drawings decorate a neon-green cast around her arm. The golf cart crash caused a bone fracture that’s healing.
She’s curled up on a beanbag in the loft of Superheroes & Scones. The store closed early so we could film here, and she’s spent the last hour talking about all the headlines that surround her.
The ones that are obsessed with her nightly clubbing. How she’s been “spotted” kissing different guys on the same night, sometimes at the same place.
I gently asked her if she wanted to discuss the other media headline. Tabloids hyper-focus on any of the famous ones’ changes: tattoos, haircuts, weight-gains. And they’ve noticed that Luna has worn pants practically all summer long.
She didn’t want to talk about it for the show, but she told me that Donnelly tattooed her leg, up to her hip, and she’s afraid of her dad finding out.
I promised, like always, to keep the secret.
Hugging her another time, I tell Luna, “Remember, we don’t have to air anything, if you don’t want to.” I’m referring to our talk about the nightclubs.
“When do I have to make a decision by?” She crumples the tissue.
“No deadline.”
If she wants it in the show, it’ll appear in the upcoming season. If she doesn’t, I’ll be the only person that ever sees this footage.
“Thanks, Jack.” She
