[HIGH SCHOOL AU]
I shuffled my belongings into my cramped locker, carelessly dragging a math textbook aside to make way for the new one. If I knew the teacher at all, we'd use the book once, maybe twice, then toss it weeks before the semester's end.
It had been a long day, and my face must've been manifesting the sourness, because Jameson's voice was amused when he said, "Well someone's grumpy."
I turned, my eyes first registering the students swarming the halls before they latched onto him. Jameson Winchester Hawthorne was leaning against his own locker; how he'd scored one right across from mine I had yet to find out.
"Aggravated," I corrected, examining his appearance wearily. "I'm aggravated."
Jameson pushed off his locker, crossed arms falling to his sides. The motion also nudged a strand of dark hair into his eyes. Had there not been an influx of students between us, I would've reached over and brushed the hair back from his face.
He seemed to notice my distaste for the space between us, because he sauntered across the hall to be with me. When he reached my locker, I stood on my tiptoes to brush the hair back.
His lips twitched. "You're pouting."
"I got another textbook," I explained.
"Poor, poor Avery."
I smacked his arm, but he only laughed.
"For the record, I got two more and they're already in the trash."
I shot him a dirty look.
He held up his hands in surrender. "What? I'm a senior. You really think I'm going to use them?"
"No," I admitted, a sigh caught in my throat. "But it's good to have them in case, right?"
"You need to take more risks," he told me. "Show me your wild side."
A sly smile peaked on my lips. "I have shown it to you."
"We're talking about school, you know, not about kissing."
"I'm open to a subject change."
"Yeah, me too."
Electricity arced up my body, but was downplayed by the late bell a moment later. I'd completely lost track of time. And though he was facing the same conundrum, Jameson made no move to leave.
We were supposed to be heading in different directions — me, up a flight of stairs to the library, and him, four doors down to psychology. But Jameson was apparently in no mood to leave.
He seemed prone to stay, in fact, as he took my waist and turned me so my back was solid against the lockers. I felt my heart pick up speed, but it was nothing compared to the rhythm my breathing had taken on.
In. Out. Each one too fast.
Jameson was smiling, a wicked glint lingering on the corner of his lips . "I really can get you flustered, huh?"
I didn't respond. Jameson didn't mind at all. Actually, the more I played over the scene in my mind, I wondered if it had been his plan all along. Because once we were alone, with nothing but the audience of stark gray walls, he pressed his body close to mine.
I inhaled his breath; he tasted like spice. Like an aroma that had no name other than his own.
"Still want to go to class?" he asked me.
"Yes," I managed, hiding my hands behind my back so he couldn't pin them above my head. If he did that, surely neither of us would be coherent for the remainder of the day. "But it can wait."
"How long?"
"I guess that's your decision." I stared at his hands, still holding me by the waist, unwilling to allow movement.
He leaned in, kissed the side of my mouth so gently it was nearly infuriating. He dared shove me against a wall and considered that a kiss? I tugged on the collar of his shirt, silently begging for him to lower his head. I'd never thought of myself as particularly short, however, when I was in his arms I felt so.
Jameson kissed me again. His lips were centered this time, and the kiss seemed much more enjoyable for both parties. As our lips moved in sync, he removed one arm from my waist and pressed it against the wall. His body shifted farther forward until I was flush against his chest.
My heartbeats chased one another.
"Jamie," I heard myself say, breathless.
He looked at me in surprise, and I couldn't blame him. Despite his countless nicknames for me, I'd acquired none for him. He was only Jamie to his mother, brothers, and the occasional idiot who wanted to rile him up.
But to me? He'd always been Jameson.
Always been sharp, witty, reckless Jameson.
But somehow the nickname softened his edge. I liked the way he looked when I said it, the way it tasted on my lips, the way my lips wished to whisper it against his.
"Sorry," I forced myself to whisper.
"No." His hands returned to my waist, tighter this time. "I like that, Grambs."
