#Jamison Sears

[triple-to-stag]

One of their gymnasts is just double fisting a juice box and a redbull lmao

Loving Alabama’s big ass warm up jackets

[jinxquickfoot]

@badthingshappenbingo prompt: Trying Not to Cry

Find the fic on Ao3

“Morning, Boss.”

Kate’s tone is chipper. Upbeat, happy, top-o-the-morning chipper. Clint definitely isn’t going to suspect that a single thing is wrong.

Clint squints up at her over the coffee he’s just poured. “What’s wrong?"

“Literally all I said was good morning.”

“Uh-huh.” Clint’s eyes travel down to the Daily Bugle clutched in Kate’s hand. “Good read?”

“No, actually.” Kate hastily balls up the paper, lobbing it towards the trash. It bounces off the rim. “It was so boring that I’ve forgotten what I read.”

“Kate, you just missed a shot from three feet away.” Clint moves to pick the paper up.

“No, don’t! You don’t want to read that.”

Clint takes her in again, then relaxes. “What is this time? That archery is a ridiculous superpower? That I’m the most useless Avenger? That no one knows why I was even on the team to begin with?”

Kate tries to distract him as Clint starts to uncrumple the paper. “All of which would be cleared up if you agreed to do just one interview.”

“I don’t waste time on reporters. Never have, never will.” He succeeds in unfurling the pages. “Kate, I've been hearing that kind of stuff for years. Jesus, I agree with half of it—although not with the Bugle, everything that comes out of Jamison’s mouth is garbage. So don’t bother trying to spare my feelings, at this point I just ignore…” He trails off, finally finding the page that had slapped Kate in the face that morning.

“It’s fine,” Kate says, too quickly. “Like you said, garbage.” Her voice cracks on the last word, and Kate has never been more embarrassed in her life.

Clint slowly lifts his head from the article to her face.

“Just forget it.” She’s not going to cry about this. She’s not. “I have.”

She hasn’t. The words are seared into her.

The world is approaching a new generation of superheroes. From arugula green lawyers in California, to a rather womanly Thor sighting in Norway, to what some are calling a controversial and nepotistic choice of Captain America’s successor, to a brand new Iron Man struck down too soon in the form of Quentin Beck, it seems we do not need to fear a lack of superheroes in our future—whatever their quality may be.

The world has come a long way from the first battle for the planet in 2012, when six unlikely heroes gathered to rid New York of aliens. While it may be a relief to some that their titles are passed on, others—this newspaper included—argue that it is time for some mantles to be retired, if they ever should have been held to such high esteem in the first place.

Residents of New York would have spotted a purple-clad archer in their midsts over the Christmas period. The vigilante responsible for destroying the beloved Rockefeller Christmas tree has been identified as Kate Bishop, nepo-baby of Bishop Security, whose stocks have plummeted after the arrest of its CEO, Eleanor Bishop, in December.

While it may be comforting to hear that the younger Bishop is not planning to follow in the footsteps of her criminal mother, her other choice of career must be called into question. We are in the heyday of superheroes, from Captain Marvel to Doctor Strange, with powers beyond reckoning. Is this really an appropriate environment to be resurrecting the Hawkeye name? A bow and arrow versus the cosmic forces of time and space?

‘Superhero’ is now the number one job aspiration of anyone under eight years old, and it is tempting to believe that we could all put on a silly costume and run around saving the day from otherworldly monsters. And with a lack of scientific genius or enhanced abilities, it seems Bishop has reached for the easiest to imitate Avenger and given it her best shot. However, unlike her namesake, she is not hitting the bullseye.

With multiple counts of destruction of public property, the daughter of a known associate of Wilson ‘Kingpin’ Fisk, and an extremely superfluous choice of mentor to boot (really, what does Hawkeye even do when he runs out of arrows? Stand around and wait for the rest of the heroes to do the actual work?), perhaps it is time for Bishop to leave the play-pretend game to the children, and allow herself to grow up.

Clint is still watching her. Kate turns beet red as she feels him take in the tiny quiver of her lip, the way she knows her eyes are overbright and shiny.

Then he’s moving. “Stay here. I’m going out.”

“Where?” Kate demands.

Clint downs the rest of his coffee, then scoops up the entire pot for good measure. “Out.”

“You’re not going to the Bugle,” Kate protests. “You just said you don’t talk to reporters!”

“I’m going to talk to one today.”

“No, you’re not, don’t even worry about— Clint. Clint!”

But Clint and the coffee pot are already gone.

It’s hours before he comes back.

Kate’s curled up on the couch with Lucky, watching some rerun of a show she doesn’t particularly care about. She’d expected to finally cry the second Clint had left her apartment, but the tears hadn’t come. It’s as though they’re sitting in a block in her chest, weighing her down, refusing to shift.

The front door finally clicks open, Clint shucking off his rain-soaked jacket as he carefully places a now empty coffee pot by the shoe rack.

“So,” Kate calls from the couch. “How was your first time talking to the press?”

Clint’s answer is to lob a sheaf of paper across the room, where it lands perfectly on the coffee table next to her. “A copy of the article they’re running tomorrow. Page seven.”

Kate picks up the newspaper, scanning the first few opening lines before she tosses it away. “So you went down to the Bugle, pulled out your I used to be a very scary assassin act, and forced Jameson to write something nice about me.”

“I thought about it,” Clint admits. He makes his way over to the armchair opposite her, sinking into it with a relieved sigh. “But as tempting as it was, no.”

Kate frowns over the new article. “Then how—”

“Well, I started by pulling up the footage of you rescuing that cat from the burning building last week. And then I gave him the number of that couple whose bakery you stopped from being robbed on Tuesday. And then I called in a favour with a certain superhero in Hell’s Kitchen to remind Jameson just what a big deal it is that you took on Kingpin, alone, and won. Among other things. Why do you think I was gone all day?”

That block in Kate’s chest finally feels like it’s thawing. “So much for the press not mattering.”

Clint shrugs. “It doesn’t. And I can’t promise that you won’t have to get used to the constant jabs about why a non-powered human with a paleolithic weapon is running around with Avengers. And maybe those quips about being superfluous or whatever were true for me, but they are never going to be true for you.”

Kate’s lips twitch. “Well, you’re biased.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

Kate fiddles with one of Lucky’s ears. “You’re not superfluous, Clint. If you hadn’t been at the Battle of New York, my mom and I would have died. A lot more people would have died.”

He offers her a smile “Well, lucky I was there then. No one else could possibly annoy me into wearing a costume.”

“If your branding was on point, maybe they wouldn’t be throwing around words like superfluous in the first place.”

“No, they still would.” Clint seems entirely unbothered by the idea. “That’s not what I care about. What I do care about is when they make my partner cry.”

Kate ducks her head. “I didn’t cry.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

“It wasn’t just…” Kate pauses, clearing her throat. “All that stuff they said about me, that wasn’t fun. But I was actually more upset about what they said about my mom. Because maybe what they said about me is just opinion, or whatever, but what they said about her. It’s real.”

“I know,” Clint says softly. “But it’s not the whole truth. Like how she did it all to protect you.”

“Doesn’t make it right.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Clint clasps his hands together. “I know I’m meant to be flying back to the farm tonight, but I can stay.”

“I’m fine,” Kate says quickly. “Go back to your family. I pull you away from them enough.”

Clint considers her for a few more moments. “Or,” he offers. “You could come with me. The kids would love to see you.”

Kate pictures a weekend at the Barton farm, cooking with Laura, shooting a bow with Lila and Cooper, reading books to Nate. A little break to be around family for a while. “Do you get the Bugle delivered out there?”

“I can promise that we absolutely don’t.”

Kate sits up straight, making Lucky wag his tail at the potential for a walk or a snack. “Then a weekend at the farm sounds perfect.”

[gealach-in-a-misty-world]

Penny Paxton is the daughter of an icon. Her supermodel mother has legions of adoring fans around the world, and Penny is ready to begin her journey to international adoration, starting with joining the elite Dorian Drama School. When Penny’s new mentor offers her an opportunity she cannot refuse, to have a portrait painted by a mysterious artist who can grant immortal beauty to all his subjects, Penny happily follows in the footsteps of Dorian’s most glittering alumni, knowing that stardom is sure to soon be hers. But when her trusted mentor is found murdered, Penny realises she’s made a terrible mistake – a sinister someone is using the uncanny portraits to kill off the subjects one by one. As more perfectly beautiful students start to fall, Penny knows her time is running out . . . A seductive and searing exploration of beauty, identity, and what the pursuit of perfection can truly cost.

"Girls don't want beauty. Girls want power. And sometimes beauty is the closest substitute".

Laura Steven's Every Exquisite Thing is a YA feminist and sapphic retelling of The Portrait of Dorian Gray, with elements from the classic being woven in an interesting way. Without getting too much into spoiler territory, the link isn't as tenuous as one may think at first. The book comes with a much appreciated note at the beginning, detailing the book's trigger warnings.

The narration in first person serves the novel well, highlighting the main character's growing unease with the very real threat to her life and with the supernatural happenings around her. We get to feel her helplessness and see her struggle with anorexia in a way that is disconcerting and unnerving.

The book delves deep into the themes of beauty, control, and identity, aided by a prose that is stunning in its simplicity. The execution is lacking in some parts, especially in the second half, but the book makes up for it with its heart; perhaps the revelations towards the end might have been foreshadowed better.

Queer longing permeates the pages, with the tension between the two leads coming to an end in a frenzied scene that works all the better because the ending softens the edges and makes this novel a very real journey of self-discovery that can only end with healing. But while the main trio, and the relationship they shared, is well-developed, the other two recurring characters in Penny's set of friends end up being criminally underdeveloped. The adults, on the other hand, are written better, especially the tragic figure of Penny's mother.

Every Exquisite Thing is a book that helps young women.

✨ 4 stars

.

📚📚📚 IF YOU LOVE THIS, YOU MIGHT LIKE:

* I Feed Her to the Beast and the Beast Is Me, by Jamison Shea

for: deals, sacrifice

[You can find more of my reviews about queer speculative fiction on my blog MISTY WORLD]

[viktoriakomova]

Judges hate jamison sears bc they’re jealous of her whimsy and joie de vivre

[yurchenko-full]

sorry actually jamison sears' is more odd, she does a bhs to standing front tuck??

amari celestine has the weirdest beam series lol

[mo-salto]

Jamison Sears | 2022 Nastia Cup Sr. Champ

[aerialgymnastics]

Jamison Sears (World Class)

2022 Nastia Liukin Cup (Senior)

[dyingroses]

More 2019 GK Classic floor highlights

[gymfanconfessions]

“Jamison Sears has so much power, she makes tumbling on floor look so easy”

[twoflipstwotwists]

I thought designs like this were against the new rules?

[marz-fraziers]

US JR Championships Rotation 1 Starts

Vault: Kayla DiCello (Hill’s), Bars: Sydney Morris (First State), Beam: Levi Jung-Ruivivar (Paramount Elite), Floor: Jamison Sears (World Class)

[viktoriakomova]

@lobaznyuk idc if u gif anything else from the michigan regional I NEEEEEED gifs of jamison sears dancing during her 5,000 year wait before floor omg

[pouncequick]

Looking forward to seeing a lot more from both Mya Witte and Jamison Sears

[littlebirdygirly]

Day 8: “Do You Remember?”

Original Fiction

Summary: A horrific accident sends Nancy to the hospital, but she’ll always have Jamison by her side.

Comments: I apologize in advance. I swear, these writings are getting worse and worse, but as Jodi Picoult says, “You can always edit a bad page. You can’t edit a blank page.” So, on that note, here is my crappy take on Fictober Day 8. Enjoy!

Warnings: Injury, hospitalization. I think that’s it?

Story:

“Jamison!”

“Nancy!”

My ribs crunched chalkley under the weight of a thousand pound pillar. My heart beat erratically, but the weight pressed down on my lungs until I couldn’t breathe a breath. Until I couldn’t breathe at all. Black circles spun in my vision, and for a second, I could taste copper, warm and tangy and welcoming to the senses. Anything other than the burden setting my nerves on fire. Voices rang in my ear, and a sharp pain coursed through my chest, causing me to cry out. The massive hulk of a pillar was moved, shoved to the side harshly, before a pair of rough, callused hands cradled my face soothingly.

“Nancy? Nancy, look at me. Look at me!”

I couldn’t breathe. My lungs were deflated, empty. The black circles danced frenziedly in my vision, and, before I knew it, the taste, the sound, everything faded into a warm, welcome peace of darkness.

Light. That was the first thing I noticed waking up. Sharp and heightened and so overwhelmingly blinding. Then, it was the pain. Searing and aching in every muscle, every bone. I wanted to cry, scream the pain away until all that was left was a hollow void, but instead, the best I could manage was a weary groan.

“Hey.”

I forced my eyes to open, blinking past the glue trying to close them together. Bright pink orchids and a rainbow of Get-Well cards lined a small shelf at the foot of my bed. A series of mechanical beeps sounded from all around. And there, standing at the side of your bed, was the tall, handsome stranger I loved so much. Tears burned in my eyes, and I croaked out a, “Hey.”

He cleared his throat, blue eyes darting from the bed to my face to the godforsaken pump beeping every half a second. A weak smile curved my lips, and I reached out with searing pain to grasp his hand in my own. A flood of emotion broke out on his face, and he choked.

“I thought- I thought I lost you, Nan. I thought-” Sobs overwhelmed his solid frame, and soft hushes formed on my lips as he buried his face in my side. I held back a wince as he did so.

“‘M okay.”

He sniffed and pulled his head back, tear streaks carving salty paths down his cheeks. I tasted that salt as he pressed his lips desperately to mine, hopelessly trying to regain the contact he thought he’d lost forever. He pulled back again and looked at me, rough hands smoothing the hair at the sides of my face.

“Do you… do you remember? What happened.”

My eyes flicked away, staring out the wide bay window at the drab grey of buildings and the hustle and bustle of people below. Jamison must have paid a fortune for me to get a room this nice.

“Nan?”

His voice forced my gaze back to the man before me.

“Do you remember? Do you know how you got here?”

Tears formed again, and I felt my throat closing with the moisture.

“I wish I didn’t.”

My voice was quiet, nothing but a watery whisper. But he heard it.

“Oh, hun.”

His strong arms wrapped warmly, gently around me. I forced down the sobs, lest they spiral into a wave of agony, but the tears fell freely.

“Nan? Nan, look at me.”

His watery image blurred in front of me, but I obeyed, gazing into the blue waters of his eyes.

“I promise, I will never, ever, let anything like this happen to you again.”

A shuddery breath shook my frame, sending my nerves on fire and my ribs aching.

“Promise?”

His face fell, and he hugged me again, upper body resting against the thin mattress supporting my weight. For what felt like hours, but was perhaps only minutes, we stayed in that position, until we both eventually drifted off to sleep.

[aerocorvidae]

Thank you @something-i-dunno for the commission for their fic titled It Could Be Worse.

"Junkrat's mind raced as he ran.

Everywhere he looked, fire engulfed his vision. Blinding him in an orange light. His legs burned as he ran as hard as he could. Yet some invisible force was slowing him down.

Why was he running? He couldn’t remember.

He felt smaller, closer to the ground, and he could feel his right arm and leg. His prosthetics replaced by actual limbs.

"Jamison!" came a voice, a woman's.

Junkrat's eyes darted as he ran, trying to find the source of the voice. But he couldn't find it.

"Jamison!" came another voice, a man's this time. "Jamison, run!"

"Don't let them catch you, Jamison!" the woman warned.

What did they mean? Was someone chasing him? He couldn't see through all the fire.

Those voices.

They sounded familiar.

Where has he heard them before?

Suddenly, Junkrat felt a presence behind him.

"RUN JAMIE, RUN!" both the voices yelled in unison.

Junkrat ran faster, sure this time that something was chasing him. Blind panic set in as he ran through the ever enclosing flames.

But as Junkrat tried to flee, hands erupted from the flames.

Long limbs of fire.

They took hold of Junkrat, searing his flesh.

Junkrat screamed as he was pulled into the now roaring fire. Tears evaporated and his throat dryed up as his flesh ignited.

Junkrat sat bolt upright in bed, breathing heavily and sweating profusely."

[featherfloof]

-Combustible-

Jamison’s thumb rubbed idly across the soft material of the bandage that Angela had hastily wrapped around his bicep before being directed to sit within a far, darkened corner of the medical ward.  The battle medic had worked fast to triage the whole crew once they had been safely whisked away in the back of the Orca with the completion of another successful mission.

His amber hues watched Angela from across the med-bay in silent admiration, wondering how the woman could remain so placid and warm after all of the horror and devastation she must have seen throughout her life; how she had enough room in her heart to welcome everyone she came in contact with—even a filthy larrikin like him.

She smiled easily as she conversed with the other members of the team, one-by-one, patching up their wounds with the use of her clever nanobiotic tech. Jamison himself had suffered a laceration across his arm, but it was mild compared to what a few of the others had sustained, so he had been bumped to the back of the treatment line.

Not that he minded, as it gave him time, and an excuse, to watch Angela.

Jamison waited patiently, which was no easy feat for the ex-Junker.  But there was something about watching Angela work that calmed the boundless excitable energy that vibrated throughout his form. That, and he couldn’t help but notice that Angela hadn’t escaped the mission unscathed herself.  Jamison’s gaze kept flicking to the abrasion across her temple and the blood that had smeared up into the wispy tendrils of her hairline as she absently wiped the back of her hand against her brow.  He noticed then how she winced as no doubt the sweat that beaded on her skin burned into the wound.

A frown tugged at Jamison’s lips.

Finally, Jamison watched as the last patient sauntered from the clinic, leaving just him and Angela within the treatment area.  He slowly rose with a grunt from where he’d been sitting across the room and moved over to the exam table where Angela continued working diligently.

“Alright, Jamison, let’s take a look at that cut.” Angela said with a tired sigh as she sifted through the supplies laid about before her.  Jamison then heard her puff out a short breath of relief.

“Looks like I have just enough left to patch you up.” She murmured as she turned towards him with a vial of what remained of the nanobiotic salve.  Jamison stood before her silently, his eyes watching her as she moved to reach towards the wrap on his bicep only to gently catch her wrist within his grasp, stopping her.

The contact caused Angela to look up into his eyes questioningly.

“What’s another scar for a fella like me?” Jamison murmured as he rose his other hand to take the last of the healing salve from her fingers.  Carefully, he tugged her to the side and gestured for her to lean against the exam table, which she did hesitantly as those sapphire hues continued to eye Jamison closely with a hint of curiosity.

Jamison reached for a few pieces of gauze that Angela had left to soaking in antibacterial solution then moved to stand before her, caging her in with his body as he leaned in over her.

“You, on the other hand, are too beautiful for scars.” Jamison continued as his eyes flicked up to the scrape on her head.  “Now, be still for me, doc.”  He demanded in a tone that dared Angela to do otherwise as he gently began to wipe away the blood that had caked against her skin and in her hair.

 Angela couldn’t deny that she was in a bit shock; feeling almost detached from her body as she stared up into Jamison’s face while he worked to clean her wound.  He was standing so close she could feel the heat of his body against her front; could easily breathe in the unique scent of him as her nose nearly pressed against his collarbone.  Smoke, earth with a hint of spice and musk.  The headiness of realizing that they were just a breadth away from one another caused a rush of dizziness to crash over her and Angela could no longer deny the attraction that she felt towards the Australian demolitionist.

He was loud, obnoxious, and goofy most times, which seemed to get beneath the skin of just about everyone within Overwatch with which he had a close working relationship.  Angela noticed and disliked how everyone treated Jamison with a sort of benign neglect, easily dismissing him as ‘that weird, crazy guy’ and openly shunned him when he attempted to get close to people in his own uniquely silly way.  He certainly didn’t have friends from a lack of trying, it just seemed like no one entirely trusted the ex-criminal outside of the obligatory cooperation while on Overwatch assignments.

Angela realized that she was the odd one out in finding his mannerisms and charismatic tendencies incredibly endearing and she wasn’t sure how no one else besides her could see the man that he was beneath the manic exterior.  

The man that chose to put her needs before his own.

She was able to see the good in just about anyone, and in Jamison’s case, he seemed to appreciate her acceptance of him, both in his decision to take care of her now, and also how he took it upon himself to remain close by her side during missions, as if protecting her.

Angela continued to study his face.

There weren’t many other times that she could remember when Jamison had looked so intense, not even with explosives strapped haphazardly to his body.  His bright amber eyes were focused on his task; brows knitted in concentration as his hands worked tenderly against her. Hard, strong hands that Angela saw wreak such utter havoc and destruction were now soft as satin, as if he were afraid that if he pressed with too much pressure, she may break beneath him.

In an effort to give himself some leverage and to steady his touch against her brow, Jamison rose his free hand to cup Angela’s face against his flesh palm; the heat of his skin searing into her own as he held her, seemingly unaware that the woman was practically melting beneath his touch.

Angela felt her face heat with a blush.

“You don’t have to do this, Jamison.” She offered as a weak protest, her voice sounding breathless even to her own ears.

He hummed above her.  “I know I don’t have to, doc.  But I didn’t see anyone else botherin’ to make sure ya took care of y’self.”

Angela hissed reflexively as the antiseptic solution burned against her skin while Jamison padded the gauze over the abrasion.

“Sorry,” He muttered, but continued to dab against her wound, steadfast in his dedication.  The stinging subsided as Angela felt him brush the thick nanobiotic salve against the raw area of the abrasion with the pad of his finger.

“It’s alright,” Angela whispered, her gaze transfixed upon him again, taking in his handsome features at such close proximity.  A few freckles dotted his face beneath the layer of soot and dirt that had accumulated on his skin from the use of his explosives.  The sight of them caused Angela to grin faintly, as they gave him an almost innocent, boyish charm.  But aside from that, there was nothing boyish, or innocent, about Jamison “Junkrat” Fawkes.  

The strong cut of his jaw was covered in stubble, as if he hadn’t shaved since they had left the main compound a few days ago.  It did nothing but enhance his rugged appeal and Angela felt her pulse quicken as she fought the urge to raise her hand and run her palm along his cheek; to feel the sensual scrape of it against her skin.  

Nor was there anything boyish and innocent about the lean, muscular physique that was nearly leaning into her body.  He’d shed his bandolier upon boarding the Orca, but had remained shirtless, and Angela brazenly allowed her eyes to explore every inch of his bare torso in open admiration, even down to the scandalously low cut of his belly where his shorts just barely clung to the narrow taper of his hips.  The corded muscle there cut a tantalizing vee that pointed down below the top of his shorts, leaving little to the imagination of what lay beneath.

Overall, the man was impressive.  While he wasn’t as filled out as Jack, or Gabriel had been, Jamison still possessed not only a strong sex appeal based on his physique alone, but there was something about that dark and dangerous side to him that Angela saw slip out in the heat of a battle that made her insides quiver; made Angela wonder how the man behaved in bed.

Angela swallowed thickly as her gaze then rose to Jamison’s lips, and how he’d taken the lower appendage between his teeth while he focused on his task. She found herself wondering how it would feel to have her own lip seized between his teeth in such a fashion.  The mental image of the act caused her to puff out a reflexive breath as heat bloomed in her belly.

Jamison froze above her.

Good lord.  Angela needed some air, feeling breathless as if she were slipping beneath the surface of the dark mire of her thoughts.  And desperately needed to put some space between them, but found herself anchored in place, unable to move.

 Jamison was certain he hadn’t been imagining it, although the rational part of his brain kept making up reasons why the good doctor couldn’t possibly be giving him bedroom eyes, even as he physically felt the hungering heat of her gaze raking over his body.

Wishful thinking, encouraged by his own attraction to the woman.  That is what he dismissed it as and did his best to put forth all of his focus towards his ministrations.  He had decided to help her with nothing but noble intentions, if not out of a desire to show her that he cared about her; a realization he’d made early during his tenure as she was the first person he could remember that seemed to genuinely care about him and his wellbeing, aside from Roadie. Initially, that had been a prospect that scared the shit out of him, as he’d never allowed himself to care for anyone but himself.  Caring was a weakness that was ingrained in him to avoid in order to survive in a kill-or-be-killed society, a vestigial emotion that he had no use for.  But under Angela’s tender mercies, Jamison had felt himself slowly opening up towards her over time.  

Regardless of his staunch denial of what the intensity reflected in her gaze might mean, the primal part of him responded at the thought that Angela would want any sort of intimacy with him.  The prospect caused an inferno to blast to life within his belly, rapidly spreading through every fiber of his being.  His whole body seemed to vibrate with sexual tension and he took a long, steady breath in an attempt to calm himself, breathing in her sweet scent as he did so, which only served to heighten his longing for her.

Jamison remained still and quiet above Angela and the silence stretched on between them.  

Mortified that Jamison had somehow picked up on her thoughts, Angela reluctantly dragged her eyes up to see him staring intensely down at her.  His pupils dilated as their gazes met, giving his eyes a warm, honeyed color as he held her gaze before his own flicked down towards Angela’s mouth.

Oh God, Angela squealed internally and reflectively drew in a light gasp as if his gaze physically burned against her flesh.  At the sound, his eyes further darkened with what Angela could only explain as an intense desire of his own.

He had sensed her inner turmoil and Angela wasn’t certain whether to be encouraged or afraid that he wasn’t backing down.  She watched as his body grew tense before her and his thumb moved to reflexively caress her cheek where his hand remained cupped against her jaw.

Suddenly emboldened, Angela moved her hands to press against Jamison’s chest, feeling the unmistakable gallop of his heart against her palms as her face inched closer to his own, drawn by a heavy and very tangible force that sizzled between them, pulling her in.

The lust that seized hold of his senses was intoxicating and Jamison felt himself shudder as Angela’s soft touch pressed against his fevered skin, causing his lips to part with a pant of raw need.

“You’re playin’ with fire, Angela.” Jamison growled low; the threat is his tone causing Angela to reflexively shiver as a heady spike of desire flooded her veins.

“Maybe I want to get burned,” Angela retorted on a whisper.  Her lips brushed teasingly against the corner of Jamison’s mouth as she spoke.

A low groan rumbled up his throat and Angela watched as Jamison’s eyes rolled back almost blissfully before closing.

Tossing the gauze within his fingers aside, Jamison lowered both hands to firmly trap her hips within his hold, fingers digging slightly into Angela’s skin beneath her clothing as he gently pulled her forward against the solid length of his body.

“It wouldn’t be some small burn with me, love.” Jamison murmured, his mouth trailing the contour of Angela’s jaw to pause over the side of her neck as he brushed his lips against her pulse point, holding her captive within his arms.  “More like an explosion.”

Angela trembled within his arms as her hands trailed up the length of his chest to drift over his shoulders, burying her fingers within the dirty, patchy hair at the base of his skull, which was softer to the touch than she had imagined it would be.  Her nails raked gently against his scalp as she felt his lips press against her neck, kissing her there with a tender reverence that crushed her soul.

“Promises,” Angela sighed against the shell of his ear and his grip tightened against her hips.

A delicious chill prickled over Angela’s body as Jamison dragged his hot, wet tongue against the sensitive flesh of her neck, causing her to arch into him with a sharp gasp that ended on a whimper as his teeth closed over her skin, biting with enough sensual pressure to cause her knees to buckle beneath her.

He held her steady against his body as he sucked and laved her neck, laughing low beneath his breath at her reaction and how she writhed helplessly against him.

“I don’t think you can handle me, Ange.” His voice rumbled low, husky with his arousal, as his hands brazenly dipped along her backside, grabbing her ass possessively as he ground his pelvis against hers, tearing another whimper from Angela’s lips as she pressed her forehead against the curve of his neck, holding on for dear life as her body nearly combusted into molten fire.

“Oh God,” Angela swore breathlessly.