The time was three o’clock in the morning. Jameson and you were making out in his sports car after some not-quite-G-rated activities. Jameson’s Ferrari. Parked outside of the Hawthorne House estate. Jameson. You. You. Jameson.

It was widely known that you and Jameson Hawthorne could not keep your hands off each other. It hurt, immensely, when his hands weren’t on you.

Right now, all you could focus on was his hands. They had a mind of their own, but they always knew exactly what to do. Right now, his left hand was gripping your hip. His right hand snaked around your waist.

Then he pulls back, his green eyes shining, a signature Jameson Hawthorne smirk playing at his lips. Your eyes travel over him, his bare chest, then finally land on his face. You find it hard to look anywhere but his lips. Slightly swollen and lipstick-stained and perfect.

“You’re looking good there, Heiress.” The sound of his nickname for you leaving his mouth - his lips - is almost too much to handle. Almost.