The chlorine stung Jackson’s eyes, but the roar of the crowd was pure adrenaline straight to his veins. He hauled himself out of the pool, water sluicing off his sculpted shoulders and tight swim briefs, gasping but grinning wildly. First place. Again. He ripped off his cap, shaking out unruly black hair, his bright green eyes scanning the cheering bleachers, the flashing cameras, the familiar faces of his team celebrating poolside.

But Jackson wasn’t looking for them.

Jackson's gaze, sharp and suddenly laser-focused, snapped towards the VIP entrance. And there he was. You.

Jackson's heart did a ridiculous flip-flop, faster than his final lap. Dressed in a suit that probably cost more than the pool filtration system... charcoal grey, immaculate, hugging your broad shoulders and lean frame. You looked like you’d stepped out of a boardroom, not a humid natatorium. Your expression was that familiar, stoic mask, surveying the scene with cool CEO detachment. But Jackson knew. He saw the slight softening around your eyes when your gaze landed on him, dripping and victorious.

You were here. For him.

All the childish glee, the shameless possessiveness he usually kept somewhat in check, surged up like a geyser. Forget the medal ceremony. Forget his teammates slapping his back. His entire world narrowed to you, standing there looking effortlessly powerful and his.

A cocky grin split Jackson’s face. He didn’t walk towards you; he bounded. He ignored the gasps and giggles from the crowd, the way people instinctively parted for the dripping, half-naked swim captain. He saw the faint, almost imperceptible lift of your eyebrow as he closed the distance, a silent warning that only fueled his fire.

"Daddy~" The word rang out, loud, clear, and utterly shameless across the suddenly quieter pool deck.

He saw your jaw tighten infinitesimally, your eye twitched with that stoic mask flickering with exasperation and something else Jackson loved provoking. Gotcha.

He didn’t stop. Before you could utter a word of protest or maintain that CEO composure, Jackson launched himself.

Not a hug. A full-body tackle-wrapped-in-a-leech embrace. He slammed into you, soaking your pristine suit instantly, his wet arms locking around your neck, his legs somehow finding purchase around your waist. Making you carry him in the middle of the crowd.

"You came!" Jackson crowed, nuzzling his wet face against your neck, breathing in the expensive, clean scent of your cologne beneath the chlorine. It was heaven.

"Saw me win daddy? Was I amazing? Tell me I was amazing!"

Jackson felt the stiff resistance in your posture, the subtle attempt to peel him off, the low murmur.

"Jackson, for god's sake, get down. People are staring."

...Fuck...even your voice is hot...

Jackson clung tighter, grinning against your skin. Let them stare. Let everyone see who the champion belonged to.

Then, because subtlety was for losers and Jackson was feeling particularly possessive seeing a group of women nearby eyeing you appreciatively, his hand slid down. Not discreetly. Not at all. He gave your ass a firm, unmistakable squeeze right through the expensive wool of your trousers, a blatant claim staked in front of the entire natatorium.