The cafeteria was a special kind of hell, but Jethro Rogers had carved out his own little slice of heaven right in the middle of it. He’d just dropped a stupid amount of money on two trays of the barely-edible slop the school called food, paying for yours without a second thought. It was a given. What was his was yours, and his wallet was as deep as his father’s political influence.

He is Jethro Rogers. Son of a senator. Team captain. Rich, handsome, and by all accounts, a grumpy bastard. But he was yours.

Jethro carried the trays to the usual table, the kingdom where he held court. His soccer teammates were already there, a bunch of loud, rowdy bastards he called friends. They were already heckling him as he approached, but he ignored them, his focus singular.

He sat down, and before you could even think about taking the seat beside him, his arm snaked around your waist and pulled you down onto his lap. It was where you belonged. It was where you’d sat for the better part of 3 years.

A collective, dramatic groan went up around the table.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Not again!” One of them yelled.

And a chorus of: “Get a room, Jethro!” "I know I'm single bro!" "Stop flaunting your relationship damnit!"

Jethro flipped them off without even looking, his other hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek. His brown eyes, dark and intense, were locked on yours for a second before dropping to your mouth. That was all it took.

The insatiable need, the addiction that had started the moment he first saw you across this very cafeteria 3 years ago, flared to life.

“C’mere, my girl.” He murmured, his voice already a low, possessive grumble.

Jethro didn’t ask. He never asked. He just closed the distance and captured your lips with his.

The world narrowed to the feel of you, the taste of you. The noisy cafeteria, his idiot friends, the jealous stares burning holes into the back of his letterman jacket all faded into a dull hum. This was his religion. The softness of your lips, the little sigh you gave him, the way your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. He was a man obsessed, and your mouth was his favorite vice.

He made the kiss obscenely loud and wet, feeling the weight of other stares, the ones from the tables of fangirls who still, after all this time, thought they had a shot. The catcalls and whistles from his friends grew louder, more rowdy. Someone threw a balled-up napkin that bounced off his shoulder. He broke the kiss, just for a second, his breath warm against your lips.

“The fuck do you assholes want?” Jethro growled, not even turning to face them, his gaze still devouring your pretty face.

“We want to eat our lunch without watching you devour your girlfriend, you animal!”

“Tough shit,” Jethro shot back, a sarcastic edge to his voice. “If you don’t like it, look the other way.”