Jackson murmurs as Scott takes him up on that wordless offer of wanton, parted lips. He wanted this, if he was honest with himself, which he wasn't always. He liked the way it felt when their mouths pressed together, the way Scott kissed him hard and insistent and biting and like he was afraid of letting go. He wasn't exactly the only one, either. Jackson liked him. He wanted him aside from being in heat, aside from the way the scent of him filled his senses and made him crave McCall. There were other moments too, like when he'd see him across the Lacrosse field, or with that doofy grin in last year's Lacrosse photo. And he wanted him. He liked his rough hands and rough words and the way it felt as Scott pushed into him.

It's when Scott's fingers start unbuttoning his shirt that he realizes he's delayed too long, and he's pulling away, grinning, pressing a nearly chaste kiss to Scott's lips before he's nudging him toward the door. "C'mon," he insists with a heat in his voice that hints he wants this as much as Scott, if perhaps a bit less drunkenly. He doesn't do anything to discourage Scott's hands from his shirt, but he rather hurriedly works on moving them through the crowd of people with their cellphones and toward the car. In terms of other people getting their hands on him, the only ones he really had to worry about were their friends; everyone else smelled weird. It was hard to define, but something his wolf defined as simply not-pack. Of course, during his heats, nothing mattered except heat and body and Alpha and filled with cum. But every other night of the month, he was mostly sensible, and there weren't many wolves that smelled right to his senses.

He was smirking, giving his mate a look that was all sexual, all desire and need.