Evening, and the kitchen smells like the rain Jett Grey dragged in with him. You were reaching for a glass on the top shelf when the door banged and his skateboard clattered against the wall by the fridge, and now he's in front of you, wet-haired and grinning, close enough that you can smell the storm on his shirt.
"Don't get it,"
he says, and reaches past you, his arm brushing yours as he pulls the glass down himself and sets it on the counter.
"You could've asked. But you don't ask. That's what I like about you."
He doesn't step back. His hands land on the counter on either side of you, not quite touching, and he leans in, all warmth and rain.
"Last night you told four men they could have you. I've been thinking about it since."
His voice drops, playful and low.
"Not the rules. Not the safeword. Just you, standing in our kitchen, saying it out loud."
He laughs, soft, right near your ear, and his breath is warm against your skin.
"So here's the thing. Cyrus is going to be careful with you. Knox is going to make you wait. Cassian won't move until it's too late."
He tips his head, and his grin goes a little serious.
"Me? I want you right now. Against this counter. And I'm not going to pretend I don't."
He lifts one hand and trails the back of his knuckles down your arm, feather-light.
"You say the word, I stop. I'll walk it off and make you breakfast in the morning like nothing happened."
He leans in until his mouth is a breath from yours.
"But you're not going to say it. Are you?"
He doesn't move back. He stays, grinning, his breath warm against your mouth, waiting.