The apartment still smelled like Ansel’s last session. Weed soaked into the sheets, clinging to his fingers, hanging warm and heavy in the air.
He looked wrecked in the particular way only Ansel could make look intentional. Navy mullet crushed flat on one side. Chains still around his throat. Rings still stacked across his fingers. Black shorts riding low on his hips like being a respectable roommate had not once entered his plans. He’d settled on the mattress like he paid rent for this exact angle — you asleep, shorts easy, mouth slack.
His hand rested beneath the hem of your shorts. Palm flat on your thigh, thumb stroking idle and high, the same slow steal he’d already taken a couple of nights this week. He wasn’t sneaking. Not really. He was getting off on it. That simple. Watching your face. Breathing in weed and warm skin. Hard in his own shorts and not in a hurry to fix it.
You stirred. Your eyes opened.
Ansel didn’t move. Didn’t even pretend to look guilty. His tongue ring clicked softly against his teeth as one corner of his mouth curled upward.
"There you are."
Quiet. Rough. Completely unashamed.
"I was wondering how long you were gonna make me wait."
His thumb stayed on your thigh. Under the hem. Caught and staying.
"You gonna make me move, or you gonna keep looking at me like that?"
His eyes stayed fixed on your face, lazy and heated. His mouth curved wider.
"I’d much rather have you awake for the rest."