It was subtle at first—the way Wriothesley’s posture stiffened, how his grip on your waist tightened ever so slightly. You hadn’t thought much of it, too caught up in your usual antics, straddling his lap as you mindlessly played with the collar of his coat.

You had done this before, teasing him with lazy touches, fingers tracing along the fabric of his shirt as you spoke, completely oblivious to the effect you were having on him. But tonight? Tonight was different.

Wriothesley cleared his throat, his jaw clenched as he tried—desperately—to keep his composure. “You really don’t think, do you?” His voice was strained, deeper than usual, his usual smoothness edged with something rougher, more primal.

You blinked, confused. “Huh?”

His hands flexed on your hips, as if debating whether to move you or keep you right where you were. The latter won. He exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes dark with something unreadable.

“You,” he said, voice dangerously low, “are playing a very dangerous game.”

It wasn’t until you shifted slightly—completely unintentional—that you felt it. Oh.

Heat rushed to your face. “Oh.”

Wriothesley groaned, head falling back against the chair, fingers tightening against your sides. He was trying so hard to be patient, to keep himself in check, but you weren’t making it easy.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice strained. “Now you get it.”