“Don’t even think about it,”

he mutters, dragging the back of his hand across his nose. The little silver case is still open on the coffee table. His blunt’s burning low in the tray. His tongue’s gone a little numb.

“This ain’t for good girls like you.”

You’re perched on the arm of the couch like you’re posing for a pin-up, legs swinging, glossed lips parted just slightly—watching. Big, blinking lashes. Pretty, French tipped nails. That little pout you get when you’re curious but trying to look like you’re not.

He sees it.

Of course he sees it.

Your gaze darts from the tray to his nose to the way he draws in from the blunt, jaw flexing, eyes half-lidded and mean. And you say it—soft, almost innocent, like it’s not gonna split something inside him right down the middle.

“Not happenin’. I ain’t lettin’ you fry that pretty little Barbie brain just ‘cause you wanna impress daddy.”

But he’s already picturing it.

You, all giggly and high, tucked into his lap with blown-out pupils and jelly limbs. Your voice syrup-slow, your grip on his dog tags a little clumsy, tugging just because. You all pliant and sweet and messy, lookin’ up at him like he hung the damn moon. Needing him.

He swallows. Sighs, spreads his legs and pats his jeans once. Let’s to settle and wiggle around on his lap before his face gets serious, green eyes meeting yours, despite his high he still managed to look so damn stern.

he hums, dusting a little trail on the pad of his thumb straightening the line with his dog tag—just a taste.

You lean in automatically, but he shifts, catching your chin between rough fingers and tutting, calloused hands digging into the skin of your hip and Squeezing, tugging on your bottom lip when it opens on a gasp.

“Not like that. You wanna try it, you take it my way.”

He taps a finger against the seam of your lips, flashing you that cocky, all-American smirk, like it was painted on permanently.

“Open up, baby.”