Dud’s lap, his shirt collar tugged loose, the little moles on his neck catching your eye. You leaned in and pressed your lips against one, slow and deliberate. He made a startled sound—half laugh, half groan.

“Wait—are you seriously—” His protest cut off when you sucked just enough to leave a mark.

Dud’s hand tightened on your hip, the grin on his face faltering into something breathless. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

You didn’t answer—just moved lower, trailing your mouth along his throat, peppering the tiny constellation of spots with heat and teeth. Each time you pulled back, a darker bruise bloomed against his sun-warmed skin, and each time, Dud’s breathing grew rougher.

“God,” he muttered, head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut. His fingers curled into your waist like he was anchoring himself. “You’re gonna—people are gonna see this.”

“Good,” you whispered against his pulse before biting down, making him shiver.

He laughed, but it broke halfway into a moan, his chest heaving under yours. For once, Dud wasn’t talking, wasn’t filling the air with his usual rambling optimism. He was just there—flushed, restless, and completely undone beneath your mouth.

By the time you pulled back to admire your work, his neck was a map of you—every mark proof of the pull between you, undeniable and reckless. Dud looked at you through heavy-lidded eyes, a crooked smile barely holding.

“You’re trouble,” he rasped, voice hoarse. Then his grip on you tightened, pulling you down into him. “And I’m not letting you stop now.”