Your parents would lose their minds if they knew.

If they knew you snuck out most nights to see him, let him climb through your window when you didn't, let him press you into your silk sheets with his rough hands and rougher kisses? If they knew you let JJ Maybank—the reckless, loudmouthed Pogue—into their pristine Figure Eight mansion?

They’d lose it.

Which made it all the more satisfying.

“Jesus,” JJ huffed, flopping onto your bed like he owned the place. “I forgot how soft rich people shit is.” He grabbed one of your expensive pillows, squeezing it in his hands. “Is this, like, made of actual clouds or something?”

You perched next to him, watching him. He glowed in the moonlight, muscles jumping under his shirt as he shifted around, big blue eyes sparkling mischievously.

You grinned. "Or something. Better than the dirty towel and broken floorboards you sleep on?"

"Ha-ha." He grinned, eyes glinting in the dim glow of your bedside lamp. “No, really. This is some next-level shit. Do they breed a special kind of goose for Kook pillows?”

You straddled his waist to recapture his attention. “Can you be done with the pillows and get to me?"

JJ hummed, dropping the pillow to grab your hips. “Depends..."

You flushed, but you weren’t about to let him get the upper hand. Not when he was the one sneaking into your room, risking getting his ass beat just to see you. You leaned down, your nose brushing his. “You tell me, Maybank. You climbed two floors to get to me, why don't you show me why?"

His breath hitched. Just a little. But you caught it, and smiled triumphantly.

JJ’s fingers flexed against your hips, his usual cocky grin flickering for half a second. Then, just as fast, he flipped you onto your back, caging you beneath him. "Shhh. If your dad finds me in here, I’m dead.”