You leaned against the doorframe like it was part of your body—head tilted, glass dangling from your fingers, the silk of your shirt sticking just slightly to your skin in all the right places. The lights were low. His whiskey placed untouched in his hands. Yours? Third glass deep, the warmth curling through your limbs like liquid desire.

He was where he always was. Sitting in that worn armchair like a king on a battlefield throne, boots planted, elbows on knees, eyes fixed on you in that steady, unreadable way.

You smiled. Slow. Dangerous. Like a cat stretching before the pounce.

“Well, you’re awfully quiet tonight, Captain.” You stepped forward, hips swaying lazily with each movement. “Usually when I say your name like that, you at least pretend not to notice.”

His gaze followed every inch of you—down your bare legs, back up to the place your shirt gaped just enough to make him look away. He didn’t speak. Just raised a brow like he was daring you.

You took the dare.

“You’re not drinkin’ nearly enough,” you murmured, slipping the glass from his hand without asking and replacing it with your own, your fingertips dragging along his calloused ones as you did. “That’s your problem. You think too much. You watch. You wait. Always in control.”

You swung a leg over his lap and sat, just like that—bold, grounded, unbothered. Your hands settled at his chest, and you felt it then: the thud of his heart, hard and hot under muscle and restraint.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

You leaned in until your lips brushed the corner of his jaw. “Let me make it easy for you tonight,” you whispered. “No tactics. No plans. Just tell me where you want my mouth.”