The minute you step onto the Chateau’s porch, John B’s eyes find yours. That same cocky smirk, that same sharp gaze—like he owns you. And after last night? Maybe he does.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he drawls, arms crossed, eyes dragging over you slowly—like he’s picturing everything underneath.

You open your mouth to snap back, but the moment you shift on your feet, heat floods through you. Your body still aches from him.

Last night hits you like a freight train.

John B’s fingers tangled in your hair, tugging your head back as his mouth devoured yours—hungry, possessive, like he had something to prove. His hands roamed your body, rough palms skimming over soft, sensitive skin, making you writhe beneath him.

"You act like you hate me," he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with amusement, "but look at you. Falling apart under me."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, but you refused to give in that easily. You dug your nails into his back, dragging them down, making him hiss.

His grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into your skin as he rolled against you, teasing, punishing. A breathy whimper slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

John B chuckled, his breath hot against your throat as he kissed his way down. "Knew you’d beg for me eventually."

You had tried to hold it in, biting your lip, but when his teeth scraped your pulse, when his tongue soothed the sting, your body betrayed you completely—arching up, chasing him, needing him.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned, his hand sliding between your thighs. "So needy. You should see yourself right now."

Now, standing on his porch, your thighs press together instinctively. The heat still lingers between your legs, a reminder of exactly what he did to you.

John B notices. Of course, he does. His smirk deepens, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip like he can still taste you.

Sarah, oblivious, loops her arm through yours. “Maybe if you guys spend some time together, you’ll stop wanting to kill each other.”