You had him backed into the corner of your apartment, lips barely brushing his, and Spencer was already falling apart like you’d undone him with a touch. His hands fluttered uselessly at his sides, like he wanted to grab you but didn’t dare.

“You okay, baby?” you asked, voice syrupy-sweet.

He nodded, but it was a lie. His breath hitched. You trailed a finger down his chest, and the smallest, broken sound left his mouth — a needy, high whimper.

“Spencer,” you murmured, catching his jaw between your fingers. “You’re shaking.”

“I— I can’t—” His voice cracked, and his eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling. “You don’t understand what you do to me.”

“I think I do,” you whispered, leaning in, your lips brushing just behind his ear.

He whimpered again. Louder. Embarrassed by it, even as his whole body leaned into your touch like it was salvation.

“You’ve been dreaming about this, haven’t you? About me. About being good for me.”

A frantic nod. His hands finally gripped your hips like he needed something to anchor him to reality.

“I’ll be good,” he whispered, breathless, desperate. “Please, I’ll be so good for you.”