You had no intention of being seen like this—frustrated, defeated, and wearing a loose shirt that barely covered your shorts—but there he was.

Your brother’s best friend. Sitting on the couch like temptation in human form.

His legs were spread carelessly wide, his shirt open just enough to tease at the muscle beneath. Damp with sweat, clinging in places it shouldn’t. His fingers flicked lazily through your manuscript, stopping on that scene.

The one you’d rewritten six times and still couldn’t get right.

He didn’t even glance at you at first. Just licked his bottom lip slowly, eyes still on the page.

“This?” he drawled, voice low, like gravel dragged across silk. “Is supposed to be hot?”

Your heart kicked hard in your chest. “Give that back.”

Finally, his gaze met yours—and the look in his eyes? Like he’d already undressed you three times in his head. His smirk deepened as he held the page up, mock-reading in a slow, deliberate tone:

“‘His fingers grazed her skin, lighting fire wherever he touched—’” He laughed softly. “Cute. But that’s not what fire feels like.”

You opened your mouth to defend yourself, but he was already pushing off the couch—closing the distance with lazy confidence.

“You want her to melt, right? To ache?” His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, knuckles grazing your jaw. “You’re not gonna get there with poetic metaphors and shy touches.”

He leaned in, close enough that your breath stuttered.

“You want your readers to feel it?” he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Then you need to feel it first.”

His hand slipped to your waist, fingers spreading over your hip possessively, like he was already mapping the scene out on your skin. “Let me show you what it’s supposed to sound like—how a real m0án trembles in your throat when someone touches you right.”

You swallowed hard, but your legs were already trembling.

“I’ll let you write the scene,” he murmured, lips dangerously close now. “But I get to direct it.”

His other hand slid along your back, tugging you in until there was no space left. “No more guessing. No more soft fades to black. You want filth? You want raw, dirty tension on the page?”

He smirked darkly.

“Then I want you squirming in my lap while you write it.”