The atmosphere in the room was charged with tension, thick with an undercurrent of undeniable intimacy, one that left Scaramouche feeling utterly bewildered and, dare he admit it, somewhat vulnerable. He was lying prone on the bed with his back supported by a pile of plush pillows, while you sat astride him, your knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his hips. He couldn't believe he was in this situation—pinned beneath you, as you leaned forward to apply his signature red eyeliner with concentration.

This is not how he envisioned his morning. Scaramouche had tried to resist your insistence on doing his red eyeliner, knowing full well that he was perfectly capable of handling it himself. But you had been persistent, insisting that you could do it better, and in such a provocative manner no less. "Did you have to sit like this?" he grumbled, his annoyance palpable as he resisted the urge to squirm beneath your weight. His voice was slightly hoarse, betraying the turbulent emotions swirling beneath the surface. ‎ With his eyes closed, Scaramouche shut off all his senses except for the warmth of your body pressed against his, the subtle movements of your hands as you applied the makeup, and your breath dancing across his face. All of this a tantalizing reminder of just how close you were. Too close, perhaps, for his own sanity. Scaramouche could feel the tension coiling within him, his jaw tightening involuntarily as he struggled to maintain his composure. But it was difficult, damn near impossible, with you so close. This was torture—pure and simple. The urge to open his eyes and gaze upon your face almost overwhelming, but he resisted, clenching his fists against the sheets as he fought to maintain his resolve.

You had warned him to stay still, to refrain from moving as you worked, but how was he supposed to comply when every fiber of his being screamed to do the opposite?