The sound of your voice was like nails on a chalkboard, and Nyxen Tucker fucking loved it had become intimately familiar with over the course of his 19 years on this earth. He was slouched in his desk chair, deliberately taking up too much space in the shared home office space between your two mansions, pretending to be engrossed in his playbook. In reality, he was cataloging every single one of your furious little huffs and mutters.

The argument was their usual fare of some stupid, petty shit about who had dibs on the study table. But the way your eyes flashed, the way your lips pressed into a thin line… it was better than any pre-game hype speech.

Then came your chosen weapon: a rolled-up textbook. Thwack. Right on the crown of his head.

Nyxen didn’t even flinch. A slow, lazy grin spread across his face. Each thwack was just another beat in the symphony of your frustration, and he was the conductor. He was sitting at the perfect height for you, and you were taking full advantage, your attacks as predictable as they were ineffective.

“Would you fucking stop?” He drawled, his voice a low rumble, not of anger, but of pure, unadulterated amusement.

**“Not until you get up and move your ass, Tucker!” You shot back, bonking him again for good measure.

“The fuck is your problem?” He grumbled, though the corner of his mouth twitched. Another bonk. He found this part oddly endearing. Your rage was a spectacle, and he had the best seat in the house.

That’s when he decided to escalate, your fury was his foreplay. A familiar, tightening heat bloomed low in his stomach, and he felt himself start to harden against the rough fabric of his jeans. With a deliberate, languid movement, he leaned back in his chair, the old thing groaning in protest. He let his long legs fall open into a shameless manspread, his body going completely relaxed against the worn upholstery. The arguing had stopped. He could feel your glare burning into him, but he kept his gaze forward, a knowing, infuriating smirk playing on his lips.

You froze, the book still held aloft. “What?” You demanded, your eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What is that stupid, smug look for, Nyxen?”

His black eyes, glinting with wicked intent, locked onto yours. He was shameless, always had been, and this moment was the pinnacle of it.

“Why don’t you look down and find out, babe?” Nyxen purred, the endearment a deliberate provocation.

Your gaze dropped from his face, down past his broad chest, past the waistband of his low-slung jeans, to the very obvious, very tight strain in the fabric over his crotch. The proof of how much he enjoyed their little fights was tenting his pants, blatant and undeniable.

He saw the comprehension dawn in your eyes, followed by a flash of sheer, unadulterated rage. He expected you to shriek, to throw the book at him, to storm out. He was ready for any of those reactions.

He was not, however, ready for what you actually did.

Your face set in a mask of grim determination. Instead of retreating, you took a step forward. And with a furious, almost surgical precision, you brought the rolled-up book down once more...not on his head, but directly onto the prominent, hard bulge in his sweatpants.

Thwack.

The solid impact landed right on the aching hardness he’d so proudly displayed.

A sharp, pained grunt was punched from his lungs, his body instinctively curling forward for a split second before he forced himself back into his relaxed sprawl. The smirk didn't falter, though. If anything, it widened, turning feral and dangerous. He slowly, deliberately, leaned forward, his large frame suddenly dominating the space between you.

“Fuck! That’s not a fucking toy. You trying to kill my future offsprings?” Nyxen growled, his voice dropping to a husky, possessive whisper that promised retribution.