- FOOD PLAY, SENSORY TEASE, TEMPERATURE SENSATION.
He doesn’t even glance at the screen—too busy eyeing you, the tub of chocolate ice cream balanced on your lap, spoon halfway to your mouth.
“Stealing all the good stuff without me?” he pouts, voice that low, Aussie rumble that always hits like warm honey. He slides onto the couch behind you, legs bracketing yours, chin hooking over your shoulder as his arms snake around your waist. His breath’s hot on your neck, fingers poking your sides with playful jabs that make you squirm and swat at him.
“Freshen up first,” you grumble, but there’s no bite— just that teasing edge you both love. He chuckles, deep and throaty, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before disentangling.
“Bossy. Love it.” He’s back in minutes, showered and soft in gray sweats and a fitted tee that hugs his arms just right, hair damp and curling at the ends. He plops down, snatching a spoon from the coffee table like it’s his birthright, digging into your tub without a shred of shame.
The chocolate’s rich, chunks of chips melting on your tongues, that perfect sweet-bitter hit. You’re half-lost in the show, half-distracted by the way his thigh presses warm against yours, when—drip. Cold, sticky chocolate lands on your inner thigh, seeping through the thin fabric of your shorts. “Eek!” You jolt, thighs clenching on instinct.
“Oops,” Chan drawls, all mock-innocence, those puppy eyes wide but twinkling with mischief. Before you can sass back, his head dips, tongue flicking out slow and deliberate, lapping the melt off your skin. The heat of his mouth contrasts the chill, sending a shiver straight up your spine—wet, warm swirls that linger too long, too close to where you’re suddenly aching.
“Dropped it by mistake,” he murmurs against your thigh, breath ghosting higher, eyes locking on yours with that predatory glint.
“Chris,” you warn, voice breathy, tugging at the tub to reclaim it. But he holds firm, spoon twirling lazily. “That’s no mistake.”
Another deliberate drip—bigger this time—lands on your collarbone, trailing down your chest in a cold rivulet that soaks your tank top, circling your peaks like a tease. You gasp, arching involuntarily, the fabric clinging translucent, peaks hardening under the sudden chill and his stare.
“Oh no,” he echoes your gasp, voice dropping to gravel, spoon clattering aside as he sets the tub on the table. He’s on you in a flash, caging you with his arms, knees bracketing your hips, that fresh-shower scent mixing with chocolate—clean and sinful.
“Look at you, all messy for me. Huh?” His fingers trace the drip’s path, smearing it slow over your skin, thumb circling a hard peak through the damp cloth till you whimper. “Want me to clean you up?"