This guy? He doesn’t know the rules.
So I grab Elias by his curls, fist tightening just enough to make the point, and drag his mouth to mine. I kiss him stupid—open-mouthed, tongue-deep, slow and unapologetically possessive, filthy enough that the clink of glasses behind the bar dies off mid-sound. Someone coughs. Elias makes a dazed little noise into my mouth and then melts completely, hand fisting my shirt, hips shifting against my lap like his body remembers who it belongs to even when his brain is fried.
I pull back eventually. Just enough to make him whine. Then I look at the bartender. Deadpan. And shake my head once.
The guy goes bright red, stammers something about needing to check the stockroom, and disappears like he’s just seen the face of God and didn’t like what it promised.
Elias blinks up at me, curls mussed, drink tilted dangerously in his hand. “You kissed me in public.”
“I’ll do it again.”
“I liked it.”
“Good.”
He leans closer, voice dropping. “Are you gonna spank me when we get back?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Pup, I should spank youhere.”
“Please do.” He says it too fast. Too soft. Too fucking eager.
I groan, knock back the rest of my whiskey in one go, and hook my hand around his wrist, hauling him off the stool and steering him straight toward the bathroom before he can say another word. The second the lock clicks shut behind us, I turn around slowly.
He’s already backing up. Palms out. Smile feral. The drink is gone—abandoned on the bar like he knew exactly what was coming the moment I dragged him through the door.
“So you wanna be spanked, huh?” I ask, voice low and measured.
His back bumps the sink and he grins. “Just saying,” he murmurs, unapologetic, “it was a very kissable moment, sir.”
I hum and reach up, tying my hair back with a lazy twist of my fingers, just enough to get it out of my face and more than enough to make him watch. My curls pull tight at the base of my neck, a few loose strands slipping free around my temple as I roll my sleeves up.
He swallows loudly.
My boots echo against the cheap tile as I walk toward him, each step unhurried. “You flirt with the bartender—”
“I didn’t—”
“You licked the straw.”
“It was mango, Damian!”
I raise a brow and he shuts up. Smart boy.
“Turn around,” I say, voice low enough to buzz.
He hesitates for half a second before obeying, spinning to face the mirror and bracing his hands on either side of the sink. His curls fall wild over his forehead, his shirt riding up just enough to bare the curve of his back, all soft lines and bad decisions.
I step in behind him, close enough that my chest brushes his spine, and drop my voice to a whisper as my fingers trail up hiships, finding the button of his shorts and working it slow. “Look at yourself,” I murmur. “Look how pretty you get when you misbehave.”
He moans and fucking melts, his head dropping, but I nudge it up again with a single hand to his jaw. “Eyes up, pup.”
“Yes, sir,” he breathes.
His shorts fall in one fluid motion, pooling around his ankles, and the second his ass—already flushed pink from earlier games—flexes under my gaze, I groan low in my chest, before bringing my hand down in a clean, deliberate slap that echoes off the walls.
He gasps, sharp and high, but there’s no time to recover before I give him another—harder this time—watching the way he arches into it without thinking, thighs trembling, his whole body straining forward as his reflection in the mirror goes hazy with need. His lips are parted. His eyes are glassy. He looks absolutely wrecked and we haven’t even started.
I lean in close until my breath grazes his ear, letting my voice drop to a low, dangerous murmur as I press my words directly into his skin. “You gonna flirt with another man again?”
