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He wipes his fingers across his lips—but doesn’t bother cleaning the rest.

Instead, he presses his fingers—slick with filling and my own arousal—against my mouth.

“Open, princess,” he says, voice low and dark and unbearably satisfied.

And like the broken, fucked-up thing I am, I do.

I open my mouth, and he shoves his fingers between my lips, deep, curling them against my tongue.

The taste of me and sugar floods my senses at once—sweet and obscene and inescapable.

His thumb traces the edge of my jaw as he watches me suck them clean, his breathing heavy, almost ragged.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice like sin and promise.

I glare at him over the mess of his fingers, but I don’t pull away.

Because somehow—fuck—I want more.

I drag my teeth lightly over his fingers before letting them slip from my mouth, slowly, seductively. His hand drops away, but his gaze doesn’t.

It clings.

Like he’s still tasting me just by looking.

I smirk, wiping the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. “Hope you got your fill. Would hate to think I left you hungry.”

His mouth twitches, a dark grin threatening. “Little storm, I’ll never get my fill of you.”

I roll my eyes, but my skin burns all the same as I slide off the counter.

He steps closer again, knuckles grazing my bare hip where the lingerie’s still bunched and askew. His touch is deceptively light, almost casual.

“Didn’t think you’d actually wear it,” he murmurs, voice rougher now, more honest. His eyes drag over every piece of exposed lace, every inch of black that still clings to me. “Figured you’d burn it. Or strangle me with it.”

“I considered it,” I say breezily, even as my chest tightens under the weight of his stare. “But then I figured… might as well make you suffer.”

He chuckles low in his throat, hand sliding higher, fingertips skimming just under the waistband where the lace bites into my skin. “You call this suffering?”

“You look pretty fucking wrecked to me,” I shoot back, voice saccharine. “Face of a man about two seconds away from begging.”

“Begging’s not my style.” He leans in, lips brushing my ear again, a shiver dragging down my spine. “Taking is.”

God, he says it like a promise. Like a threat dressed in silk.

I shove his chest again—not hard enough to move him, just hard enough to make a point. “I need a shower. Andyounow officially owe me pastries.”

He grabs my wrist before I can step fully away, thumb stroking the inside lightly, almost idly. “Is that a fact?”

“And coffee,” I add sweetly, cocking my head. “Hot. Strong. Two sugars. You now owe me both.”

He doesn’t let go immediately. He just looks at me like he’s memorizing this moment, like if he lets it slip away too fast it’ll turn to smoke in his hands.

“You’re a demanding little thing, you know that?” he murmurs, thumb brushing over the pulse hammering against my skin.

I yank my hand free with a smirk. “And you’re a hungry little thing, so we’re even.”

He laughs low, dark, and wrecked—and I don’t wait for him to say anything else.