#chapstick

He doesn’t bother arguing this round. Instead, his hands find your waist and he yanks you forward until you’re stumbling right into him. You land straddling his lap on the worn leather sofa, your thighs bracketing his hips, your ass settling flush against the growing heat of his groin in a way that makes his breath hitch for half a second before he recovers.

The faint scent of your sweet floral shampoo mixes with the warm, smoky trace of his cologne as you shift closer. He feels the quick rise and fall of your chest against his, the way your heartbeat flutters like a trapped bird when his fingers dig just slightly into your sides.

Mattheo snatches the little pack of flavored chapsticks from your eager hands, ripping the plastic open with his teeth in one sharp tug. His dark eyes flick up to meet yours—half-lidded, challenging, already simmering with that dangerous mix of annoyance and hunger he never quite manages to hide around you.

“Fine,” he mutters, voice low and rough, the word vibrating where your bodies press together. “But if this ends with you tasting like artificial cherry for the next hour, I’m blaming you.”

You beam up at him, all giddy and bright-eyed, lips already curving into that smile that should be illegal. Mattheo hates how easily it disarms him—hates how one look from you can make heat crawl under his skin like wildfire, how making you happy suddenly feels like the only thing that matters.

“Okay, okay,” you mutter, the words all light and airy. “Close your eyes.”

A low, reluctant chuckle rumbles from his chest and he actually does it. Lashes fanning dark against his cheeks, he waits, jaw tight, every muscle coiled like he’s bracing for impact. You can feel the subtle shift in his breathing, the way it slows and deepens as you lean in closer, the warmth of him radiating against your front.

You twist open the grape chapstick with trembling fingers, the sweet, artificial scent blooming sharp in the air between you. Slowly you drag the glossy stick across your lower lip, then the upper, watching the way his throat bobs when he hears the soft, slick sound of it. Your heart hammers so loud you’re sure he can feel it where your chest brushes his.

Then you close the last inch.

Your lips meet his in a soft, tentative press—warm, plush, tasting faintly of sugar and artificial fruit. It’s barely a kiss at first, just enough contact to transfer the chapstick, but the second your mouths connect, something shifts. His hands flex on your hips, fingers digging in just enough to keep you exactly where you are. A quiet, involuntary sound slips from the back of his throat and you feel the vibration of it against your lips.

You pull back first, just enough to see his reaction.

Mattheo’s nose wrinkles instantly, brows furrowing in exaggerated disgust as he processes the flavor. “Ew. It’s grape.”

The complaint comes out gravelly, almost petulant, but his eyes are still closed for a beat longer than necessary—like he’s savoring the ghost of your mouth on his. When they finally open, they’re darker, pupils blown, and the look he gives you is pure trouble wrapped in heat.

You can’t help the delighted little laugh that bubbles out. “Yay! One point for you.”

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head like you’re the most ridiculous person alive—and maybe the most addictive. “You’re killing me with this shit,” he mutters, but the hand still splayed across your lower back slides up your spine in a slow, possessive drag, pulling you a fraction closer again. “Next one better not taste like shit.”

Mattheo’s eyes narrow, that dangerous glint sparking again as he rifles through the remaining chapsticks. He plucks out the chocolate one without a word, twisting it open. The rich, cocoa scent hits immediately—warm, indulgent, melting into the air between you like a promise. It’s nothing like the cloying grape; this one feels sinful, like something he could get addicted to. You want to remind him that this isn't necessarily how the game goes, but he looks so pretty when he's concentrated.

He doesn’t hand it to you this time.

Instead, he brings it to your lips himself, slow and deliberate. The pad of his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth as he smears the glossy balm across your bottom lip, then the top, watching with hooded eyes the way the deep brown tint makes them look even fuller, even more tempting. Your breath stutters at the contact, and he feels it, the tiny tremor that runs through you.

“Open,” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough, barely above a whisper.

You part your lips just enough, and he drags the stick over them once more, lingering, like he’s painting something he plans to devour. The chocolate melts slightly against your warmth, sweet and velvety on your tongue when you dart it out instinctively.

His gaze drops to your mouth, dark and hungry. Then he leans in.

This kiss isn’t tentative like the last one.

His lips crash against yours—firm, claiming, tasting the chocolate immediately and groaning low in his throat at the flavor mixed with you. The sound vibrates straight through your chest, raw and unrestrained, sending heat pooling low in your belly. One hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair to tilt your head exactly how he wants it, deepening the kiss until there’s no space left between you. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, then slips inside—slow at first, savoring, then hungrier, chasing every last trace of cocoa and the soft, slick heat of your mouth.

You melt into him, hands fisting the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. His other arm bands around your waist, grinding you down harder against the unmistakable hardness straining beneath you. Another quiet moan rumbles from him deeper this time, almost pained as he sucks gently on your lower lip, tasting, teasing, losing himself completely in the way you taste like sin wrapped in chocolate.

When you finally break apart, both of you are breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. His lips are swollen, shiny with a mix of balm and spit, eyes blown black with want.

“Game’s over,” he rasps, voice wrecked. In one fluid motion he stands, lifting you with him like you weigh nothing, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he strides toward the bedroom. The door clicks shut behind you with his foot, the sound final.

He drops you onto the bed but doesn’t let go, crawling over you immediately, caging you in with his body. His mouth finds your neck, hot and open-mouthed, scraping teeth lightly over your pulse.

You arch up into him, feeling every inch of how affected he is. “Are you hard?” you whisper, half-teasing, half-breathless.

He huffs a dark laugh against your skin, hips rolling once deliberately, slow, letting you feel exactly how much. “Of course I’m fucking hard,” he growls, nipping at your collarbone. “You kissed me.”