When Grayson said ’sit’, it was accompanied by a patting motion against his thigh. It seemed that Grayson had decided that his lap was the only acceptable seating arrangement when they were eating.

And Neville was increasingly getting used to this unusual arrangement.

He settled onto Grayson’s thighs with a sigh that was more for show than genuinely annoyed. This position was actually unusually comfortable, if he was being honest. An arm immediately wrapped around his waist to support him.

Don’t get used to this, he warned himself.

His internal lecture cut off as Grayson reached for the fork.

"Eat."

"I can feed myself."

"I know." The words held a coaxing tone. "But I want to do this."

There was no logical argument against that. Or rather, there were several, but none that Neville could think of while sitting on the man’s lap after being kissed senseless. So he surrendered to the inevitable.

Grayson proved to be surprisingly became even more adept at the whole ’feeding your partner’ thing after succeeding one time. He cut the food into reasonable portions, blew on each bite to ensure it wasn’t too hot, and guided the fork to Neville’s lips with careful attention.

It should have been embarrassing. It was embarrassing, honestly. But it was also undeniably... nice to be cared for so attentively.

This whole situation was definitely clouding my judgment, Neville thought as he accepted another bite. The pheromones must be getting to me. That’s the only explanation.

He glanced up—and froze.

A small crumb had attached itself to the corner of Grayson’s mouth—a barely noticeable, tiny speck of golden cheese against skin.

Without thinking, Neville reached up to wipe it away with his thumb.

The moment his skin made contact with Grayson’s lips, everything changed.

A hot, wet sensation clung to his thumb.

Neville’s thumb slid past the edge of Grayson’s mouth, and then—

Lick.

Grayson’s tongue dragged along the pad of Neville’s thumb with deliberate motion.

Their eyes met, and he could clearly see something dark and knowing flicker in those silver eyes. It might’ve looked like an accident at first, but Neville could tell from the brief flash of surprise on Grayson’s face.

But then it turned into something ambiguous and flirty at the next second. Grayson seized the opportunity and, instead of releasing Neville’s thumb, he drew it deeper into his mouth.

Sucked.

The warmth and wet feeling as Grayson twirled his tongue expertly around Neville’s thumb.

Neville’s brain crashed.

The motion closely resembled what Grayson had done before. The memory induced Neville’s body to recall the pleasure and be filled with anticipation.

His entire face felt like it had been set on fire and left to simmer.

Grayson released his thumb with an obscene pop, a satisfied smile curling his lips. "You’re red all over."

"Shut up." The words came out strangled.

Neville jerked his hand back, wiping it on the apron still tied around his waist as if that could erase the phantom sensation of Grayson’s tongue.

"Just—shut up. Feed me."

"Yes, yes."

Grayson’s smile didn’t fade as he obediently retrieved the fork and offered another bite.

Neville accepted it mechanically, chewing without really tasting anything. His brain was still offline, stuck in a loop of that just happened—

"You’re not eating," Grayson observed.

"I’m eating."

"You’re staring at nothing and forgetting to swallow."

Because you broke my brain, you insufferable alpha!

Neville forced himself to chew and swallow properly. The food was really good; he had done an excellent job.

"If you keep acting cute like that," Grayson murmured, voice dropping to that dangerous low register, "I..."

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

Neville felt it—the unmistakable hardness pressing against his bottom, hot even through layers of fabric. Grayson’s arm tightened around his waist, pulling him more firmly against that evidence of arousal.

Cute?! Neville wanted to scream. How is any of what I’m doing cute?! I’m sitting here obediently and eating! How is that cute?!

"We’re not doing this here."

Neville declared with all the conviction he could muster. His voice came out breathless, each word punctuated by the rapid beating of his heart. He pressed both palms firmly against Grayson’s chest, creating what he hoped was a sufficient barrier between them.

Grayson’s silver eyes glinted with barely concealed amusement. His tail appeared again and swayed lazily behind him, scales catching the light like black diamonds.

"Why?"

Why? WHY?

Neville just pointed wordlessly at their surroundings. The evidence of their previous activities was scattered everywhere like a crime scene.

Cushions were strewn across the floor. His original clothes lay on the floor like a rag. Then, there were the ambiguous stains on the leather couch that Neville refused to recall why they were even there.

"You can just clean up later?" Grayson suggested, his tone entirely too casual for someone whose tail was now curling possessively around Neville’s ankle.

"No can do."

Neville shook his head stubbornly, finally managing to extricate himself from Grayson’s lap. His legs still felt a little wobbly from overuse, but he forced them to cooperate normally. He grabbed the fork and took a decisive bite of the food.

"Eat the rest while I clean up."

Grayson’s brow arched and said, "You’re prioritizing cleaning over—"

"Yes." Neville cut him off unhesitatingly, already scanning the room for the location of the cleaning supplies.

He hurried toward what he assumed was a utility closet, his bare feet padding against the cool floor.

The penthouse was massive—unnecessarily so, in his poverty-driven opinion. Who needed this much space for one person?

Actually, that wasn’t entirely fair.

Grayson probably had a fleet of cleaning drones and household staff who handled these things normally. But Neville didn’t know where to find them without the all-powerful Shelly by his side.

Rich people, honestly.

Neville found a compact cleaning drone tucked in a corner, but he bypassed it in favor of old-fashioned supplies. There was something therapeutic about scrubbing things by hand. More importantly, it would keep him busy, look busy, and that would be his excuse for everything.

Like an excuse not to go back to that couch.

As he gathered cloths and a spray bottle, Neville’s mind raced. His theory was simple but untested: if he could redirect Grayson’s energy, maybe—just maybe—he could survive the rest of the days with his sanity intact.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to... well.

The heat creeping up his neck answered that question quite obviously.

But he can’t.

Absolutely, not.