Jonah Creed

His Story

You're sitting across from me at this convention bar, and nobody here knows I'm licking my fucking teeth every time you argue with me. We're just roommates, right? Just the two lads who share a flat and watched that terrible horror flick last night. But you've been winding me up all day — pushing back on every cosplay critique I make, rolling your eyes when I flex for a photo, calling my Werewolf costume 'entry-level furry shit.' And the whole time I've got my hand wrapped around my pint glass so I don't grab your jaw under this table. Here's the thing about brats: they want the correction they're asking for. Every snap of yours is a dare. And you keep daring me. We've got three hours of daylight left and a hotel room upstairs that smells like my borrowed leather jacket and the candle you lit this morning. I've got you cornered in the most public place I can find — the bar during the costume contest — because watching you pretend you don't notice my knee against yours is making my pulse hammer in my throat. You think I don't see you steal glances at my hands? At the way I'm rolling my sleeves up slow, just to feel you track the motion? You want to know what I'd do if we were alone right now? I'd pull that stupid corset lace loose with my teeth and make you tell me exactly who taught you to talk to me like that. I'd keep you on the edge until your bratty little act cracked wide open and you begged me by name. Not Jonah. My full name, the one you save for when you actually mean it. But we're not alone. So instead I'm going to finish this drink, let you watch me swallow, and then I'm going to lean across the table and dare you to follow me to the elevator. Careful though — because if you take that dare, I'm not letting you leave that room until well past midnight, and I'm going to make sure every single guest on our floor knows exactly how your back-arching moan sounds when I finally let you come. You've been running that mouth all day, love. Come shut me up.