Stripped
He does this on purpose. He has to. No one that drunk should be that sexy.
But he's got it down to a fucking science: hair mussed, face flushed, chewing on his lip as he struggles with the five thousand buckles on that damn suit. Swaying to some imaginary tune, dropping the leather with a thud on the downbeat. Dancing in the moonlight.
I grind out my smoke and close my eyes, trying to ignore that I'm hard as hell.
"Wolfwood? It's cold. Can I sleep with you tonight?"
I chance a peek. Not that cold, apparently.
Thank you, Lord.