You’re out with Soap for drinks—casual night, crowded bar, music loud, but you’re not really paying attention to anything but him. Soap’s been watching you all night. The way your hand lingers on his arm, the way you lean in close to whisper, breath brushing his jaw.

“You keep that up,” he says low in your ear, Scottish accent thick and full of warning, “and I’m gonna forget we’ve got company.”

You smile sweetly. His eyes darken instantly, and you see the hunger in them. Ten minutes later, he grabs your wrist under the table and pulls you toward the back exit without a word. The door swings shut behind you, and suddenly it’s just the two of you in the alley—quiet but not private. Anyone could walk out. Anyone could hear.

“You think I’m some gentleman, yeah?” he growls, pinning you against the cold brick, chest to chest. “That I’d just sit there and let you play games under the table?”

His hands are already all over you—one gripping your hip, the other tangled in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat. His mouth is hot against your neck, biting more than kissing, leaving marks that will stay with you long after the night is over.

“You’ve been brattier than usual,” he mutters, dragging a hand between your thighs, feeling the heat there. “What’s the matter, love? Need me to ruin you to behave?”

You gasp, barely biting back a moan, and that only spurs him on. He knows exactly what he's doing to you.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist as he grinds you hard against the wall. The scrape of denim against your sensitive flesh, the burn of his grip on your thighs—it’s fast, desperate, messy. The danger of someone opening the door only makes it worse, the thrill of potential discovery sending shivers down your spine.

“Don’t make a sound,” he warns, breath ragged and hot against your ear. “You do, I’ll stop. And you won’t like that.”