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Eye contact beckoned her over. Her chest hung in front of him, and he didn't bother to hide how much he ogled. She knew who he was; everyone did. Word of his presence there traveled farther than the music.
She tittered at his compliments, slid her knee all the way up against his crotch, leaned in closer, and licked at the shell of his ear. He smiled back.
Then she turned, pressing her bare back to his chest, and sank down into his lap. He shifted beneath her, spread his legs slightly wider, making a barely restrained sound at the pressure he welcomed. His smile curved from smug to downright filthy as she moved with the pulsating beat of the music.
The tip of her pink tongue dragged back and forth along the parting of his lips, daring to dip in every now and then. Corners of his mouth twitched—debating, tempted—but he ultimately declined with a tight, subtle shake of his head.
She forced his hands to her body instead, and he immediately took the opportunity to squeeze a few choice places he knew would make her move a little harder. She did. Grinding down on him with more force, her body lapping like waves, pace quickening, completely off-beat with the music.
He let her.
Encouraged her, eyes finding another person as he did.
Then, gently, his hands fell to her hips and eased her away—just before the practiced cool in his expression could collapse under what was building over him.
Johnny Storm sat relaxed beneath the velvet amber lights but still on edge from the fire he’d put out too soon. His eyes flicked once more toward the man beside him.
Daken glanced down, eyes tracing the subtle, telling outline in Johnny’s pants.
“You liked that.”
The grin that had been gradually growing as he enjoyed the show now reached its full extent.
Johnny’s smile was smug again, maybe a little too self-pleased.
“I like a lot of things.”
“I imagine you do.” Daken’s grin cooled, letting his eyes carry the heat. He charged his voice with sultry curiosity. “You ever had a threesome, Johnny?”
Johnny blinked, caught off guard, but not entirely put off.
“Sure. Maybe not in the way you have, but yeah. Sure. Why? And don’t get any ideas.”
Daken chuckled, low and breathy.
“I can’t promise that. But it’s a shame you don’t share yourself more. You’re beautiful,” he said, his soft gaze caressing the sharpest points of Johnny’s face.
Daken dipped his head, shadows painting him abstract.
“I know you know.”
Johnny brightened under the shower of attention, a playful shrug accompanying his show of straight white teeth.
“Doesn’t mean a guy doesn’t like hearing it.”
He shifted on his side of the couch—unwitting, but telling—and Daken took it as an invitation to move a little closer.
Leaning in, his voice dropped to a hot, evocative whisper.
“Then hear this—You’re not just mind blowingly handsome. I’ve met a lot of people who think they are. But you? Oh, you’re something else. You’re worth the fuss.”
Johnny rolled his shoulders proudly, ready to entertain his favorite subject.
“Am I, now?”
“Since day one,” Daken said, drawing out each syllable. “You walk in, and the room is yours. Everyone forgets how to breathe. They squirm when they see you.”
He leaned in just a fraction closer. His voice dropped another notch.
“They want you. Have you noticed?”
Blond lashes remained unmoved.
“I’ve noticed,” Johnny replied, simply, unflinchingly.
Johnny Storm was an open book, and he was happy to be read.
Daken commended the confidence.
“Of course you have.”
Johnny peeled his back from the unimpressionable leather, thick and stubborn. Curtains draped the tall wall behind them in endless, elegant, sweeping folds, while the chandeliers above dripped honeyed pools over them. He balanced his expression along the edge of cool and almost impressed.
“Don’t act like you don’t know what it’s like.”
Johnny gave him a once-over, as casual as he could manage. His pulse struggled to keep pace with his heart. A quick comb of hair tempered the rush.
“C’mon, I’m not the only guy here who looks good.”
Daken’s ears perked. His lips peeled back, slow and feral. He shifted inward.
“Say that again.”
“What? That you look good? You know you do.”
“Sure. But I like it when you say it.”
Daken’s grin deepened. Johnny’s nerve dipped, but he raised a brow, huffing a laugh just beneath his breath.
“You’re unbelievable,” he exclaimed, and gave him a gamesome shove—hand to chest, fingertips flattened to black designer polo.
Daken didn’t budge. He caught Johnny’s wrist, swiftly, intentionally, anchoring him to him.
Johnny stilled. Tethered. Torn, unsure—whether to pull away or push deeper.
“No, I’m exactly what I seem.” His thumb stroked across Johnny’s knuckles—once, twice.
“But you?”
Daken’s eyes traced the clean angle of his jawline, rose from the point of his chin to vermillion border, and finally settled on those lips.
“You held back on that dancer, because that mouth alone could wreck a week. How many hearts have you broken, Johnny? I bet you’ve already lost count.”
His words circled in the smallest space that separated them, charged and electric. Daken licked his own lips with an exaggerated, wet glide of pink muscle, and Johnny tracked the slow path his tongue took dragging over them.
Johnny tensed, his Adam’s apple bobbing from a swallow he tried not to show, but he didn’t back away.
“And that body?”
Daken’s focus trickled down Johnny’s form, unhurried, raking over every delicious inch. From top to bottom, he soaked him in, then traced back upward in a slow, appreciative rewind.
“It’s no wonder all of New York throws themselves at you. Look at you—dangerous and safe all at once. You play hard to get, and make it harder not to want you.”
Then he inhaled, sedate and exact, and Johnny felt it: the press and lift of his chest beneath his palm.
The music vibrated around them, conversations ebbing and flowing, glasses clinking—but, for a moment, even the world held its collective breath.
Just as swiftly, Daken removed Johnny’s hand from his body.
Johnny’s eyes darted away, a hint of flames nearly igniting on his cheeks, but in the next instant, they snapped right back, glued to Daken’s.
“Alright, alright.” Johnny laughed, this time a touch too loud, too timid, too overcompensated, too eager to get back to safer grounds. “Don’t lay it on too thick. I might think you’re playing games with me.”
“And if I am?”
Johnny’s expression kept its passion but shed its playfulness, a more complicated, harder to name, emotion rising to the surface.
“Don’t kid.”
“Right,” Daken said, tone somber as he dared to toe the line. “You were married once, weren’t you?”
Johnny’s heart thudded at the mention—and, to those with sharper senses, it was obvious what still lingered there.
The weight of it settled over him, heavy and familiar, and he tried to lighten it with images of half-dressed dancers gyrating to R&B beats.
“C’mon, Daken. I came out here to have a good time, not rehash old mistakes. Quit riding me.”
Johnny Storm was an open book, and he was happy to be read—as long as you skipped over a few chapters.
His back found the brown leather again, and his jaw worked under bitten pressure. He kept his gaze cast far across the room. There were still things he hadn’t forgiven.
“Okay, Johnny, I won’t ride you. At least… not like that.”
Whatever comfort Johnny sought in the distraction of expertly enhanced breasts was replaced by the feather-light brush of Daken’s magnetic finger against his arm. His skin brailled beneath the touch.
“I saw that GQ cover you did a couple weeks ago,” Daken said, the weight of his touch gaining a bolder presence with his words.
Johnny’s smirk returned, the topic clearly bringing him some well-needed delight.
“Oh yeah? You liked it? I thought it came out great.”
His smirk gave way to a nostalgic smile he didn’t fight to hold back.
“The lighting hit me just right, and on my best side, too.”
He jerked his head to the left, striking a perfect pose.
“I even got a say in what I wore. Went with the shirtless cowboy look. Low-rise—very low, I know.”
He shot Daken a sly, knowing look.
“Ben gave me hell for showing off, but hey, maybe some things shouldn’t be left to the imagination. Sometimes I just gotta give the people what they want.”
“And you absolutely did. That was the right call. Showing skin looks good on you. Oh, I more than liked it,” Daken purred, voice thickening, but not with teasing. “Let’s just say… I took my time appreciating it. Privately.”
Those Storm-blues widened, twice their usual size.
“You don’t mean—”
“Let me show you what I mean.”
Daken’s fingers wrapped fully around Johnny’s forearm, moving slowly—deliberately, provocatively—up and down. Again. And again. And again.
Johnny’s breath hitched. His face colored, ears burning.
“Wow. Okay.”
“I’m just being honest.”
Daken’s grip tightened around the thickness of his arm. His eyes slanted toward the restrooms, just once, then back, an unspoken offer hanging in the air.
Johnny’s hand splayed on his knee at that, flustered fingers curling inward. A flashy custom Rolex, bearing his family’s trademark numerical symbol, caught the light on his wrist.
Daken’s sight locked on the watch, then lifted to meet Johnny’s.
“Quite the statement piece.”
Johnny looked at him, desire burning shamelessly bright in his eyes.
“Reel it in, Romeo.”
So Daken did, but not without a teasing grin, of course.
His hand left Johnny, reaching for the chilled bottle of champagne nestled deep in the ice bucket at the center of the table.
He unwrapped bronze foil.
“Anything in particular you’d like to celebrate, Johnny?”
“Me and my boundaries,” Johnny delivered sweetly.
“A delicate pair,” Daken quipped.
Johnny’s gaze sparked beyond just play. “What about you? Where do you draw lines?”
Daken’s grin never faltered. He straightened, the bottle in his grip a tall, gleaming extension of his previous offer.
“Lines aren’t to be drawn. They’re to be crossed.”
He unsheathed a claw.
A crisp, satisfying pop sliced through the air, cutting the tension just as the cork jettisoned toward the ceiling. Hazy smoke swirled from the bottle’s rim.
Johnny’s gaze followed it, long tendrils rising until fading completely.
“Well, that’s one way to open a bottle.”
Daken tilted the neck slightly, golden liquid quietly slipping into a waiting glass.
“You seemed like the dramatic type,” he said, eyes never leaving Johnny's.
“Don’t sell yourself short. I’m not the one bringing claws to a backstage VIP lounge,” Johnny countered, smile stretching to the rim of his glass.
Daken rested the bottle on a knee, watching him sip. “No, but you are wearing half a fortune on your wrist to impress me.”
Johnny all but choked on his drink.
“Touched a nerve?” Daken teased, his glass filling, balanced delicately between two fingers at the stem.
Johnny wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, that careful, structured swagger rocked on its hinges, but still in place.
“Who said it’s for you?” he asked, openly admiring the glitz on his wrist. “Plenty of people here tonight. Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Too late. I already did.”
Johnny snorted, rolling his eyes, catching snapshots of six-inch heels and tassel skirts in his peripheral.
“Yeah? Well, don’t get too attached to that idea.”
The response was quick, smooth, flirty—and incredibly dangerous.
“Why? Are you seeing someone?”
The crisp cut of the question was almost accusatory.
The clank of glass meeting the marble table surface was engulfed by bursts of party noise from a few sections over. Liquid sparkled beneath the green tint of the bottle. Cold sweat ran down its sides.
Johnny’s gaze flicked to the side, to the ruby stanchion ropes, to the neat row of barstools; anywhere but Daken’s probing eyes, but his posture didn’t shift. He took another sip, acidic and bubbly, his shoulders ridged.
“C’mon, Daken. Rumors are just rumors.”
Daken leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing as if scrutinizing every detail of Johnny’s face. He took in a breath—silent, intrusive, indiscernible.
“Except I can smell her on you.”
Daken’s grin unfurled only after he’d said it. Harmless, if it weren’t so knowing. Its painfully slow emergence was a drag of a knife over Johnny’s buttoned-up silk.
Johnny stiffened, the change almost imperceptible, but Daken caught it.
Then Johnny’s eyes veered left, to the private dancers gathered—watching, wanting, waiting for him to flag them over. A gaudy-soaked reminder of the power he commanded.
At the distant sound of ice cubes funneling into crystal glassware, ego recalibrated.
Johnny cleared his throat, shrugged on a custom-tailored suit crafted from a lifetime’s worth of playboy flippancy. His shoulder lifted—casual, polished, untouchable.
“It’s nothing serious.”
Daken leered at him—at the ruthless, seductive cocktail of self-importance and easygoing charm shaken and blended just right. He crossed his ankles, intrigued and unapologetically entertained.
“Tell me about her.”
Light fractured, ricocheted off freshly burnished armor.
Johnny sat complacent, debonair, the sort of careless finesse that could only come from years spent playing this game of dodge hundreds of times before.
Tongue-in-cheek. Roguish grin. Suggestive wink.
“A guy doesn’t kiss and tell.”
Daken’s leer turned wickedly amused.
His smile was all teeth. And sarcastic bite.
“No… You most certainly don’t.”
Johnny chose to ignore that.
“But what about you? You gotta be seeing someone.”
Dark lashes batted.
“And if I am?”
Johnny smirked, cocked a brow.
“Hey, you used that line already. Slipping so soon?”
“So you are paying attention.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“And you didn’t quite answer mine.”
Johnny peered down at the champagne fizzing in his glass. He flicked his wrist, swirled it lightly. Johnny let it stand, giving up the fight, but not giving up completely.
“Fine. Fair. But tell me this—all this flashy getup…” He gestured vaguely at Daken’s outfit. “What is that, Dior? Gucci? Some label I can’t pronounce? I know pricey when I see it. Who are you trying to impress?”
Daken glanced down at his full set of Dior. Didn’t miss a beat.
“The famous Human Torch, of course.”
Johnny’s smile was the type that could disarm a lesser man. Send him running.
The type that got him into just as much trouble as it got him into beds.
For Daken, it was the right amount of reckless.
He brought his face inches closer.
“Is it working?”
Daken’s hand—a force that always seemed to know when to push, when to pull back, and when to push again—went to Johnny’s earlobe, kneading it gently.
“You know… it’s okay if it is.”
Johnny kept his cool, chilled it cooler. He squared his shoulders, swatted Daken’s hand away—fast, not too fast—then delivered his line with that classic Storm bravado.
“Keep dreaming, Gucci-boy.”
Daken didn’t deflate. Somehow, he expanded—full glass still in hand, one finger tapping twice against its side.
“I don’t dream. I fantasize.”
“Fantasize all you want,” Johnny said, boastful. “You wouldn’t be the first.”
Daken bit his bottom lip.
“Mmmm. And I won’t be the last, Mr. Celebrity Heartthrob.”
Proud of his status, Johnny chuckled, low and smug. “Jealous?”
A black-polished fingernail circled the narrow rim of the flute.
Daken tilted his head, his teasing smirk snaking into a disturbingly astute curl.
“Who wouldn’t be?” he said. “I see the way you collect those supermodels before they go out of style—tossing them aside just as they start to fall for you. You get a kick out of that, don’t you?”
Johnny rubbed the back of his neck, his face twisting thoughtfully. He kept his smile fixed tight and dazzling.
“Or maybe I just like nice things.”
Daken held his glass steady, his gaze steadier.
“That you do. And you make it very obvious.”
Johnny shifted, tipped his head, angling himself so the light spilled across him—not just right, but breathtakingly so. His eyes narrowed. Unshakable.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
The silence stretched a blink too long as Daken took him in, appraising the craftsmanship.
“Oh, I’m already miles ahead. Just waiting for you to catch up.”
“Might be a long wait.”
Daken unhooked his ankles, his Cheshire grin settling deeper at the corners.
“Something tells me you’re faster than you think.”
Johnny felt the heat of those words and intended to match it.
The room grew hotter by several degrees.
Candlelight danced in his pupils.
“You know what they say about fire… and playing with it?”
“All pleasure comes with a little pain. Maybe you should let me play with it. You might enjoy it,” Daken whispered, feeling the inappreciable change in temperature and relishing the way it fondled his skin.
Johnny let out a dry laugh.
“You’re a funny guy.”
Daken sat pretty.
“And just your type.”
“Keep telling yourself that. It makes you even funnier.”
“Funny and expensive. I just hope that’s not all you see.”
“I see other things, too,” Johnny said, momentarily serious. “I’m not blind.”
“And do you like what you see?” Daken asked, the single question more loaded than a gun.
To take time thinking about it would be more lethal than the question.
“I’m just gonna have to keep you guessing on that one,” Johnny parried, his smile snazzy, effective.
“Then I’ll guess away.”
“Knock yourself out.”
Johnny adjusted his smile, earning the glowing look from Daken he’d expected.
Then he drained his drink until it felt lighter in his hand, until an audacious guest twiddled her fingers at him, shooting her shot at the club’s main attraction.
A tight dress, large chest, a plunging neckline—enough to break a man’s neck.
All met with a passive, passing glance.
Another movie he’d seen before.
Her eyes lingered on Johnny, while Daken’s eyes lingered on her, a bit hungrily, and perhaps something darker.
He watched her, attention captured but not taken.
“Does attraction come easy for you, Johnny?”
Johnny shrugged, untethered himself from his heart.
“Body parts are body parts. You know that better than I do.”
“Maybe so…” Daken said, eyes trailing down the exposed, defined line between Johnny’s pecs, snapping back up to his face only when they hit the buttons. “But you’re more than just selective. You almost don’t want to give them the satisfaction.”
A fine-lined chin dipped, eyes peering up through slits of blond lashes.
“Believe me,” Johnny said, certain, calm, and proud. “I know how to satisfy.”
Daken’s grin unfolded—not slow, not fast—just too quick for him to resist.
“Yes,” he agreed, mouth watering, “and you’ve got quite a reputation to back it up.”
Johnny straightened and beamed—too bright to be sincere, but bright enough to sell.
“You can’t blame a guy for liking his stuff fast and shiny.”
Grin still branded, Daken raised his glass, his eyes skating over the flashy hallmark of Johnny’s legacy.
“I can’t argue with that. You have good taste, Johnny. Good taste in watches. Good taste in women.”
He paused. Glass lifted higher, voice dropped lower, and he clinked it gently to Johnny’s.
“Good taste in men.”
Johnny’s mouth unfastened, but he didn’t speak.
Daken took a few elegant sips.
Johnny swallowed, hard, staring at him for another half a second too long before setting his glass down on the table.
The atmosphere more than shifted, it rearranged molecularly.
Daken glanced sideways, then tipped his glass back, finishing the rest of the drink in one smooth, unbothered pull. Possibly more for nerve than thirst.
“Did I say something wrong?”
Johnny didn’t answer right away, just quietly fixated on the naked dancers across the room. But this time, he wasn’t really seeing them.
“I don’t know.”
He hunched forward, elbows braced on his knees, and diligently searched the patterned floor for answers he couldn’t find in the usual places.
Johnny Storm was an open book, and he was happy to be read—just not like that.
Daken gave him space. But only for a minute. He closed it again at the first opportunity. At the quick flick of Johnny’s eyes in his direction.
He buried his fingers in the golden hair at the back of Johnny’s head.
“You don’t have to know, Johnny. You just have to want it.”
What troubled Johnny was restless. It stirred inside him, a complicated mix that muddled his forehead and tensed his brows. There was an almost tangible, audible energy to it—so loud and burly that it may as well have been a physical presence in the room with them.
Muffled bass rumbled their feet.
“I’m not confused, Daken. I know what I want.” Johnny’s shoulders sank. “I just don’t know why. Or if I should.”
Daken pressed himself ever closer to his side.
The consoling whisper was almost a dare.
“What are you afraid of?”
Johnny didn’t look at him. For a moment, he hesitated. His eyes flicked over Daken’s shoulder, past the chaos and out toward the bar, contemplating a need for a drink harsh and soothing. One he’d reached for more times than he’d admit. His legs ached to take him there.
Some things couldn’t be forgiven… but other things… other things couldn’t be ignored.
“You.”
A dark brow rose, and the smirk that begged to tug at Daken’s lips was gentler than expected.
“Me?”
Several more blinks at the bar—mahogany varnished wood and Jack Daniel’s—and then Johnny turned his head; his blues locking with Daken’s blues.
They studied each other, until Johnny’s eyes dropped just briefly.
“Who else?”
They came back to Daken’s, more vulnerable, more exposed, yet sure.
“I’ve been trying not to think about it… but you’ve awakened things in me that I didn’t even know were there. Things that make me wonder if I ever really knew myself. So… heh, thanks for the identity crisis, I guess. Definitely haven’t had enough of that lately.”
He tried to smile, but it didn’t stick.
“Sorry. I don’t mean to dump this on you. It’s just that… it’s scary—and not just because of what it means about me, but because I don’t know how the hell you did it, Daken… or what you’re gonna do to me next.”
Daken’s fingers flexed just slightly in Johnny’s hair, voice low and smooth. Measured, but unmistakably charged.
“If you want to find out… just come a little closer.”
Daken reclined, then guided Johnny carefully back against the seat. One hand cupped his jaw, tilting his head upward, the amber lighting instantly easing the tension in his face.
Daken curved down over him, hovered there, tip of nose brushing, lips just above Johnny’s.
Close enough to feel the heat.
To share the same breath.
To know what he was thinking.
And he waited.
Johnny held his gaze, desire burning like a blinding fire in his eyes again—not just burning, raging. A wildfire, fierce and untamed, impossible to put out, spreading fast to other parts of him.
Daken swooned at the raw, intoxicating scent of it, overtaking the sweat, whiskey, and expensive cologne that filled every corner of the room. He relied on the strain in his shoulders to reinforce his restraint.
His patience was wearing thin.
Slowly, as if he knew, Johnny closed the distance, something stronger than gravity drawing his entire body to him. Their mouths met and Daken’s hand slid down to the front of his neck, wrapping carefully, possessively around it.
The kiss was quiet, clean, and repressed.
Daken’s hand tightened around Johnny’s throat, and Johnny’s mouth opened. His protest was silenced by a wet tongue pushing in, and rewarded with a slackening grip that then glided to the nape of his neck.
The kiss unraveled—noisy, messy, and unreserved.
Johnny’s hands finally found their courage. One curled around Daken’s hip, slipping just beneath his shirt, pinky tucking into the waistband; the other tangled in his mohawk, mussing it with an unsteady kind of confidence.
His tongue took over, fully dominating the kiss, turning it into something else—and Daken let him, savoring the way Johnny gave himself completely, uncontrollably.
The intensity peaked. Famous blue eyes squeezed shut, and Daken kept watching for a few more flicks of tongue until the room vanished around them, and they explored each other in the dark.
Johnny’s fingers wandered aimlessly, wanting to grab, hold, and burn through everything at once—hair, face, shoulders, back, hips, arms, chest. They moved constantly, settling in one place only to move on to the next, like he didn’t know which he needed most.
He pulled Daken closer, as if they could be any closer, deciding he needed all of him. He crushed the edges of his magenta collar in his fists and the complex flavors of champagne mingled with the sweeter taste of danger.
Chest to chest, nose to nose, they exhaled together, warm air splashing against each other’s cheeks, mouths never parting.
Daken claimed his thighs, fingers pressing firmly halfway up from his knees before sliding higher. Then higher. His thumbs skimmed close, just enough to stir more excitement between Johnny’s legs, right where they both felt it.
Johnny’s hips rolled. The beginnings of a moan rumbled hot in his throat, seared on its way up, but before it could escape into Daken’s mouth—
He suddenly broke the kiss.
The haze of their private world lifted.
Crystal chandeliers, overpriced bottles, and pretentious chatter—Chelsea 17th’s top-tier VIP section rematerialized.
“Not here,” Johnny warned, the rasp ripping from him, breath, eyes, and hands all unstable, overheating with a barely controlled fire he didn’t want named.
Daken didn’t move.
Didn’t tease.
Didn’t press.
Daken just looked at him.
All flushed, pretty, and completely undone. Fighting back flames, among other urges, trying to steady his breath, trying not to feel as much as he did. The heat hadn’t left his face, and his fingers hadn’t left Daken’s shirt.
His chest rose and collapsed as he panted, in quick, uneven bursts.
A short moment passed before Johnny spoke. He sounded shaky, still catching his breath, still calming his heart, still trying to reclaim what he hadn’t realized he’d already given away.
“I mean it,” he said, fingers betraying him, twisting even tighter in Daken’s shirt.
Daken’s voice came low, velvet-smooth.
“I know.”
His thumb brushed once across Johnny’s jaw, nothing more. No pressure. No demand. Just a touch that said I heard you.
Then, slowly, he pulled back and pressed a soft touch to the speeding pulse at Johnny’s wrist—a button that released.
Music thudded between them. The air cooled by degrees, though the heat still clung to Johnny’s skin. He sat back, meaning to collect himself, hands no longer shaking, but not yet trusted. He ran them down his thighs, smoothing his pants, trying to temper what still tingled beneath gray denim.
Johnny Storm was an open book, and he was happy to be read—but even open books had pages that trembled when turned.
Daken watched him, head tilted just slightly, eyes sharp and amused.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Johnny said, voice quieter now, more revealing than before. “It’s not you, it’s me—don’t think I don’t know that.”
The corner of Daken’s mouth curled until teeth peaked out.
“I like you like this. Are you always this much of a mess after a really good kiss?”
Johnny’s eyes snapped, then rolled. He shook his head.
“Don’t start.”
But Daken still watched him, his stare intensifying with an unapologetic glint of mischievous glee. The other corner of his mouth curled up into a full display of grinning teeth.
Johnny ducked and surrendered a short, nervous laugh, doing all he could to keep the flush from climbing up his neck again.
“Mm,” Daken hummed, throaty and provocative. “You really do like to play hard to get, don’t you?”
Under the limelight of Daken’s admiration, Johnny lost the battle. His face tinged a richer shade of red. He made attempts to look away, but Daken’s eyes mercilessly pinned him there.
Then Daken closed the space, slow and cautious, but not much. Not enough to touch, not yet, but more than enough to make Johnny wish he would.
“You laugh, but you’re not the only one all hot and bothered. Don’t worry, Johnny, I won’t take it personally. I like being edged. I could play this game of give-and-take with you for hours.”
The heat from Johnny Storm nearly set the couch ablaze.
"Hours, huh? Geez, I don’t know what it is about you, but you’re really messing with my head right now.”
Daken nudged nearer, pressing the ball of his shoulder against Johnny’s. Heat spiked through him from the contact.
“I told you, you don’t have to have it all figured out. Not now. Not ever, if you don’t want to. But I’m here in case you do. I’m only ever just a few inches away. You just have to stop resisting, even if I like it when you do.”
“I wanna call you a sick perv,” Johnny said, “but I have a feeling you’d like that, too.”
An elbow jutted out. Daken let out an erotic groan at the jab, pressing his shoulder in deeper with well-measured pressure.
“Careful. More compliments like that, and I’ll lose all my composure.”
“Is that a challenge?” Johnny’s hair fell into his eyes when he canted his head, tousled with reckless daring and an appetite for trouble. “Oh, now I’m definitely tempted.”
Daken neatened Johnny’s collar, then observed him quietly. Beneath the inferno, fitful boyish warmth peeked through.
“You should be,” he said, his drawl laden with a hushed awe that made Johnny back down.
Then, with the kind of practiced ease that always made him seem too calm, too calculating, too aware, Daken reached up and lightly slid a hand into Johnny’s hair, pushing it back from his forehead. He gathered strands between his fingers, the gesture soft, almost reverent, as he carded through them. Vibrant blond fell back into place, and Daken swept away the single lock that slipped forward to rest against Johnny’s brow.
“Is it a mess?” Johnny asked, his voice rough, clearly embarrassed. “That’s what happens when you make a guy practically combust.”
Daken’s thumb brushed the bottom of his lip in that almost affectionate way that made Johnny’s heart stutter.
Suddenly, Daken looked at him, something in his eyes Johnny had never seen before.
“No. It’s perfect. Just like the rest of you.”
For once, his words carried more weight than his touch.
Johnny's breath caught. The room stilled. A different kind of fire lit inside him—indistinct, yet, undeniable. Before he could stop himself, before he could think, he leaned forward, and the kiss he pressed to Daken’s lips took them both by surprise.
No real movement, just a tender press that lasted heartbeats longer than it should’ve.
Hesitantly, almost regretfully, they parted at the same time, Johnny breathing out as Daken breathed in.
“On that dangerous note,” Daken murmured, his smile—not a grin—shaping from a blend of fondness and something else, “let’s end the night here. Come, I’ll walk you to your car.”
The New York air was arid. A past-midnight sky loomed indigo above the city, barely visible stars sprinkled unsparingly across its expanse. The moon sat watchful.
They walked through the upscale streets to the nearby valet garage just a few blocks up, leaving the buzz and hum of nightlife behind.
Johnny’s coat fit snug over broad superhero shoulders. He eased into every step with meaningful intent, while Daken strode alongside him with the gait of a man certain beyond reason.
They stole glances at each other every now and then. Neither timid, nor too bold. Their footfalls fell into sync, thousand-dollar shoes unconsciously closing the gap.
Daken’s fingers hid themselves in his back pockets, thumbs hooked over the edges as his eyes scanned the lavish material of Johnny’s jacket.
“I meant it when I said it, Johnny. You do have good taste.”
The smile was slow, but came easy to him—natural, inevitable. Johnny shrugged, fingering the lapel; less casual, more intentional.
“Somehow I knew you’d appreciate it. Can’t say I remember what brand it is or how I even got it. Must’ve been a gift.”
Daken inhaled sharply, his voice breathy, exhaling through the words. “High-quality, supple lambskin leather.” He paused, searching for specificity. “Alexander McQueen. Still fresh—not broken in. It’s your first time wearing it.”
Johnny faltered in his step. “All that from a sniff?” His eyebrows skyrocketed, he whistled, low but carried. “Amazing.”
“No,” Daken leaned in, never losing pace. “Fantastic.”
His tattooed arm gleamed under the moonlight, his hands freed to swing at his sides with impossible grace.
Johnny was too overawed to manage a deflective laugh.
They stopped at a crosswalk, eyeing their destination across the street.
The wispy ends of Daken’s mohawk slithered down the nape of his neck, shifting with the motion of his head as he turned toward Johnny. Thoughtfulness had claimed that famous face, and Daken remained quiet, patient.
Johnny didn’t speak until they stepped off the curb and began to cross. His hands fidgeted inside McQueen pockets—busy, but calm. His sight was drawn to the neon lights of the valet sign ahead.
“You know, Daken, I’m not shy about it. I’m pretty much everything they say I am. It’s no secret I love attention. It’s all I’ve ever known. But even a guy like me could use a break from the spotlight, ‘cause, man, you really shined it bright on me tonight.”
Daken listened for his heartbeat.
“Was it too much?”
Something in the air summoned Johnny to look over. Daken was incandescent—his own neon sign. Brighter. Brilliant. Irresistible.
“I don’t know... sort of. But not in a bad way, I guess.” Their feet touched new cement. “I don’t know. I’m used to people staring, but somehow when you do it, it’s like you see right through me or something. Kinda freaky, if I’m being honest.”
Daken’s mouth spread into the curve of an anticipated teasing grin.
“Freaky or sexy?”
Johnny finally managed that laugh.
“Don’t push it.”
Daken’s grin softened its teasing edge, becoming something more endearing.
It took everything Johnny had in him to tear his eyes away from it and jut his chin toward the valet stand. The attendant, still collecting claim tickets from the line of waiting customers, gave an acknowledged nod and urgently signaled a worker, who was already sprinting toward the lot.
Johnny brought his attention back to the only person who could ever truly hold it.
“Seriously, though…” he continued. “Some parts made me think too hard—maybe harder than I ever like to. But I had fun tonight. More than I’ve had in a while. I almost don’t want it to end.”
Daken stood perfectly still, his posture upright, eyes sharp and sharpening further, yet his voice flowed out uncharacteristically uneven.
“I’m glad to hear that. Because I had fun, too. And no… you’re not everything they say you are, Johnny. You’re so much more. I’ve been trying to show you.”
Johnny smiled, a Bentley Continental cruising past them, but he only noticed the elegant sway of Daken’s hair moving with the wind sweeping through it.
“Show me, huh? Well, I may need a little more than a night out for that."
“Which is why we need to make plans to see each other again.”
“When I take you up on that,” Johnny said, pointing a Flamed-On finger, “just remember it was your words, not mine.”
“Mm,” Daken hummed curiously. “You sound like you have something in mind.”
Johnny’s smile dimmed as his eyes were taken by his car pulling up from around the corner.
Headlights bled onto the street, then blinked out. The car door popped open, and out came the valet attendant and a few quick, gushing comments. Johnny accepted his keys in one hand, and slipped him a triple-digit tip with the other.
Johnny stepped off the curb and gripped at his doorframe, thumb pressing to the thick glass. Daken stayed planted behind him on the sidewalk, and when Johnny turned to meet his gaze, the distance between them seemed to shrink.
“Well… I got a race coming up in Miami in two weeks. No pressure. But… it’d be nice to see your face in the crowd.”
He said it just above a whisper:
“Then I’ll be there.”
Johnny nodded, jingled his keys. He smiled—excitement a thread pulling at it.
“Cool. Guess we’ll see if you can keep up in the fast lane with me, then.”
Daken shoved his hands into his front pockets and tipped forward at the hips. His grin returned and smoldered on his face.
“Oh, I can keep up, Johnny. I’m really good at keeping things up...” he said, springing upright, tall and erect. “I’m sure you’ve noticed.” He winked.
Johnny rubbed at his rosy cheeks.
“Okay, alright, let’s not start that up again.”
Johnny climbed into his car. The engine purred at the flick of his wrist. Before he could look up, Daken had stepped forward and shut the door for him.
Johnny froze, spun, and stared through the glass at the incomplete image of Daken’s body—statuesque, striking, boldly outlined, cut off just below the chest and at the waist. His finger rushed to the manual switch.
Daken leaned in just as the window slid fully down. He crossed his forearms along the window channel, his expression unreadable against the backdrop of streetlight and moonlight.
Daken didn’t say a word. He didn’t grin, or tease, or blink, or reach inside. He just leaned in slightly closer.
Daken’s eyes watched, blue and round, and they didn’t just look—they saw him.
Johnny’s heart more than stuttered. It couldn’t speak.
Daken’s eyes took their time watching, in a way no one else ever had.
“I’ll see you in Miami,” Daken said, then withdrew himself from the car window. He straightened, and all Johnny had left of him was a hand slowly unwrapping from the window channel.
“Let me drive you home,” Johnny blurted, so abrupt it nearly escaped as a shout. Daken’s hand stilled, and relief flooded into Johnny like a breath held a moment too long.
Daken’s fingers twitched.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Johnny.”
Johnny pushed his head out the window.
“Hey. Don’t fight me on this. Get in the damn car.”
The under-view of Daken’s face flaunted exotic sharp angles, dips, and curves. His skin glowed tan, kissed by yellow hues from street lamps. He stared, emotionless, down the boundless black strip of road. For six contemplative seconds. Maybe more. Then he dipped his chin, flicked his gaze to Johnny, lips pulling back until teeth bared.
“Well, when you put it like that…”
Daken strutted to the front of the car, bathing himself in the outpour of headlights. As he passed, he dragged a slow, deliberate finger along the silver birch finish of the hood, his eyes catching Johnny’s beyond the windshield.
Johnny’s hand tightened around the thin-rimmed steering wheel, foot absently revving the engine.
Daken pulled at a traditional door-handle and slid gracefully into the passenger’s seat, shutting the door beside him—shutting the entire world out.
The two of them, alone, beneath a cream-colored headliner.
His eyes clawed hungrily over the vehicle’s interior from his spot on the left. He sat in British luxury layered over sporty edge: polished walnut dashboard, plush leather seats, accent leather trimmings, chrome-rimmed gauges, a three-spoked steering wheel, and a 5-speed ZF manual transmission.
“It’s nice,” Daken cooed. “Vintage.” He ran his hands over black leather. “Very James Bond.”
Johnny beckoned at Daken to come nearer like he had a secret to tell. When Daken came to him, a sly smirk widened on Johnny’s face.
“Not just very James Bond—actual James Bond.”
Daken’s brows quirked, cool demeanor faltering, and Johnny leaned back into his seat, satisfied.
“Aston Martin DB5, 1963. Not just movie-accurate, it’s the real Goldfinger stunt vehicle.”
His fingers drummed on the wheel, then rested on it lovingly.
“I wrestled it from a museum a few years back. I may or may not have sicced Ben to threaten a guy or two.”
His eyes gleamed with pride. His tone abandoned brag and evened into something matter-of-fact.
“If you thought my watch cost a fortune, well, this baby could bankrupt a man.”
“Impressive,” Daken said—plainly, approvingly. He rubbed the leather more meticulous now. He held his composure well, but some things were obvious: no sarcasm, no tease. Just that rare, disarming quiet that meant Daken was genuinely impressed. A feat not easily earned.
“I know,” Johnny replied, unusual humility descending over him, eyes sweeping down the center console, lingering on the radio knobs. “It’s a collector’s piece, so I don’t take it out very often.”
Daken sat motionless.
“But you did tonight.”
The presence in his passenger seat was magnetic. Where he expected playful mockery, he found grounding gravity instead. Daken’s gaze didn’t pry; it simply settled on him, focused and bated, as if he were listening for more than just his words.
“Yeah, I did,” Johnny agreed, voice hushed with a sudden realization he didn’t push away, though he tried not to think too hard about it either.
His hands felt safe on the wheel. He smiled to himself, and looked out at the long road up ahead.
“Funny how that happened.”
He shifted gears, sending a small jolt through the car.
Johnny didn’t ease into it. He stomped the throttle, tearing them from the curb at breakneck speed. Both their heads snapped back, slammed to the headrests.
Daken’s mouth curled into the biggest grin Johnny had seen all night—unrestrained, unplanned, brighter than streetlight on chrome.
Johnny gripped the wheel tighter and pushed the engine harder.
A higher gear maintained the speed. Lights streaked past them and he clipped fast and sharp, banking a corner. Daken’s hand flew to the glass, splayed wide to brace himself.
The engine produced a mighty power delivery that vibrated through their bones. It spoke a different language, one Johnny understood. He listened closely to the motor notes—the succinct rise and fall of the revs—timing his next shift. Johnny expertly exploited the engine at its peak, executing another swift gear change. To gain more speed and avoid a jerky ride, he skillfully manipulated the clutch and throttle, matching revs with professional precision.
They zoomed down the street, racing through the city, Johnny glancing over his shoulder every few seconds at those eyes that never once left him.
“You’re fast,” Daken said.
“I’m a lot of things,” Johnny shot back. “Stick around. You might find out.”
Johnny Storm was an open book, and he was happy to be read.
And maybe, just maybe, for the first time in a long time, he’d stop holding back and let the story write itself.