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found me a brand new box of matches

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Pulling up her chair, Harley makes sure it scrapes the floor like nails on a chalkboard. Her puddin' stops scribbling and she can almost hear the veins throbbing at his temple.

Holding his smoldering gaze, she reclines and pulls her knees into her chest, then extends her legs, one after the other. His vials, tubes, and tongs rattle as her feet plunk down onto the table, ankles crossed leisurely.

With an aggravated sigh, J throws down his pen and pinches the black-and-white toebox of her upper shoe, wiggling it.

"I'm aware you're overly fond of your new footwear, sugar muffin," he says, resting his chin on his palm, "but I'd appreciate it if you'd keep them off the formula I'm trying to improve here."

He yanks up her foot to toss it over the side, but it settles next to her other shoe, squeaking nicely as they brush. J's face remains blank.

It's true she loves her new kicks as much as she loves him, they were the first of his many gifts and part of her transformation. She still remembers the hopeless desire she felt when the milling crowd practically forced her face to face with these beauties, snug and comfy in their window seat. Harley had needed no price tag to know she was about a million bucks short, but J, oh, J just sauntered in there, bold as you please, waved his gun and his hips about, and Harley doesn't know which had been more effective. Point is, he tossed her these boots before he dashed off in his flashy car again.

It was then she knew he cared.

J stands, taking her heels in either hand, and walks around the table, lifting her feet until she's balancing on the back legs of her chair. His eyes are burning into hers. She half-expects him to push her over. She doesn't expect him to rest her ankles on his shoulders and sink to his knees in front of her, palms blazing down her shins and thighs.

Harley's breath catches. His fingers slip into her shorts and squeeze. A second later, the chair vanishes from under her, toppling as she lands hard her back. J is hovering above her, pressing her knees into her shoulders, and looks about ready to eat her. Swooning, Harley crosses her ankles behind J's neck, pulling him down. He growls when she kisses him, grinds his hips into hers.

"Such a flexible little doll," he rumbles, setting his teeth against her knee and smearing lipstick up her calf. Harley's in heaven.

Until his teeth tug at the zipper of her shoe. "Leave 'em on," she warns and kicks him.

His eyes flash as his fingers curl around her insteps. "You're in no position to make demands, Harley-pie."

For emphasis, he yanks her legs apart, steering them by her heels like working out on a treadmill. Harley snorts, doing her utmost not to laugh outright.

It utterly fails when he starts making motorboat noises, too.