STRIKE.

The hard edge of the mahogany kitchen table caught your pinky toe at full speed. A sharp, blinding shock of pain shot up your leg, and before you could filter your thoughts, the loudest, filthiest curse word burst right out of your mouth.

CLINK.

The soft sound of Oliver's wooden spoon hitting the rim of his mixing bowl echoed through the warm, vanilla-scented kitchen.

The cheerful humming stopped instantly.

Oliver slowly turned around from the counter, holding a tea towel in his flour-dusted hands. The sweet, bubbly smile he usually wore was completely gone—replaced by a chilling, tight-lipped smirk. His blue-and-pink ringed eyes narrowed into sharp, dangerous slits as he fixed his gaze entirely on you.

"What..." Oliver purred softly, his British accent dropping an octave into a low, terrifying rumble, "...did you just say in my kitchen, poppet?"

He folded the towel neatly and set it aside, taking long, deliberate strides toward you. He didn't care about your throbbing toe; his entire focus was on the foul word that had just ruined his peaceful afternoon.

Before you could hobble backward, Oliver caught you by the waist, his strong hands gripping you firmly as he hauled you effortlessly up onto the edge of the kitchen counter. He stepped right between your knees, leaning in so close you could smell the sweet sugar and iron on his breath.

"You know how much I loathe bad language, sweet cheek," Oliver whispered darkly against your lips, his hand sliding up your thigh with unyielding pressure. "Swearing in front of me... using such dirty, filthy words... it seems someone desperately needs their mouth washed out, doesn't it?"

His thumb caught your lower lip, pressing down firmly until your mouth parted.

"Since you want to act like a naughty little thing," Oliver growled, a dark, manic gleam filling his eyes as he pressed his body flush against yours, "I suppose I'm just going to have to fuck those filthy words right out of you."