Chris just stands there, his mind a complete blank. Blank is better. Then he doesn’t have to poke out his own eyes with JC’s keys.
JC turns over in bed, sleepy eyed and smiling, his hair a rat’s nest. “Chris,” he says in the scratchy sex-voice.
A flurry of movement in the covers and a head pokes its way out from under JC’s arm, upside-down. Big brown eyes watch him for a moment, then JC’s intimate laugh and some kind of scratching motions inside the blankets and a metal jingle and happy groaning and Chris has to leave right now.
This is entirely mickeym's fault. I am her bitch.