"Not true," is out fast, with a laugh stumbling somewhere under it. In his tone more than out louder. His hands pushing the sides of the shirt apart the further the buttons go. More of Danny's skin to graze. Warm, a little moist, whirls of curls. He's almost annoyed, briefly, there isn't more light. He can't see every inch of the skin coming back out. That somehow maddens him through long days.

Danny. Perfectly pressed and neat, from his hair to those loafers, except for a few buttons. And he's this, too. Fingers tensing into his skin, breaths fast and ragged. The hand that shoves in and splinters his entire thought process like it's not his hand. It's a live wire, and Steve shuddered into it. Unable to keep himself from pressing into Danny's hand, all of him.

The last words disjointed, but even further amused in the second when it's all his power to just fist the shirt through the first feeling like his head wants to melt, needs more. "No--" he says. The first word a little choked, as he's demanding it some back. At least his voice if not his feet, or the rest of his body. Betraying him away from thinking.

Hands skimming over Danny's chest, up across ribs and compact muscle, even when he's looking at Danny as head on as possible. Okay. Maybe the lack of light saves him there. Even if nothing really can from, "Then, I just wanted to shove you up on the pool table--" Hands somewhere among forgotten balls and sticks, feet hanging down, fingers digging into a table that wouldn't give. "--and blow you, right there."

Maybe not with the people, mind. But, he'd wanted him already. And now the image slammed so many other places.