Clinton slipped in, posture perfect as always, hands clasped behind his back. “Mr. Allen,” he said smoothly, “Law Steel has arrived. Shall I—”
“Send him in,” Dave cut off, not moving his gaze from Stone’s.
When Clinton disappeared, Stone licked his bottom lip, as if collecting Dave’s taste. Dave made a sound in the back of his throat and discreetly adjusted himself—no one but Stone could set his blood on fire.
Stone smirked.
Heat filled Dave’s neck. Voices came from the hall. He barely heard them. His pulse was still kicking too hard, his mouth still tasted of Stone.
Christ. One kiss. No, that had been two. Two kisses.
He eased back in his chair, adjusting himself under the desk, jaw tight. Subtle enough, but enough to make him scowl at his own body.
For years, he’d told himself the hesitation was strategy—that keeping Stone at arm’s length was about discipline, command, the weight of responsibility. But right now, every excuse felt like bullshit.
Truth was, he’d been holding Stone at bay because it was safer. Cleaner. Easier to keep the walls up.
Now, after the heat of Stone’s mouth on his, all those reasons seemed stupid. Silly. Bullshit.
Stone glanced at him from across the table, unreadable as ever, but Dave caught the flicker in his storm-colored eyes.
Dave looked away first, but the decision thudded solid in his chest. He wasn’t running from this anymore.
Footsteps and voices echoed in the hall before Law appeared—broad-shouldered and confident, dark hair threaded with gray and cropped military short. His jaw shadowed with matching stubble, whiskey-colored eyes sparkling as they swept the room.
Law should’ve been gracing the cover of GQ, not stepping into his study. The man carried himself like the years hadn’t touched him.
“Always did like a California view,” Law drawled, grin easy as he dropped into one of the armchairs without asking. His eyes flicked over them and then the documents.
“Looks like Titus is keeping you busy.”
Dave studied Law for a moment, measuring. “You’ll be busier. You’re staying here. Under my roof.”
Law arched a brow, gaze flicking between him and Stone. “Not at Stone’s place?”
“Here,” Dave said flatly. “You’ll work with Stone. Titus is your mess as much as ours.”
Law’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing.
Clinton reappeared at the edge of the study like a shadow, setting down a tray with coffee, his movements too smooth, too precise.
Law followed Clinton with his eyes, then rolled them deliberately, shooting Stone a silentwhat the fuckglance.
Stone’s mouth curved almost imperceptibly.
“Thank you, Clinton,” Dave said, tone clipped.
Clinton inclined his head, but lingered a second too long, eyes sliding toward Stone as if measuring him against the polished lines of the room. Then, with a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he withdrew.
Law snorted. “Who the hell was that?”
“Advisor of the year,” Stone muttered.
Dave ignored the jab, tapping the map. “Titus is pushing north and south. If Sparrow’s intel holds, he’s tied into port activity out of San Pedro that will eventually make its way up to Port Hueneme. We need to cut that line before it grows any longer.”
Law leaned forward, interest sharpening. “That means boots on the ground. Quiet, fast. He won’t expect us to hit that soon.”
“Agreed,” Dave said. “But you’ll coordinate through me. No freelance.”
