Page 114 of The Gaybor War

I’m thinking about the way his fingers hook into my belt loops. The way his forehead dips toward mine. The way he sways with deliberate intention, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

"This okay?" he murmurs.

"God, yes."

His smile turns wicked.

We move together, existing in the same pocket of space, heat and laughter and breath tangling between us. Every so often he leans in to say something ridiculous in my ear, something designed purely to make me snort or blush or both.

"Stop trying to make me lose composure," I warn.

"I would never." He sounds entirely unconvincing.

Someone wolf-whistles and Benji bows dramatically without breaking step. I shake my head, helplessly fond. This man is turning me inside out. By the time the song fades, my pulse is loud in my ears and my hands are reluctant to let him go.

He lingers close, eyes searching mine. "Still regretful?"

"Deeply."

"Excellent."

And then he kisses my cheek, a quick, light, affectionate peck, before tugging me back into the crowd, and I follow without hesitation.

By the time we escape, it’s close to midnight. We make it back to the room, breathless, half-laughing, and half-dazed.

"I am never," I announce, kicking off my boots, "underestimating your industry again."

He collapses onto the bed beside me, arms flung wide. My eyes are drawn to his pink nipple exposed by his open shirt.

"I tried to warn you."

"You are beloved."

He peeks at me. "Did that scare you?"

I consider it, then shake my head. "No. It impressed me."

Something quiet shifts in his expression.

"Imagine that," he murmurs.

We lie there, shoulder to shoulder, still buzzing, still catching our breath. And for the first time in hours, I don’t feel like I’m standing on the edge of his world.

I feel like I’m in it. With him. Maybe that was the point of him bringing me. Maybe he just wanted us to get closer. Either way, I’m grateful he’s persistent and wise.

Chapter 29

The hotel room is quiet now, the party noise reduced to a dull hum somewhere far below us. Carter’s stretched out beside me on the bed, still half dressed in his pirate costume, with his boots kicked off and his shirt open at the throat, dark hair slightly wrecked from dancing.

It’s unfair, really. He looks like the stern captain in a historical drama who’d absolutely ruin someone against a ship mast and then apologize politely afterward.

Meanwhile, I’m over here dressed like a bisexual fever dream.

"I still think you cheated."

He glances over lazily. "At what?"

"The costume contest." I wave a hand in his direction. "You can’t show up looking like the world’s sexiest maritime tax collector and expect fair competition."