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“Both of us?” I wanted to spend some time in the solarium before dinner.

He nods. “You and Lex can watch for the first hour. Make an appearance.”

“Put on a show,” I translate, even though the prospect isn’t quite as daunting when it’s Lex on the other side of it. He might be cold and frighteningly intense, but at least I won’t have to worry about him trying to fuck me.

“Call it what you want,” Wicker mutters. “Danner will come to take you home for dinner.”

I’m getting the distinct feeling that no one wants to go back to the Palace. “Fine. I won’t be long.” But I’ll take whatever time I have looking for resources on restoring the garden. Danner pointed me to some notes left by a former gardener, which led me to the library catalog and a book on heirloom seed propagation that should be in the horticulture section. It’s not a big genre here, just two rows on the far wall, and there are no windows back here, making it hard to read the spines.

Still, I pause when I hear muffled voices somewhere nearby.

Guess I’m not the only one interested in the subject.

I scan the books, pausing when I finally find the title. I hook my finger in the spine and pull it out.

“That’s it, sweetheart. God, you feel so good.”

I freeze, growing rapidly aware I’ve stumbled onto someone’s hookup spot.

“Harder,” a voice says. A female voice. It’s low and breathy and… oddly? Familiar.

Quietly, I creep down the aisle and peek around the corner.

“Like that?” Tristian Mercer has Story–the Lady, Queen of South Side–pressed into a small alcove along the back wall. His pants are unbuttoned, the top curve of his defined ass exposed as he thrusts into her. One of Story’s arms drapes over his shoulders, sharp painted nails digging into his crisp white shirt. The other is over her head, clutching at a shelf as her Lord’s hand wraps around her black cuff.

“Yes,” she hisses, but it’s less affirmation of how deep he’s going and more confirmation of how he’s making her feel. “Yes.Fuckyes.”

He watches her for a minute, eyes starry, until his head dips, swallowing a groan. His hand releases her wrist, sliding down to palm her breast. His motions grow more frantic, and he drops down, pressing tiny kisses against her chest.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs into her cleavage. “You know I like to feel you clenching around me.”

At the first cries of her orgasm, I duck away, pressing my back against the bookshelf.

My reaction to the scene is physical. Heart pounding. Blood thrumming. Belly twisting. The first flicker of life in days. Seeing that? The way he took care of her?

I’m not just horny from watching it, I’m jealous.

I don’t move for the longest moment, just listening as Tristian finds his release, and then the two of them fight to settle their breaths.

“I love you,” I hear him say over the pounding in my ears.

“I love you, too.” There’s the rustle of fabric. “I’m going to go clean up. Meet you by the stairs?”

“Fuck, I’d meet you anywhere,” he answers.

I don’t move until they’re gone, and when I step out of the stacks, I see her enter the bathroom. Tristian is already focused on his phone, and I’m out of sight of Wicker. I still double check, making sure no one is watching me before I follow her in.

Story’s yanking paper towels out of the dispenser when I enter. Her cheeks have a pink, post-fuck glow, and her eyebrows rise when she sees me.

“Don’t worry,” I assure, palms raised. “I checked. No one saw me come in.”

She relaxes, running a handful of paper towels under the sink. “Then can you look out for me?”

Nodding, I stand by the door, face coloring when she pulls up her skirt to wipe down her inner thighs.

“How have you been?” she asks, ducking her head to clean higher. I can’t help but get a glimpse of her pussy, waxed and pink. No panties.

I pull my gaze up. “Okay. It’s my period week. I get a little time off.”