Page 49

“You want me to… sendherpictures ofyou?” I ask, my voice flatter than I intend, because my blood is spiking and my cock is already hard and I’m pretending this is just a joke when it’s so clearly not.

Luna nods like this is obvious. “You and me. We’re a thing. It’s not complicated.”

“It’s not?” I echo, stepping toward her before I can talk myself out of it.

She climbs onto the bed, moving on her knees with the kind of confidence that shouldn’t belong to someone so unbotheredby her own power. She poses—barely—stretching her arms overhead, hair falling over one shoulder, mouth parted just enough to look dangerous. She knows exactly what she’s doing. And I should feel in control here. This is supposed to be my territory. But she’s dismantling me with a fucking glance.

“Well?” she says, tilting her head. “Are you taking the picture or just planning on drooling?”

I lift the phone because it gives my hands something to do. I take a shot. Then another. My thumb keeps moving but my brain isn’t entirely present—it's spiraling between how much I want her and how little I’m supposed to.

Luna unclasp her bra, lets it slide down her arms. She tosses it somewhere I don’t care to look.

“Should I look smug?” she asks, crawling toward me now, hips swaying, eyes locked on mine. “Or desperate?”

I grab her wrist before her fingers reach my belt.

“You’re playing with fire,” I say, voice low, rough.

“Good,” she breathes, and leans in. Her lips graze mine, soft and slow, and she whispers against them, “I burn hotter.”

Then she kisses me with the kind of certainty that should scare me. Thatdoesscare me. Because it’s not just lust between us anymore. Not just the deal. The trade. The shared, selfish agreement.

This kiss says more.

But I don’t pull away.

I don’t stop her.

Because this is the one place I lose my mind and love it.

And Luna? Luna doesn’t just burn.

Sheconsumes.

She pulls back, laughing—quiet but sharp, biting like the edge of a secret. Her breath ghosts over my lips as she shakes her head, amusement bleeding through every movement, every word.

“You were supposed to take pictures,” she says, tugging the phone from my hand like I’m the one who’s lost the plot. “Ambrose,” she sighs dramatically, as if I’ve just failed at tying my own shoes, “we had a deal. I help you get rid of your ex. You don’t get sentimental.”

I want to tell her I wasn’t. That I’m not. But the words catch, curdle, calcify in the back of my throat.

She flips through the photos, critiquing them like a director reviewing footage—pausing to zoom in on one where her body is angled just enough to be tempting without being obvious, her mouth parted around a smirk that could sink nations. She clicks send without asking, and that’s what does it.

“You didn’t…” I start, already knowing she did.

“I did,” she says brightly. “Attached a little message too. Something about howIbelong to you now. Or maybe it was how you belong to me. Either way, it was hot.”

She tosses the phone onto the bed like it weighs nothing. Like none of this matters. But I can feel it. The shift. The way my chest tightens, the way the pull toward her wraps tighter, digging into bone. This isn’t part of the deal, but I can’t tell where the line is anymore. I don't think she can either.

She stretches out on the mattress, propped on one elbow, watching me like she’s waiting for me to say something clever, cut through the strange gravity between us with one of those barbed lines I’m so good at. But I’ve got nothing. My head’s still full of her scent, her mouth, the smooth press of her skin against mine. The heat still lingers under my palms.

“Relax,” she murmurs, voice velvet-laced with humor. “Just enjoy the win.”

I move toward the bed, slower now, like I’m approaching a dangerous animal I’m already half in love with. Her eyes never leave mine. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t tease.

“You keep making this harder,” I say, finally.

She grins. “And yet here you are. Still coming back for more.”