Page 140 of Unconditionally Yours

“Edible,” Benji adds, squeezing my thigh under the table.

I purr. “Are you two corrupting my sweet man?”

“His idea,” Rhys says dryly.

“He used to do naked finger painting as a kid,” Jett says.

“Apparently it was formative,” Rhys says, and I swear I hear the tiniest shred of envy. “Might be why he’s so well-adjusted.”

Benji chuckles and tugs me closer, my chair scraping until I’m pressed flush to his side. His palm lands hot and heavy onmy lap. “Sweet and innocent are not the same thing,” he says, eyes on me. “I’m sweet.”

I slide into his lap without breaking eye contact. “And I know you’re not innocent.”

Rhys looks like he might pass out.

Jett’s gripping his pint glass like he wants to throw it or fuck it. “Keep your hands above the coat,” Jett warns, voice gravel.

Benji raises both hands like a goddamn saint. “So. Arts and crafts. Chocolate paint. Maybe some stencils.”

“Rhys is a white chocolate kind of guy,” I add, batting lashes at him while imagining licking melted cocoa off his abs.

The server returns with our drinks. I grab a shot, toast no one in particular, and knock it back.

Rhys follows suit. Downs his like it’s medicine and I’m the disease.

Jett laughs and pushes his toward Rhys. “Have mine. You’re gonna need it.”

I’m drunk on it. Not the whiskey. Not even the thrill of being naked in front of them earlier.

I’m drunk on the way they look at me like I’m the center of gravity.

Benji’s got his hand on my thigh, staking a claim.

Jett’s watching it, jaw tight.

And Rhys is avoiding my eyes so hard I think he might combust. He’s thinking things he’s not supposed to. Drawing lines in his mind just to fantasize about crossing them.

I’m winning. I think.

How could I not be, I’m perched in Benji’s lap, full of pizza and dirty ideas, surrounded by my gorgeous, broken chaos boys.

And I’m shimmering.

Chapter Forty-Six

Rhys

She’s alive in a way you seldom see. Unashamed. Reckless. Vivid.

I chew slow, watching the way she melts into Benji. The way he feeds on her and feeds her, one cheese-dripping finger at a time. It’s obscene. Domestic. Intimate in a way that makes my teeth grind.

She’s not performing for him. That pisses me off.

He gets the unguarded version. Like he’s earned it. Like she’s decided, even if she doesn’t realize it, that she’s enough for him. As she is. No seduction, no chaos. Just her. That’s not lust. That’s magic. And magic’s dangerous in the wrong hands.

Jett’s watching too. Tight-lipped. Barely blinking. I wonder if he sees it. If he’s about to snap. He’s seconds from dragging her into his lap, claiming her in full view of the bar. And maybe that’s what she wants.

Same. God help me.