“There’s a file?”
“Oh yeah. Behavioral flags, documented chaos, suspicious baking habits.” He kisses my jaw, my neck, the spot behind my ear that short-circuits my nervous system.
“If you’ve read my file, you should know this is exactly how mistakes happen.”
“I’m counting on it.”
I’m laughing and gasping at the same time, which shouldn’t be possible but apparently is when Saul Bennett is kissing his way down your throat.
“You’re making jokes,” I gasp, already halfway to full meltdown. “During this.”
“You started it.” He drags his mouth along my collarbone and I lose track of my entire ancestry.
“I always start it. It’s a defense mechanism.”
He lifts his head. Looks at me. Those blue eyes, soft and serious in the darkness. “You don’t have to defend yourself with me,” he says quietly. “You can just be here. Just be you.”
And fuck. There goes my chest. Cracked wide open like an egg in a frying pan I did not preheat emotionally.
“I don’t know if I know how to do that.”
“Then we figure it out together. Trial by hot marshal.”
I kiss him back before I can ruin it with another joke. For once, I shut up. And when I stop talking, I start feeling.
We undress each other slowly.
I push his shirt up and over his head, and fuck, I have to pause.
He’s not a gym thirst trap or a romance cover model. He’s better. He’sreal.Built like protection. Like someone who could take a hitandbake muffins after.
I want to press my entire body to his and see if it calibrates my nervous system.
A thin scar slices across his ribs and I reach for it before I think, tracing it with the backs of my fingers.
“Bar fight,” he says before I can ask. “Twenty years ago. I was young and stupid.”
“Jesus. You’re a walking origin story.”
“I was twenty, cocky, and allergic to shutting up.”
“Well good news, I find that hot.”
“I was a lot of things before I was a marshal.” He tugs at the hem of my shirt. “Your turn.”
I raise my arms. The shirt comes off. Cool air hits my skin, chased immediately by the warmth of his palms and the searing realization thatthis is happening.
He takes his time. His hands find my waist first, then drift like he’s memorizing borders he doesn’t want to violate, but will absolutely conquer if I let him.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
“I’m currently ninety percent nerves and yesterday’s dry shampoo.”
He dips his head. “You’re beautiful,” he repeats.
His palms curve over my hips, thumbs brushing the soft dip just above my thighs. “This is mine tonight.”
My whole body blue-screens. Brain error. Horny.exe has stopped responding.
