Page 108 of Nash
"Okay."
"Some couples live this way full-time. Others only in the bedroom. Some have contracts that outline every boundary, every expectation."
"Contracts?" I blink. "Like... legal contracts?"
"Not legal. Negotiated agreements. Limits, desires, hard stops. Everything discussed, everything consensual."
"Do we need a contract?"
"Not tonight. Tonight we use the three rules we already have." He holds up his fingers. "I set the pace. You say stop and everything stops. You don't come until I tell you to."
"That last one is going to be a problem in public."
"And one more for tonight." He holds my gaze. "You don't touch anyone but me. You follow my lead. If there's someone who won't speak to you, I'll tell you."
"Four rules."
"Four rules."
"I can handle four rules."
"You couldn't handle three in the supply closet."
"That was a hostile work environment. This is a controlled recreational setting. Completely different jurisdiction."
His mouth twitches. "Finish getting ready. Red lipstick. The dark one."
"You know which shade of red lipstick I own?"
"I know everything about your mouth, Ruby."
I close the bathroom door because I need thirty seconds alone with that sentence before I can function.
The dress fits. I didn't remember buying it, which means Candace probably snuck it into my closet during a shopping trip. Which means Candace saw this coming before I did. The fabric hugs my ribs, my waist, and my hips. The low back exposes my shoulder blades and the freckles Nash counted two days ago. No bra since the dress doesn't allow one. No panties, per his instruction, which means I'm standing in my bathroom in a black dress, heels, and red lipstick with absolutely nothing between me and whatever Nashville Sutton has planned.
The vulnerability hits differently than I expected. Electric. My skin hums under the fabric, aware of every inch of exposure, every movement sending a whisper of air against bare skin that normally has a cotton barrier. I shift my weight and feel the dress slide against my inner thighs, making my breath catch.
I open the bathroom door.
Nash is in the living room, and he is not wearing his cut. I stop walking. My hand grips the doorframe.
He's in dark jeans, boots, and a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, so his tattoos are on full display. The fabric pulls across his shoulders and chest. No leather or patches. No Sergeant-at-Arms. Just Nash in a shirt that turns his eyes darker and his jaw sharper, and the absence of the cut changes his entire silhouette into something I wasn't prepared for.
"I can't—" I press my hand to my chest. "I need a moment. Several moments. You can't just stand there looking like that without warning. There should be a siren. An alarm system. Something that alerts the general population that Nashville Sutton is wearing a button-up and rolled sleeves because this is a PUBLIC SAFETY ISSUE."
"Ruby."
"I'm not done. Your forearms. Your FOREARMS, Nash. In that shirt. With the sleeves. I've been fantasizing about your forearms for fourteen months and now they're just OUT, on DISPLAY, like you woke up and decided to ruin my entire cardiovascular system before we even leave the apartment."
"Are you finished?"
"I am not finished. I will never be finished. I am filing a formal complaint about your arms and your jaw and the way that shirt fits across your chest. The complaint is ongoing. The complaint has no end date."
He crosses the room. Stands in front of me. His eyes move from my face to the red lipstick to my neck to the dress to the hem to my heels, and the way he looks at me makes every inch of bare skin under this dress flush.
"You look beautiful," he says.
"You look illegal."
