Page 5 of The Lies We Play

Then he kisses him.

Not hard at first.

That would be easier for both of them.

No, Halston kisses Creed as if he is answering a question Creed was too proud to ask twice. As if he is putting the word ours directly into Creed’s mouth. His fingers tighten at Creed’s nape, and Creed makes this low, wrecked sound he would deny under oath and possibly litigate if I mentioned it at brunch.

I stop breathing.

Creed’s hand finds my knee without looking. His palm closes there, holding on to me while Halston kisses him deeper, while Creed gives in by degrees, all that brutal self-control turning molten in our living room.

Halston tilts Creed’s head back.

Creed lets him.

That part gets me every time.

Creed, who can take pain with a smile cruel enough to scare grown men.

Creed, who can bleed and call it inconvenient.

Creed, who has built a religion out of pride.

With Halston, he yields like it costs him everything.

With me, he pretends it costs him nothing.

I reach out before I can talk myself into being dignified, which is good, since dignity has never once improved my life. My fingers brush Creed’s jaw. His skin is warm, a little rough from the day. His breath breaks against Halston’s mouth, and then Creed turns just enough to catch my fingertips with his lips.

There.

That small contact.

That devastating inclusion.

He hears the breath I try to hide. Of course he does. Creed hears everything I don’t want noticed and stores it somewhere behind his ribs, probably alphabetized, probably in a folder labeled “Livia: Emotional Liabilities.”

Halston pulls back only enough to look at me.

His eyes are dark—possessive.

Tender too.

A terrifying combination for a woman who already has poor impulse control around complicated men with tragic souls and excellent hands.

“You okay over there, wife?”

I hate how much I love that word in any sentence—even in questions.

“She is,” Creed says, lips brushing the side of my neck. “She likes it when we forget the law is stupid.”

“I like it when you both stop talking about the law,” I say, though my voice betrays me with need.

Halston smiles. “Mrs. Saint Claire has opinions.”

“Mrs. Saint Claire has two men with catastrophic boundary issues.”

Creed laughs against my skin. “Catastrophic?”