Page 181 of The Lies We Play

Halston’s jaw tightens.

“You okay?”

“I’m okay.” My voice sounds ruined. “You’re just—fuck.”

“I know.”

“Arrogant answer.”

“Accurate answer.”

I would laugh if I had air.

He slowly pulls his fingers free, and I feel empty so fast it makes me reach for him. He catches my hand, kisses my knuckles, then reaches for the condom.

I watch him roll it on.

His hands shake.

That is what undoes me.

Not his mouth. Not his fingers. Not even the sight of him when he slicking himself with more lube—thick in his own hand, flushed and veined, precum pearled at the tip like his body has been telling the truth longer than either of us has. Not the way my body remembers taking him and wants it again, even as fear sparks through my nerves.

It’s his hands shaking.

Halston’s hands.

The same hands that can wield a legal argument like a weapon. The same hands that held my phone last night so Liv could watch me win. The same hands that know every bruise on my body and touch around them like care is not weakness but proof.

He is shaking because this matters.

Because I matter.

And somehow, that scares me more than his size. More than the stretch waiting for me. More than wanting him so badly that my whole body has gone quiet with it.

He lines himself up, one hand braced beside my hip, the other on my thigh.

“Ready?” he asks.

I nod.

His gaze narrows.

“Words.”

I swallow. “Yes. Just go slow.”

“I will, babe.”

He pushes in, just the head, and waits.

The stretch steals the air from me. My hand clamps around his forearm. Halston stops instantly, eyes locked on my face, his whole body held in check above me.

“Breathe,” he says.

I inhale.

He doesn’t move until I exhale.