Page 249 of The Lies We Play

Liv is between us, her back against his chest now, my mouth on her breast, my fingers tightening on his hip. His body is hard behind her. I can feel it in the way she reacts, the way her hips shift, the way her eyes go widen when he presses closer and she realizes exactly how much he wants this too.

“Hal,” she whispers.

Halston pulls back from her mouth.

He looks at me over her shoulder.

He says, “Lafontaine.”

“Yeah?”

“Bed.”

“Yeah.”

I bend and pick her up.

Her legs come around my waist. Her arms come around my neck. Her face, when I straighten with her, is closer to mine than it has been all night, and her eyes are open, cheeks dark, mouth swollen from us.

For a second, I forget where I’m taking her.

That happens with Liv.

She can be naked in my arms, her thighs locked around me, her breath warm against my mouth, and still manage to look at me as if she is about to ask whether I’ve eaten dinner, reviewed my travel schedule, and considered the long-term emotional consequences of whatever terrible idea I’m having.

I kiss her because I can’t answer any of that.

Not tonight.

Halston is already at the bed, pulling the covers back and draping them over the chair with the efficient focus of a man who has never once let desire make him careless. His shirt is gone. His hair is a wreck from Liv’s hands. His mouth is wet from kissing her. He looks up as I carry her closer, and his eyes drag over both of us.

There is heat there.

There is also reverence.

That is the thing about Halston. The world made him learn suspicion before it taught him tenderness, but when he gives tenderness, he gives it with his whole body. No decoration. No performance. Just attention so intense it feels like being held in a light.

I lay her down.

Liv’s hair spills across the pillow. Her knees part for me without her realizing it, then she notices and starts to close them. Halston’s hand lands gently on her ankle.

“Don’t,” he says.

Her eyes move to him, then to me.

“I wasn’t,” she says, too fast.

I smile. “You were preparing a strategic retreat.”

“I was assessing room temperature.”

Halston’s thumb moves once over her ankle. “Room temperature is fine.”

“It is absolutely not fine. It’s⁠—”

I bend and kiss the inside of her knee.

The argument breaks.