Page 261 of The Lies We Play

I lie there for three whole minutes trying to be the sort of woman who can simply enjoy the moment.

I fail miserably.

The bed is too warm. Creed is beneath me, broad and solid and breathing deep, one arm curved around my waist like he fell asleep making sure I didn’t leave the country again. Halston is on my other side, face half-buried in the pillow, one hand resting near my thigh, not touching, close enough to remind me he could if he wanted.

They are both asleep.

I should sleep too.

Instead, I reach carefully for my tablet on the nightstand.

This is not a character flaw. This is scholarship with poor timing.

I open a new book—okay, it’s an old book but it’ll be my read for this week. The screen gives off a faint glow, pale against Creed’s chest, and I angle it just enough to read without blinding anyone. His skin is warm under my cheek. His heartbeat is slow beneath my ear. I prop the tablet on him because he is, objectively, the closest available reading surface.

He groans.

Not awake yet.

Not asleep either.

“You’re reading a book on me.”

“You are the closest reading surface.”

Halston, into the pillow on my other side, says, “Lafontaine.”

“Yeah?” Creed’s voice is rough with sleep.

“Why is she reading?”

“She is always reading,” he answers, with the calm of a man who has accepted the natural laws of our household.

“Why is she reading on you?”

“Apparently, I am the closest reading surface.”

I don't look up from the page.

Halston says, “Liv.”

“Yes?”

“Put the book down, baby.”

“In a minute.”

“Now.”

“Halston. I am at a good part.”

“The only way you’d know that is if you have read that book.” He argues.

“That is irrelevant.”

Creed laughs into my hair, low and warm, and his hand slides over my hip with the lazy entitlement of a man who has already been allowed everywhere and still chooses to ask without words. My skin responds before my pride can do anything about it.

I swipe the screen.