Counselor, you’ve just entered into a binding emotional contract with no exit clause.
How does it feel?
Terrifying.
Also kind of great.
Mostly terrifying.
When we arrive, Thorne is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Sable. Ysela appears briefly to take one of my bags, gives me a smile that could mean anything from “welcome home” to “about time you stopped pretending you had other plans,” and then vanishes into the villa’s interior like she’s been waiting for this moment for weeks.
Corin carries the rest of my things up to the main suite.
His main suite.
Wait.
Ourmain suite?
God, I don’t even know anymore.
He sets my suitcase down near the closet, next to the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the ocean. Then he turns to face me. “Should we go to the clinic? The day’s still young.”
I open my mouth to say yes. Because that’s what responsible people do. They work. They show up. They don’t let external crises derail their professional commitments.
But then my gaze drifts to his unevenly buttoned linen shirt. Then to his crotch. Then back to his face.
“No,” I hear myself say. “No clinic today.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “No?”
“Nope.” I fold my arms. “I’m invoking opposing counsel’s right to a recess. We’re taking the day off.”
He cocks his head. “Are we?”
Cocks.
Love that word.
I cross the room, cup his face in both hands, and kiss him.
If our previous kisses were preliminary hearings, this one’s the final verdict. No appeals. No stays of execution. Just a clear ruling delivered mouth-to-mouth because apparently I’ve decided that kissing is my preferred method of legal communication now.
The bar association would be so proud.
He makes a sound low in his throat, his hands come up to grip my waist, and he kisses me back with equal intensity.
His lips are soft and demanding at the same time. He tastes like coffee and something uniquely him.
I pull back just enough to whisper against his mouth, “Bed. Now.”
“Amara.” His voice is wrecked. “Are you sure? It’s the middle of the day.”
“Do I look unsure to you?” I rasp.
Suddenly we’re moving.
He walks me backward toward the bed, his hands never leaving my waist, and I’m fumbling with the buttons on his shirt because apparently fine motor skills have left me.
