Page 199 of The Wright Man

"I love drunk you. She's bold as hell. You were moaning my name in the middle of the kitchen. Fully naked. Didn't even blink."

I buried my face in my hands. "Tell me I didn't say anything else stupid."

He sipped his coffee. "Depends. You tellin' me to 'put you to sleep' count as stupid?"

"Oh my God."

"Or when you told me that the first dick you ever saw was mine?"

I dropped my fork. "I what?"

"You told me it was only a second, but quote—'still counts.'"

I dropped my head to the table. "Jesus wept."

"Also," he added casually, "you said it left a lasting impression. So… shout out to tenth grade me, I guess."

I was crying now. Cry-laughing. He was laughing too, but not cruelly. There was no judgment in it. Just affection. Deep, teasing, familiar affection that made the horror feel like something I could survive.

I picked my fork back up. "I hate you."

"Clearly, you don't. Not after you tried to climb me like a jungle gym."

"And yet you still didn't fuck me, after all that… Honestly? Rude."

Maleek leaned in, voice dropping just enough to raise my blood pressure. "Because drunk Angel doesn't get sober Maleek dick."

I blinked, throat dry. "And sober Angel?"

His smile curled slow and lethal. "We'll see."

I almost dropped my damn coffee.

He said it quiet, like a confession, but his eyes held mine steady. There was a weight there. Something tender and unsaid, wrapped in the safety of humor.

I swallowed. "Thank you, though. For not… taking advantage. For taking care of me. I know I was… doing the most."

"You were." He leaned back, still smiling. "But you were drunk. I wouldn't do you like that. Ever."

"I know. But thank you anyway."

He sipped his coffee, then added casually, "Had to jerk off twice and take a cold shower just to fall asleep, if that makes you feel better."

I choked on my toast. "MALEEK."

He shrugged. "That mouth was talking reckless, Angel. I'm not made of stone." He sipped his coffee like it was tea. "Plus, I thought you'd like the visual."

"I do not."

"You sure? You blushing."

I threw a napkin at him. He caught it with one hand, smug as hell.

"Asshole," I muttered.

"You love it."

I laughed, and somehow, the morning tilted toward soft again. The shame melted. The tension eased. He made it easy. Being here with him—being myself with him—was the easiest thing in the world.