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Accidentally, my ass. You knew what you were doing.

Maybe that’s true. I thought I knew what I was doing at first—punishment, pride, just a little titillation for the tank—but then Paul fucked it all up again.

I felt the change during dinner. His voice lifted. Everything started coming out higher in his chest, close to his heart, not deep in the gut where it had time to brew.

He seems almost relieved with no clothes to hide under.

That’s great for him, but I’m still trapped in my own skin.

Being naked with him feels electric. I can’t look him in the eye without seeing every other part of him. Chest. Thighs. Mouth. The soft stretch of his stomach when he reaches for something.

My cock stirs.

In the mirror above the dresser, I look flushed and shaky and twenty kinds of foolish. I roll my shoulders. Inhale. Exhale. Try to will myself back into the rule-maker role, not the poor dumb bastard who invents traps and then steps right into them barefoot.

I’m still mad at Paul. I still can’t trust him. But I want to, and that’s my newest damn problem to deal with.

And I know I want more. Not going to lie about that, at least not to myself.

It isn’t going to happen. Even if some part of me has arranged the whole damn house to point exactly in that direction.

Paul is still by the pool when I come back, naked and newly house-ruled and apparently committed to making my life difficult just by sitting there.

Behave, cock. Don’t betray me twice in one day.

The glass door slides stiffly in the warm, wet evening. Humidity sticks to me like a second skin, and that should be a relief, but it just feels warm and comforting and sexy.

Paul twists to see me. I drop down beside him, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near controlled collapse.

Our arms rub together, bare skin on bare skin. The feeling blooms hot through my shoulder, down my side, across my ribs, and then takes way too long to fade.

I hold out the joint to him.

“Just so you know, I got this on the beach. I’m pretty sure it’s seaweed.”

Paul looks at it, then at me. His mouth curves.

“Weed, seaweed—not sure I’ll know the difference anymore.”

I hand him the lighter. “Be careful. Don’t suck the whole thing down.”

He laughs and rolls his eyes. “Why does every generation think they invented smoke?”

I watch him spark the end. The flame catches, lighting his cheek, his mouth, the little line between his brows as he concentrates on the flame.

This should not feel easy. After the shitfuck of this day, nothing should.

He inhales modestly, coughs once, then passes it back with great ceremony.

“Only eighty-percent seaweed.”

I laugh before I can stop myself.

Our fingers brush as I take the joint.

First hit feels like a mistake. Not a life-ruining one, which is refreshing considering the current theme, but definitely not good weed. It scratches down my throat with the subtlety of hot sandpaper and arrives in my lungs like a mild chemical burn.

And then the little rush. A thin, immediate slide of calm under my skin. Not enough to fix anything. Enough to cool my body by one degree and slow my mind by half a step.