Never stopped.
She’s not just on my mind—she’s everywhere in it, threaded through every thought whether I want her there or not. Like she’s claimed the space and settled in. If it’s like this for me—someone who’s only just met her—what the hell must it be like for Reid? His feelings have history behind them, roots that go deeper than mine, even if he’d rather choke than admit it. As for Talon… yeah. He’s in this too. No question. The way he snapped earlier wasn’t about pride. That was something else. Something deeper.
What a delightful fucking mess.
I drag a hand over my mouth, exhale slowly, and let my head tip back for a second before forcing myself upright again. Where the hell do we go from here? None of us want to hurt her. None of us want to blow this up between us either. But it’s starting to feel like those two things can’t coexist. Keeping our distance hurts her. Getting closer—fighting over her—hurts her too.
The idea slips in out of nowhere.
You could share her.
I huff under my breath and shake my head, shifting in my seat, the leather creaking faintly under me. Not a real solution. Not this time. Yeah, I’ve shared women with Talon before. More than once. But those were easy. Clean. No feelings, no stakes beyond a good time. This is different. This is a woman I actually give a damn about. A woman I nearly tore into one of my best friends over.
But still…
Would it really be so bad?
“Bah.” I drain my drink. Reid glances at me, but I don’t meet his eyes. I just stare down at the empty glass, shaking my head. He goes back to his own. I catch the bartender’s eye and nod. He nods back, already reaching for the bottle and two fresh glasses.
That’s the worst part. This didn’t build slowly enough for me to see it coming. At first, it was simple. Attraction. Easy conversation. I liked being around her. She liked being around me. It felt uncomplicated.
Then it shifted. Quietly.
Maybe it was those nights we talked about our pasts, sitting side by side with nothing but open space around us, realizing we carried some of the same scars. Maybe that’s what did it. Maybe it’s just a trauma bond.
Except… no. That doesn’t track.
I’ve had clients open up to me before. Some of them with stories a hell of a lot darker than hers. I’ve sat with them, listened, shared pieces of my own shit in return. We’ve had those moments—passing a blunt back and forth, talking about things most people don’t say out loud.
But I always knew where the line was. Always kept it there. Never crossed it.
So why her?
Is it because we slept together first?
I stare at the fresh drink as it’s set down, the ice catching the light. In hindsight, maybe that should’ve been the warning sign. I’ve never crossed that line with a client before. Not once. But with her… I didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Didn’t pull back.
It just happened.
Fast.
Too fast.
And the feelings followed right behind it, building in the background until suddenly they weren’t background anymore. I only really clocked how bad it had gotten these last few days, when being around her without acting on it started to feel like pressure under my skin. Like something waiting to snap.
It’s torture pretending this is just friendship. Pretending I don’t notice the way her eyes linger, the way her body reacts, the tension that builds between us when we get too close. Pretending I don’t want to lean into it, push it further, see how far she’ll go.
She’s got a hell of a sex drive. No denying that.
And I fucking love it.
I love the way she responds, the way she gives as good as she gets. I love teasing her, pushing her just enough to get that look out of her. I love having her under me—and I love the quiet moments after just as much, when she softens, when she lets herself settle.
That’s the problem.
Because at the same time, I’m supposed to be the one helping her. Keeping things steady. Not complicating it with my own bullshit.
So, I did what I always do.