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“You could have done it to someone else.”

“That’s not how traffic law works!”

Wes, without looking up from his plate, said, “Young lady, pass the butter,” despite the fact that the butter was closer to him than to me. Somehow it sounded affectionate. I passed it anyway.

“So, Sam.” Delia turned to me with the focused attention of a woman who’d been waiting for her opening. “Tell me about your work. Tyson says you’re an interior designer?”

“I own a company in Charlotte. I have a manager running things while I’m here, but yes. Mostly residential. Some commercial.”

“She’s good,” Tyson said quietly beside me.

“You haven’t seen my work.”

“I’ve seen what you did to the cottage. It looked like it wanted to be demolished and now it looks like it wants to be photographed. That’s good.”

Delia’s smile turned soft at the edges. Rose caught my eye across the table and mouthed oh my God with theatrical delight. Finn opened his mouth, probably to say something that would get him smacked again, and Patrick shut him down with a look that must have worked wonders on suspects.

Through all of it, I watched Tyson relax into his family. Shoulders dropping, smile coming easier. The stammering version of him was nowhere to be seen here. He caught me staring and winked, and my stomach did the thing it always did when he looked at me like that.

“House tour!” Delia announced after plates were cleared. “Sam needs to see baby pictures.”

“Mom, no,” Tyson groaned.

“Mom, yes,” Finn countered. “Especially the naked bath ones.”

“There are no naked bath ones.”

“There are absolutely naked bath ones. Mom, where’s the photo album-”

“Upstairs. I’ll show her.”

Tyson dragged a hand down his face in the universal expression of a man who’d lost control of his evening hours ago. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. We walked around his house, and it was amazing to see how big and cozy it was. Eventually, the tour ended at Tyson’s childhood bedroom, baseball trophies still on the shelves, band posters on the walls. The door swung closed behind us, family noise filtering up from downstairs.

I loved to see this part of him.

“So this is where teenage Tyson…”

He kissed me mid-sentence, his mouth crashing against mine with a hunger that stole my breath, backing me against the door until the cold metal lock dug into my spine like a sharp reminder of the risk we were taking. The shift from the gentle dinner companion who’d passed me the mashed potatoes with a polite smile to this feral version was instantaneous, and it made my head spin, heat flooding my cheeks and straight down to my core.

His hands tangled in my hair, fingers twisting roughly in the strands, tugging just enough to tilt my head back and expose my throat, while mine fisted his shirt, knuckles brushing the hard planes of his chest as I pulled him closer until there was nothing between us but thin fabric and the raw, aching want pulsing through my veins.

“We can’t,” I gasped when his mouth found the spot below my ear that made my knees dissolve into jelly, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, sending electric jolts straight to my clit. “Your family is literally downstairs.”

“Then you’ll have to be very, very quiet,” he growled against my skin, the low rumble of his voice vibrating through me, traveling like liquid fire straight between my thighs, making my pussy clench with a fresh gush of wetness that soaked into my panties.

His hand slipped under my sweater, his rough palm skating up my ribs, calluses scraping deliciously over my smooth skin, thumb brushing the underside of my breast, teasing the swell just below my nipple. I arched into the touch, my back bowing off the door, a soft whimper escaping my lips as my nipple hardened into a tight peak, straining against the lace of my bra. He smiled against my neck, the curve of his lips hot and smug, and did it again, slower, deliberate, his thumb circling the sensitive flesh now, inching higher until it flicked over my nipple through the fabric, pinching lightly and drawing a muffled gasp from me.

“Been thinking about this all through dinner,” he murmured, his breath hot against my ear, the other hand popping the button on my jeans with practiced ease, the zipper rasping down like a filthy promise. “You sitting at my family’s table. Laughing with my mom. Wearing this sweater that’s been driving me insane because I can see the outline of your bra through it - those pretty lace edges hugging your tits, making me hard under the table.”

“You were looking at my bra through my sweater at your mother’s dinner table?” My voice came out breathy, scandalized but thrilled, my hips shifting restlessly as his fingers dipped inside the open fly, tracing the edge of my underwear.

“I’m a terrible person.” He didn’t sound remotely sorry. His tone was dark, amused, laced with lust as his fingers slid inside my jeans, over the damp cotton of my panties, and pressed firmly against my mound. The pressure was immediate, his fingertips grinding into the soaked fabric right over my clit, and the moan that escaped me was loud enough to echo in the small room, a desperate, needy sound that had him clapping his other hand over my mouth. His palm was broad and warm, muffling me instantly. “Quiet, remember? Or do you want my mom to hear how wet your pussy gets for me?”

Holy fuck.

I bit his palm in retaliation, teeth sinking into the fleshy pad just hard enough to sting, and he hissed sharply, his eyes darkening to near black, pupils dilating with a mix of pain and arousal that only made his fingers move with more intent. He pushed my underwear aside with rough urgency, the fabric bunching against my thigh as his fingers found me already soaked, my slick arousal coating his skin the moment he touched my bare folds.

Two thick digits slid through the slippery mess, parting my pussy lips with a wet glide, tracing the swollen entrance before plunging inside me, stretching my walls with a burn that made my eyes flutter shut.