Page 73 of They Are Mine

Because men have fragile egos.

And I take care of what’s mine.

Noah twirls his fork against his plate, thoughtful. “So tomorrow,” he says, “What are you gonna do? Just walk up and say hi?”

I reach out, smoothing my fingers along his jaw. “He’s a protector,” I murmur. “I’ll speak to that side of him.”

Noah exhales, but his shoulders relax under my touch.

I change the subject. “Tell me about your day. Did you finish the song you were working on?”

Noah’s whole face lights up, and God, I love that.

He’s such a beautiful singer, such an incredible songwriter. A poet at heart.

And it’s all for me.

“I should be ready to play it for you this weekend,” he says.

For me.

Because every song he writes is for me.

I squeeze his hand. Ground him. “He’s not going to change this,” I say, my voice sure, steady.

Noah’s fingers twitch in mine.

“You’re good with this, right?” I press, tilting my head. “Because you know I would never do anything to hurt you.”

Noah looks at me, his gaze soft, unwavering. “I know,” he says.

He says he knows.

That he trusts me.

That Orion won’t change anything between us.

And maybe that should be enough.

But I need to feel it.

Need to hear it in his breath, his moans, the way he shakes when he’s inside me.

I shift closer, my fingers still curled around his hand, my thumb stroking slow, teasing circles over his palm.

He notices.

His breath catches, just for a second, before he swallows it down.

I watch him. Feel his pulse in his wrist.

His jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t pull away.

Because he doesn’t want to pull away.

“You’re tense,” I murmur. I lift his hand to my lips, press a soft, lingering kiss to his knuckles, then lower my voice, sultry and sure. “Let me help you relax.”

Noah’s eyes darken.

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