Friday night, and the mansion on the cove is full of the sea — the crash of it against the cliff comes through the glass with the heavy bass of the music inside, and the whole room smells of summer heat, rolling tobacco, and the sour bite of imported beer opened since noon. You are all in light clothes now: loose cotton pajama pants, thin shirts that do nothing to hide the ink and muscle of four chests. You sit in the middle of the wide leather sofa, flanked, small in a way that only makes you feel more watched.

Reeve Westbrook leans back, takes a long pull from his bottle, and fixes those dark eyes on you with a crooked, shameless smirk that trips your pulse.

he says, his baritone rough and low, and the room goes quiet all at once.

Brock Ashford is already leaning forward on your other side, the most territorial of the four, and he slaps a broad palm against his own thigh, once, loud, the invitation already made. Steele laughs, hoarse and easy, into his bottle. Sloan runs a hand back through damp hair and watches the door like he is counting the exits you have left.

Reeve doesn't wait. He deals the first card like a man closing a bet.

Brock's hand is still on his thigh, and he says it low, for you alone.