Page 762 of Lessons in Cruelty

She leans over the coffee table and rapidly shuffles the three mugs around like a street hustler running a shell game. Then she falls back against my chest, giggling silently just as Rooke reappears.

He’s put on a shirt, but the black tee stretches across his chest so tightly that it’s worse than when he was naked.

He stops at the edge of the coffee table. He looks at the three mugs. He looks at Haven’s shit-eating grin.

Without breaking eye contact, Rooke reaches down, picks up the mug on the far left, and hands it to Haven. He hands the middle one to me. He keeps the last one for himself.

Haven’s smile vanishes.

“Drink,” he commands, perching on the edge of the table opposite us.

Haven takes a cautious sip, her brow furrowing. “This isn’t espresso.”

“It’s an oat milk latte with hazelnut syrup, and you’re going to love it.” His eyes flicker to me. “Both of you.”

Haven just stares at him, the mug hovering near her mouth. “How the hell do you know what I’ll like?”

“I pay attention, Haven,” he murmurs, taking a slow sip of his own latte. “You wanted to drive your barely road-worthy car across town while high out of your mind. Instead, you’re going to sit there, drink your coffee, and wait for your blood sugar to stabilize.”

She glares at him over the rim of the mug, but she keeps drinking.

I wrap my hands around my own mug, grateful for something to do. The warmth seeps into my palms, but it doesn’t reach the cold in my veins.

Rooke is watching me. I can feel it without looking.

“You’re quiet,” he says.

“Tired,” I mumble.

“Hmm.”

That sound. That fucking sound. It brings back the memory of this afternoon—his throat working as he swallowed, his eyes locked on mine, that same mmm vibrating around my cock⁠—

I set the mug down too hard. Coffee sloshes over the rim.

“Careful,” Rooke murmurs.

“Fuck off.”

Haven’s head swivels between us, her eyes narrowing. “What’s going on with you two?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly.

“Nothing,” Rooke echoes, his voice maddeningly calm.

She doesn’t look convinced, but she’s too stoned to push. Instead, she drains her mug and stands up, sticking out her hand again like she did out on the porch.

“Okay. Coffee’s done. Keys, please.”

“You’re not driving.”

Her head lolls back before she snaps her neck straight again. “God, are you fucking serious⁠—”

She cuts off the instant Rooke stands. They’re less than a foot apart, yet she stands her ground, glaring up at him expectantly.

Not sure what the fuck she’s expecting, but she seems ready to tackle it head on.

And I don’t know what the fuck I’m expecting, because two sips of Rooke’s coffee apparently just cured my whiskey dick.