My Taboo Harem!

The elevator doors sighed open onto the penthouse.

Phei stepped out.

And he was singing.

Not humming, not muttering—full-throated, shameless singing. Some half-forgotten lullaby his mother used to croon over the dishes, resurrected from the crypt of his childhood and poured out now with the unbridled, ridiculous joy of a man whose entire worldview had just been gloriously detonated.

His body moved with it—feet gliding across the marble in lazy, perfect rhythm, hips rolling slow and filthy like he was fucking the air itself, shoulders loose, head tilted back, eyes half-closed in pure, stupid bliss.

Melissa loved me.

Melissa has always loved me.

What the actual, literal, ever-loving FUCK.

He found his house slippers by the entrance—those absurd black-velvet beauties with the little gold crest that Sierra had bought as a joke, swearing he'd never wear them. Joke's on her; they were the most comfortable things he'd ever put on his feet, and he'd fight a god in them if necessary.

He slid them on without missing a beat, spun once on the marble like a ballroom ghost, and kept dancing.

Past the leather sectional.

Around the kitchen island.

A playful little hip thrust near the bar cart that would have looked utterly deranged on anyone else but somehow, on him, just looked like confidence made flesh.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Audience acquired.

Sierra Montgomery stood living room arms folded under her chest in a way that did criminal things to the shirt she was wearing.

My shirt.

Only his shirt.

Fuck, my girl's... hot, when's she never hot?

A crisp black dress shirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows, tails brushing mid-thigh and gaping open at the collar just enough to reveal the soft, shadowed inner curves of breasts that were—objectively, scientifically, divinely—perfect.

Full, high, impossibly lush, the kind of breasts that made men write poetry and then immediately regret their life choices. Dark nipples pressed visibly against the thin fabric, hard and begging for attention, because of course they were.

The shirt was unbuttoned far enough that every breath threatened to spill her completely, and when she shifted her weight—hips cocking in that signature Hell-Bitch-Queen stance—the hem rode up to flash the smooth, bare curve where thigh met heaven.

No panties.

Of course.

The Hell Bitch Queen of Ashford Elite—terror of teachers, destroyer of reputations, the girl who could make a grown man apologize for existing—was standing in his penthouse, barefoot, bare-everything-else, wearing nothing but his shirt and an expression that said she was two seconds from either murdering him or climbing him like a tree.

God, he loved his life sometimes.

"Dancing," Phei said, as if this were the most natural explanation in the world. As if men routinely tangoed solo through multimillion-dollar penthouses while humming lullabies to their traumatized inner child.

"Why?"

"Because I'm happy."

Sierra's perfectly arched brow climbed higher. "You're never happy. You're smug. You're sexually satisfied. You're occasionally homicidal. But happy? That's new. What happened? Did you finally murder Danton and hide the body?"

"Not yet." He crossed the distance in three lazy strides, still moving to the ghost of the music in his head. "But the night is young."

He stopped just in front of her.

Close enough to smell her—vanilla and sin and that faint, expensive perfume she wore that always made his cock twitch.

Close enough to see the way her pupils dilated when he looked at her like this.

Close enough to watch her thighs press together, just slightly, like she was already wet and trying to hide it.

"Then what?" she asked, voice softer now, curiosity winning over sarcasm.

Phei didn't answer with words.

He just smiled—that slow, devastating smile that turned her knees unreliable—and reached for her hand.

Spun her.

Sierra yelped—a sharp, startled sound that was half-laugh, half-indignant gasp—as he pulled her into him, one arm sliding around her waist, the other catching her hand in perfect dance hold.

The Hell Bitch Queen of Ashford Elite—the girl who had once allegedly made a teacher quit mid-semester through sheer psychological warfare, who could reduce legacies to tears with a single raised eyebrow—was spun like a ballroom doll and dipped low, back arched, hair spilling toward the floor, his shirt riding up to reveal the bare, perfect curve of her ass and the glistening proof that yes, she was always soaked for him.

She came up flushed, breathless, eyes dark with want.

"You're insane," she whispered.

"Only on days that end in Y."

He pulled her closer—chest to chest, hips to hips—and started moving again. Slow, deliberate steps that had nothing to do with any real dance and everything to do with the way her body fit against his.

And then she was in his arms.

One hand captured in his—fingers laced tight, like she was afraid he'd vanish if she let go.

The other finding his chest on instinct, nails digging in just enough to remind him she was still the Hell Bitch Queen beneath the laughter and trusted him.

Her body pressed flush against his—warm, impossibly soft, smelling like his soap because she'd apparently colonized his entire bathroom and decided his scent belonged on her skin now. The shirt—his shirt—clung to her curves in all the right ways, gaping open at the collar to reveal the lush, heavy swell of her breasts, nipples dark and hard against the fabric, straining like they were begging for his mouth.

Every breath she took pushed them closer to spilling free, and when she shifted, the hem rode up to flash the smooth, bare heat between her thighs—glistening, swollen, already wet for him.

"Phei, I don't know how to—"

"You do."

"I really don't—"

"Your body does. Trust it."

He led her through the steps—tango, because he was feeling dramatic and she was built for sin—and Sierra, for all her protests, followed.

Some overpriced childhood instructor had drilled these movements into her muscle memory, because the moment he took control, her body remembered. Hips swaying slow and filthy, spine arching into the dip when he bent her backward over his arm—

"Fuck," she gasped, hair cascading toward the floor like dark silk, throat exposed in a perfect, vulnerable line, chest heaving so hard the shirt gaped further, one nipple slipping free—dark, tight, begging to be sucked. "Warn a girl."

"Where's the fun in that?"

He pulled her upright, spun her out, spun her back in. She was laughing now—genuine, surprised, almost hysterical laughter that transformed her face from intimidating ice queen to radiant, flushed goddess experiencing pure delight.

It was a devastating look on her.

"I've never seen you like this," she managed between spins, voice breathless, breasts bouncing with every turn. "You're actually—you're happy. Really happy. It's terrifying."

"Imagine how I feel."

"What happened?"

"Later."