Going out with John as his date while cameras flash and people gawk is entirely different. I find myself feeling territorial, protective. I don’t like the idea of people watching and speculating over him.

John getting shit from his friends, however, is another matter. They constantly tease each other, but there is a closeness I love to watch and want to be a part of. I don’t yet feel like I’m one of them—maybe I never truly will be. But I’m good at faking it until I’m actually there.

I nudge him with my shoulder before reaching out to snag a slice of salmon sashimi with my chopsticks. “Feel free to defend yourself at will. Tell him about the awesome sex.”

This isn’t an exaggeration. Sex with John is feasting after a famine. I’m insatiable.

We’ve been together for three weeks now. Three weeks of being unable to keep our hands off each other for more than a few hours at a time. So much sex that, frankly, I am sore in places I’ve never thought about before. And yet, leaning up against the warmth of his arm, just touching the hard swell of his thigh, has me all twitchy and wanting to lure him into a storage closet to have my way with him.

I’m faintly flushed and light-headed with lust as he grins wide and evilly. “You are the best girlfriend ever.”

Girlfriend. The word, so easily uttered, lands like a dart on my tender heart. Which is just silly. It’s only a term, but it feels momentous—it feels like acceptance, safety.

I don’t know what John sees in my expression, but he gives me a big, wet kiss on my cheek, teasing and bolstering me all at once. He steals the last piece of dragon roll out from under Rye. “The thing is, Stells,” he says over Rye’s squawk of protest, “I know where all the bodies are buried. So Rye here really doesn’t want to mess with me.”

Rye blows a raspberry. “I’m so scared. Besides, I know where your skeleton closet is too.”

“You think I won’t show Stella?” John retorts with a smug grin. “Hell, I’m giving her a key.”

This surprises me for all of two seconds; then I realize John has never truly tried to hide his flaws from me. He’s pushed them in my face, almost daring me to run away. I might find that insulting except, in my own bumbling way, I’ve been daring him to do the same. Except it’s not because I want him to go, but to stay.

“Fair warning,” John says to me with mock seriousness. “It’s kind of dusty in there. I haven’t put anything in it for a while and I’m not one for cleaning.”

“Ah, and me with my dust allergies.” I give a dramatic sigh. “I guess I’ll have to take your word for who you are.”

John plants another sloppy, laughing kiss on my lips. Rye makes a gagging noise.

“I think they’re adorable,” Sophie announces to the table. She’s sitting on my other side, a massive Mai Tai in front of her that she’s been drinking with the enthusiasm of a mom enjoying a rare baby-free night out.

“Of course you do,” Rye says with a snort. “You think Scottie is adorable.”

Scottie lifts a thick brow. “I am adorable.”

No one can keep a straight face at that. Sophie’s nose wrinkles happily. “He really is,” she tells me. “You should see him when he’s watching Buffy. He wears the cutest Spike T-shirt—”

“Darling,” Scottie cuts in. His thick brows are now lowered over narrowed, icy eyes. And I’m guessing that’s his zip your lips or suffer the consequences look. Sophie simply blows him a kiss.

“I, for one, am an open book,” Whip states, leaning back to rest his arms along the sides of the booth.

At his side is Scottie’s assistant, Jules, who rolls her hazel eyes. “More like a porno mag.”

Like me, Jules has a scattering of freckles over her cheeks, but they seem contained to that spot. The rest of her skin appears to be a smooth, freckle-free expanse of sandy brown. I might have been envious of that before, but earlier, John made it his mission to lick all my freckles with slow, lingering strokes, and I’ve come to appreciate that I have them everywhere.

Whip smirks at Jules. “Ah, now, we all know that’s not true anymore. I’m all about self-love these days.” He reaches out and tugs one of the tightly coiled, lavender-colored locks that spray around her pretty face.

Jules swats his hand away and gives him a cool look. “Let me spell this out in simple terms so you’ll understand: do not touch my hair or you will lose a finger.” She sniffs in clear disgust. “Especially since you’ve gone and declared your hand-job habits.”

“Hey! I wash.”

“William,” Scottie deadpans, “Jules is the best assistant I have managed to keep. Do not drive her away by sharing your personal proclivities.”

“She’s the only assistant you’ve managed to keep,” Whip grumps. “Everyone else runs off crying.”

“This is true.” Brenna waves her chopsticks at Scottie. “If anyone is to blame for scaring employees, it’s Mr. Perfect Pants here.”

“I don’t scare easily,” Jules adds, but I don’t think anyone else is listening.

“I make no apologies for owning perfect pants. Or suits, for that matter.”

“He had a baby-barf stain on his lapel the other day,” John stage-whispers in my ear. “Very unseemly.”

Scottie’s eyes narrow on him. “Quiet, you.”

Whip scowls at Scottie. “And what’s all this proclivities nonsense? Since when did beating the meat or rubbing the bean become a deviant activity?”

“Beating the meat.” John snickers into his beer.

“Got a better one,” Whip counters with a brow waggle.

“Wanking the willy?”

“Charming the snake,” Sophie offers.

“Polishing the pearl,” Jules says.

“Tickling my treat,” Brenna adds.

“I’m becoming uncomfortably aroused,” Rye grumbles, which makes Brenna flush bright pink and hide her face behind the rim of her martini glass.

Scottie throws up his hands. “You all are pigs. Might we, just once, have a conversation about something normal, such as the unchecked state of our city’s potholes or, I don’t know, perhaps the stock market?”

The guys look at him as though he’s suggested they put on medieval garb and pillage local villages, but then Rye rubs the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “I hear beans are down a quarter.”

“Blue beans?” Whip asks solemnly.

Rye grins wide. “You know it.”

They high-five each other, and Scottie makes a noise of disgust.

“Oh, step off your pedestal, Scottie,” Whip protests, laughing lightly. “Everyone does the five-knuckle chuckle.” He looks around the table, his vivid blue eyes imploring. “Anyone going to deny it?”

It’s clear everyone here does indeed enjoy alone time, but no one says anything, leaving Whip to hang in the wind. And though I’m now completely on the Team John train, Whip’s exasperation is adorable.

I lean toward him. “I do it. All the time. Canoodle my kitty, I mean.”

There’s a beat of intense silence where the background noise of the restaurant swells to the fore, and all eyes are on me.

Then John bursts out with a short, happy laugh. “Oh God, you are perfect.” He cups my cheek and gives me a swift but softly melting kiss, his lips smiling as he pulls away. “Don’t ever change.”