His gaze flicks to my chest and back. “Nice paws.”

My lungs expand with a quick breath.

I half-expected them to feign innocence, not instant, unapologetic, confirmation of what I already knew, but I don’t know why. They wouldn’t be standing in my dressing room right now if they gave two shits about, well... anything.

I frown, clutching the dress tighter. “How did you even manage to get back here?”

A rapt grin lights up his eyes. “We’re quite persuasive, and that seamstress chick is quite repressed.”

“I’m sure,” I deadpan. “Now get out of my dressing room.”

“Not until you get out of that dress.”

My ribs cave, my attention snapping over to the guy in front of my shoulders.

I’m met with hard-focused, bright blue, iced-over eyes.

“Fuck you.”

“Once you’ve earned it.”

My stomach clenches, and he lifts his chin.

“But back to what you’re wearing. Beretta’s right and you know it.” He boldly rakes his gaze over the length of the dress, which is nonexistent—it’s a mini. The apex of my thighs is where his focus freezes. “It does nothing for you.”

I roll my eyes and as if sensing the move, his snap to mine, a dark brow hiking high with slow surprise.

He kicks off the door, and as if his advance triggers an activate button, I’m suddenly the center of a cavernous carousel.

My pulse jumps with their synchronized movements, a hint of dizziness swathing over me as they loop around, and then I’m surrounded, the brassy-haired one having claimed the position at my front.

With the help of my heels, we’re near eye to eye, lip to puffy, perfectly-shaded lip.

“The dress.” His head falls back in full-on cocky boy quo. “Off.”

I swallow, flicking my gaze over his aesthetically pleasing but basic, and, once again, all black outfit with a scoff. “What are you, some kind of fashion guru?”

He watches me intently, his gaze strong and commanding. “I’m a guy who likes what he sees... and you’re ruining it.”

Following his response, another comes from my left, right against the hollow of my ear. “Don’t ruin it, Trouble.”

I fight the urge to blow cool air down my neck, fully committed to hiding how my blood is heating beneath my skin, but the goose bumps are beyond my control, and they are not missed by the beastly boy sharing my air.

In an attempt to breathe easier, I turn my head to the left, but it doesn’t help. Beretta stands too close to allow for a fresh inhale that isn’t infused with unwanted invitation.

Friction tickles my exposed shoulder to my right, and my focus shifts that way, my palms pressing more firmly into my chest.

This one’s yet to say a word, but his sensuous eyes speak volumes. They’re blue, as well, but darker, near navy in color.