I can’t even blame the trick flask and shots of lemon vodka when I stand up. My skin has a beat beneath it as I walk to the other side of my bed, his view of the cream carpet under my feet. I stop by the edge of the mattress in front of the full-length mirror leaning against the wall a few feet away. A sliver of reflection hovers at the top of the shot.

Foster’s throat bobs with a swallow. “What are you doing, Remi?” His voice remains a velvety rasp, enough grit in there to feel it.

“I’m using the mirror the right way.”

I slowly tilt my phone, his jaw tightening the higher I go until I reach the face paint mask.

The silence from him doesn’t make me self-conscious this time. Not when he licks his lips and the heat in his gaze sears through his reflection and phone screen.

“Shit,” he breathes after another second.

“Does the slutty fairy outfit do it for you like the school uniform?” I cock my head, and he glances up into his mirror, like he’s staring right at me.

“Screw the clothes. It’s you that does it for me.” His attention lowers to me again. “But you are beyond fuckable in that dress.”

My nipples pebble at the roughness surrounding his words, and I look at my own reflection. The red glow in my room absorbs into the black of my dress while bouncing off my skin, twisting highlights through the waves in my hair that fall over my shoulders.

“You said you’re supposed to be a slutty fairy,” he drawls, my attention returning to him. “Both parts of my sexy pirate are right here for your viewing pleasure. So far, I’ve only gotten hot fairy from you.” He steps closer to the mirror, cool eyes dragging me under. “Tell me, baby, have you been slutty?”

The last word drips with sin. Not at all the same out of his mouth as when it was spat as an insult earlier but pumped full of desire. Foster wants it, encourages it.

I slowly shake my head. “Not yet.”

Foster runs his thumb over his bottom lip. “Lucky for you, I’m here to help then.” He grabs a handful of the back of his shirt and tugs it off. His reflection stabilizes, assaulting me with smooth skin, ridges of muscles, and a curation of black ink.

Then he waits, his eyes locked on me without a word. He showed me his, and now it’s my turn. Not that I think he’d care if I didn’t. If I laughed or rolled my eyes, he’d probably smirk and show me the city from his balcony.