The second she walked out of the bathroom in that red and blue jacket, teeny shorts, and that damn “Daddy’s Lil Monster” top, I knew we were going to have a problem.

Or I was.

Because how the fuck was I supposed to concentrate on anything when my girl looked like a walking, talking fantasy?

“You’re gonna get me arrested,” I muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed, temporarily forgetting the green hairspray I was meant to be dousing my hair with.

She twirled once, baseball bat slung over her shoulder, red lipstick smudged just right. “You said couples costume. I delivered.”

“Yeah, and I said Harley Quinn and Joker, not Harley Quinn and Joey-fucking-Lynch-going-into-cardiac-arrest.” I stared at her, jaw slack. “You really had to go all in?”

She grinned, stepping between my legs. “You love it.”

Of course I did. I was obsessed with her. Always had been.

I slid my hands along the fishnets running up her thighs, giving her a look. “You’re not leaving my side at this party.”

She rolled her eyes. “Protective much, Mr. J?”

“Don’t call me that.” I smirked, finally grabbing the can of hairspray and shaking it. “Unless you want me to bend you over this dresser and make us late.”

She honestly did look good enough to eat tonight. Maybe I’d have a taste before we leave.