The mission was simple: go undercover, blend in, gather intel. Easy—except for the part where you had to pose as a couple. And worse? Your “boyfriend” for the night was Rex.

He leaned against the bar, one arm draped over the back of your chair, legs spread like he owned the place. His cologne lingered in the air, mixing with the scent of expensive liquor. You could feel his eyes on you even before he spoke.

“Kinda funny, huh?” His voice was low, teasing. “Out of everyone, they had to pick us for this gig.”

He reached for his drink, the movement deliberate, fingers brushing yours in the process. Completely unnecessary. Completely intentional.

Then, as if testing just how far he could push it, his hand slid to your thigh, a slow, lazy touch meant to sell the act—but the way his fingers flexed just slightly told you he was enjoying it more than he let on.

He grinned, tilting his head slightly to murmur against your ear, voice dripping with amusement.

“Y’know, if you wanted to sit in my lap instead, I wouldn’t complain.”