your skin is still warm.

the sheets are a little messy, your breath a little uneven, and he’s somewhere between lover and lunatic, head resting just below your navel, fingers grazing the inside of your thigh like he’s memorizing legal precedent written into your skin.

he hums. softly. mouth brushing your hipbone. “technically,” he murmurs, voice low and far too calm for what he’s doing, “this might fall under article 647(b) of the penal code. solicitation of desire.”

you blink, still coming down. “edgar.”

he ignores the warning. his mouth moves lower, slower. “but then again… i think it counts as entrapment if you walk around in my shirt knowing full well what that does to me.”

you laugh—quiet, breathless. he presses a kiss just beneath your ribs. reverent. shameless. “obstruction of justice,” he adds, “every time you tell me to stop and then pull me closer.”

he trails his fingers along your side, brushing the edge of your breast, slow enough to make you twitch. “you’ve violated at least three of my personal codes of conduct tonight.”

“you don’t have personal codes of conduct,” you mutter.

he grins against your skin. “i do now.”

and he means it. means every whispered conviction, every quiet ruling he murmurs as his mouth explores your body like it’s a closing argument he refuses to rush.

his hand slides lower. “also,” he says, thoughtful, like he’s trying to remember something important, “i’m pretty sure what i did to you earlier is technically illegal in six states.”

you choke on a laugh. “we don’t live in those states.”

“loophole,” he murmurs, dragging his lips across your inner thigh like a signature across a contract. “i’m very good at those.”

and the worst part? he’s not even trying to be sexy. he’s just him. brilliant, infuriating, utterly composed—worshipping you like you’re his favorite case study, built from blood and breath and very, very compelling arguments.

you reach down. thread your fingers through his hair. he kisses the inside of your knee like a man taking an oath.

“last crime of the evening?” he asks, voice rough now. “premeditated. with intent. and absolutely no remorse.”

you nod. already gone.

“good,” he whispers. “let the record show… i plan to break you slowly.”