I forget what I was going to say at the extraordinary sight of my husband framed against the wide-open window, nude from the waist up. He perches high on the back of the couch, which he’s swathed in gray blankets to resemble a giant rock.
His jaw-length hair ruffles in the breeze, glittery blue streaks matching the highlights he’s added to his beard. His oiled chest gleams golden under a triangular dusting of light brown hair that leads straight down to his…
Tail.
He’s wearing. A tail.
From the waist down—a generous description, because the tail hardly covers anything—Tobin’s bedecked in the tightest, stretchiest, sparkliest tube of fabric possible, capped with a wide, ribbed tail fin. He flips it at me, sending me a saucy wink when my gaze bounces from his fin to his eyes, skidding over lines of scale-shaped glitter tattoos on the way up his arms.
“Ah,” I choke.
He is… beautiful. Breathtaking, really, bending his raw sexuality into a bold new shape that is everything sexy and strong andpretty, everything powerful yet vulnerable, barely contained in a single package.
A flare of incandescent heat down low sends a warning shot of fire to my cheeks. “Jesus Christ. What have you… How did you even…”
He grins and flutters his outrageous fake eyelashes, accentuating the crystals that nestle along his eyelids. My mouth goes dry; my breath abandons me. He’s some kind of fantasy come true, looking at me like he wants to eat me whole and hold me forever.
I’ve never wanted him this badly. Never. And judging from the way his sparkly scales bulge in the front, he’s in the same boat. I watched a lot of bisexual pirate TikTok to get into character for this scene. Or I watched it because I like sexy birates. Butthis? I hope the birates are taking notes.
I trawl through my silent brain for remnants of the storyline, but they’re all gone, sunk by a rogue wave.
I have to improvise.
“Ahoy there,” I begin. Mistake. He’s no sailor, unless the navy has changed a whole lot since I last checked.
Gritting my teeth, I try to reset. Normally another player would jump in to help, but Tobin can’t say anything. I’m sucked down into a whirlpool of awkwardness.
Will I ever master joyful failing? Not today, clearly.
“Hello there, fair… person. What brings you to our shores?”
If he thinks I’m inept, he doesn’t show it. He hoists himself up to the windowsill, scales rippling in time with the flex and release of his sparkly washboard abs, drawn over his real abs. The fabric of his tail tugs against the gray blanket, pulling the spangles down far enough that a new shadow emerges at the waistline, where the first few millimeters of dick print are now just plain dick.
Coconut and salt cascade off him in an undertow that promises to pull me far out to sea.
He grabs a fork he’s stashed on the sill, running its tines through his sparkling waves of hair. I don’t think he realized the extent that glitter gel would mess up this stunt. The fork stalls halfway through his hair, firmly trapped in his eighties wet look. He tugs at the handle, panicky eyes meeting mine.
Mr. Magic Man screwed it up. Interesting.
I blink as something occurs to me: he’s got the power of surprise, and the sucker punch of his beauty. But I have words. I have the power of “yes, and”; the luxury of making mistakes and letting them go.
“Might I offer my aid?” My courage is bolstered by the way the words come out all smooth and shiny, with no stammering or hesitation. I saunter across the room, swinging my hips, my footfalls heavy and deliberate in the low-heeled boots. His nostrils flare as I approach, his tail fluttering apprehensively.
I’m myself, and I’m also the princess. And Tobin—this is a version of himself I haven’t seen him play. He usually feeds the conversation, accommodating others before himself. He doesn’t sit back andtakelike this. By the glitter in his eye I can tell it’s as strange and exciting for him as it is for me.
I could help him get the fork out of his hair and we could call it a day.
Or I can lean all the way into this and see where it goes.
“You’ve come a long way, merman. Looking for someone?” I shuck my vest and kick off my boots. Barefoot, I scale the couch-rock, one slow step at a time. Seduction is a hell of a drug; no wonder people risk rejection to try to get a hit of it. I’m high on his flushed cheeks and wide eyes as he nods yes.
Framed in the windowsill, summer sun outlining his gold-and-glitter angles, he’s half Norse god, half sea siren, all edible. And dammit, I’m hungry. I’ve been starving for years.
Something big swells inside me, smashing through every flimsy barrier I’ve put up against him.
I’m the princess of the realm. Lovesick subjects throw themselves at my feet on the daily. I’m the queen of scoundrels and no one man can hold my heart.
Although this one—I’d like to see him try.
