Page 57 of Snag
“Double chocolate,” I say, managing to ignore my compressed cock and thankful I’m wearing jeans with a bit of stretch rather than sweat pants. I flip up the sound baffle on the blender, pouring our shakes into the waiting, previously chilled glasses. “I added chilled hot fudge sauce to your dark chocolate ice cream.”
“Yum,” Zaya says. Then, indicating the blender, “Fancy.”
“It was still in the box in the cupboard,” I say, pouring the second glass. “When did Disa get the kitchen renovated? I don’t think even half these appliances have been used. The counter configuration is new, and at least one wall has been removed.”
A thicker clump of melted ice cream slides over the rim of the blender jar, causing the milkshake to overflow. I set down the jar, reaching for a tea towel to —
Zaya leans forward and licks the oozing, creamy chocolateice cream up the side of the glass. More overflows the rim, and her pink tongue darts out — twice more — to stop the flow.
I’m utterly mesmerized, clenching the tea towel in one hand as if a scrap of fabric has any chance of anchoring me. My balls tighten so abruptly I nearly fucking come in my fucking jeans.
Zaya, still not touching the glass with more than her mouth, takes a long, slow sip of the milkshake. “I guess I’ve claimed this glass now?” she says, laughing quietly, flicking her gaze up to meet mine for a brief moment before returning it to the milkshake. She runs her tongue around the rim, clearing every errant drip. “Tasty.”
I don’t answer. I can’t fucking answer. All the fucking blood that should be circulating through my brain, fueling higher functions like speech, has diverted into my ridiculously hard cock.
I attempt to keep it, to keep all of this under control.
The atmosphere doesn’t help. The low lighting in the kitchen. The blankets I’ve already thrown over the sectional couch in the TV niche in the adjacent family room. A couch that’s more than big enough, with a few cushions removed, for me to fuck Zaya properly, the two of us stretched out over and tangled together on it.
I’ve been living a half-life. My cock only stirring when I reached for it in the lonely dark, the stale nothingness, the void that stretched within and without me since losing Zaya. Jerking off to memories that wouldn’t fade.
Zaya glances at me, brow pursed adorably in an unvoiced question.
I let my head fall back, groaning slightly.
“Is everything …” She inhales sharply.
I risk peeking at her.
She’s staring at my straining erection. Fixedly. Then she tongues the corner of her fucking mouth. Maybe licking off a remnant of the milkshake, but …
“Looking at it isn’t going to help,” I mutter.
Zaya’s eyes shoot up to mine.
And thank fuck, there’s nothing wary or fucking tentative in that look.
A playful, knowing smile quirks the edges of Zaya’s lush lips. Still holding my gaze, she reaches over, picks up her milkshake, and takes a large sip, easily draining a third of it. Then, like an utter brat, she tops her glass up with the remaining milkshake in the blender.
“It’s like that, is it?” My voice rasps with suppressed desire, though Zaya’s playfulness actually eases the intensity literally grabbing me by the balls.
“Most definitely.” She flashes a grin my way, settling her hip against the counter to take in the space around us. “I’m not certain when Disa renovated. Nor why.”
Right. I was talking about the kitchen. “These used to be multiple rooms,” I say, reaching for my own milkshake.
“The rest of the house hasn’t been touched.”
That’s voiced with a hint of a question, though it’s more a snag in her energy than anything uttered out loud.
Zaya doesn’t remember the house. Not well, at any rate.
My chest pinches. For her, for us. Ignoring it, I sip my shake. Despite my still-jutting erection, I lean deliberately back against the counter, stretching my legs out. Open, relaxed, easy. Steady and true, for my mate. “And the furniture isn’t …”
“Dusty and old?”
I laugh. Nothing was ever dusty in Disa’s house, though I suspect it was Ingrid’s magecraft that kept it that way. But it was as far from modern as a house with running waterand electricity could get. On the North American continent, at least.
“Was it always like that?” Zaya asks quietly, still looking at the open-concept great room instead of at me. “Between us?”
