Page 71 of Snag
My Tempest always felt poised on a potential edge of pure power, but she’s ghosting the footsteps of divinity now.
I’m so, so fucked.
I’m not certain I can even form words. I press my handsto the desk to stop myself from stumbling up from the chair and throwing myself at her feet.
“Rath,” she says, crossing to set the photograph she’s carried up the stairs next to the one already on the windowsill.
I can’t look away from her, not even to see which photo, which memory contained within it, is worthy of being placed next to her first selection.
When I do finally manage to form words … well, one word … it comes out like a fucking benediction. “Zaya.”
Then the scent of her hits me.
My cock hardens further, balls tightening so quickly it fucking hurts. I stifle a growl. She’s all pungent wild mint softened by her vanilla base, but there’s something electric and feral underneath …
My nostrils flare. I draw deep breaths of that scent in, cataloging it.
Zaya glances at me over her shoulder. Her cheeks flush as she takes in my reaction. “The gryphon,” she murmurs.
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise before I can hide that reaction.
Her own eyes widen. Her hands fly up. “No … not like … that.”
My face flames. I’m not certain I’ve ever fucking blushed in my fucking life.
Zaya presses her fingers against her lips, quietly giggling.
She giggles.
Utterly content, utterly sated.
The universe reorders itself around me. Because in this moment, everything is just … right. Just as it should be, between us.
I hold out my hand, not entirely certain that I’m in control of my own limbs.
Zaya steps forward to take it, sliding her palm across mine. Energy shimmers in that touch, prickling over my hand and up my arm.
Then with a pretty pivot and a swish of that wet-dream of a gown, Zaya slides into my lap.
As if she remembers.
As if her body remembers.
The wooden desk chair groans beneath us. But she just perches on my thigh and stretches forward, setting her elbows on the desk to survey the books I have open across it.
“What are you researching?” she asks me, as if we haven’t practically been at each other’s throats for the last few days — all my fault.
I set my right hand on Zaya’s hip, compelled to touch her, anchor her on me, but managing to not simply grab her like a fucking beast would, pressing her full over the fucking desk, ass up, pussy bare for my tongue, my cock.
But it’s a near thing.
“I’m focused on awry manifestations now,” I say, keeping my tone low so my voice doesn’t come out desperate and needy.
Zaya’s essence dances under my hand on her hip, but it’s quiet, settled.
She leans farther forward to run her fingers along the spines of the nearest stack of books, reading the titles, I assume.
I don’t imagine running my hand up her back, then trailing my fingers along her arm. I don’t imagine capturing her hand in mine, bringing it to my mouth to inhale more of her scent from her wrist. Sucking on her pulse point …
