Page 58 of Snag
Then, just in case I’ve missed her meaning — and I haven’t — she reaches to the side and, almost gently, cups my still-erect cock. I slide closer along the counter so she doesn’t have to reach quite so far. Understanding that despite her hand placement, Zaya isn’t coming on to me. She’s figuring a fuck-load of things out. But still, I need to be closer to her.
“We were just kids together,” I say carefully, drawing in the subtle wild-mint-and-creamy-vanilla scent of her that has nothing to do with her shampoo or creams. I know I need to be utterly honest. Always, but especially in this moment with her hand resting lightly over my denim-bound cock. Her trust is woven through that gesture and the question.
I’d love to just say yes, then press Zaya back over the counter and eat her out until she’s screaming my name, weak limbed and utterly satisfied. But a half-truth is not what she needs. Not what either of us needs. “So at first, no … just inseparable, enough to bother our caretakers.”
“Then …?”
“Then my cock started getting hard around you.”
She laughs quietly, taking a tiny sip of her shake. “And …”
“You wanted kisses.”
“Then cuddles?”
“Yes.” I can feel my heart beating. It’s still steady, but each beat feels deliberate, intent.
“Then …” She looks up at me, deliberately catching my gaze. Those violet eyes that practically weep with power rake over my face, memorizing me, taking me into her. “We figured out how to make each other come?”
I laugh, pleased it doesn’t come out at all shaky. “We figured out if we kissed and cuddled … vigorously … that it felt really, really good, and I had to change my shorts.”
She laughs, utterly delighted.
That joy aches through my chest, pained in the absolute best way. “We mostly did a lot of that … until we figured out how to sneak away long enough to remove clothing and pleasure each other deliberately.”
She blinks up at me for a long moment, perhaps absorbing the picture of a past I’ve tried to present as playfully as possible.
I lean forward slowly until I’m close enough to press my forehead gently against hers. “Your milkshake is melting.”
Her gaze flicks to my lips. Her hand tightens around my cock. “It tastes good that way too.”
I wait, perfectly ready to shift in whatever direction Zaya wants to go. I can’t imagine how fucking overwhelmed she must be, but I’m also so fucking thankful for Mack and his photographs. The younger Zaya might have taken anything I brought to her on pure faith, any scenario I spun, any game I wanted to play. But adult Zaya — both the fixer who roved the globe helping some people, destroying others, and collecting favors along the way, and now the Conduit … that Zaya isn’t going to trust so easily.
Not even me.
Not without those threads that Zaya expected to see connecting her to her soul-bound mate.
I can see it in her interactions with Rath. Other than at dinner tonight, they can’t be in the same room without sniping at each other. Rath, to my senses, clearly regretsevery fucked-up thing he says. Those words, demands, spoken out of the unfettered fear of losing Zaya again. All three of us already know what that feels like. And all the while, Zaya collects each stupid demand my brother makes, building a shield from them to be used against him.
Then there’s her almost painful indifference to Reck. Not that I’m currently a fan of my eldest half-brother. My own hero worship first fizzled when he abandoned us for the Authority. Then that admiration completely died when I uncovered his role in the death of our soul-bound mate.
Her apparent death.
Zaya releases my cock, tentatively touching my face instead. “Rought …”
“I’m fine,” I croak. “Sorry. I’m here. I’m fine. I’m never leaving you again.”
“You saw me die,” she says, as if she can read my mind. Or sense my thoughts. Maybe she can. “You said you were half-dead yourself.”
“I should have fucking crawled to your grave on shattered bones and with my fucking soul shredded,” I snarl, still so fucking pissed at myself. “I should have —”
“Gages are cremated,” she says, all matter-of-fact about it. “So … I suppose you could have stalked my body, then immolated yourself alongside it.”
“That’s the plan,” I growl, catching her gaze and holding it, even though I know she’s trying to lighten the mood.
She opens her mouth as if to protest, then just shakes her head at the promise she sees, maybe even feels, etched across my face.
“Milkshakes,” she murmurs, keeping us focused on the now. “And …” She tilts her head toward the TV niche. “A movie?”
