Page 16 of Reptile Dysfunction
“It happens.”
Laughter tumbles out, and something in his expression softens. One particularly bold snake—the iridescent one from last night—stretches toward me hopefully.
“They like you,” he says quietly.
“Just them?” The bourbon makes me brave. Or maybe it’s the way his eyes darken when I step closer.
“Sloane.” My name is a warning, but his snakes are already reaching for me, creating a cascade of shifting scales above us. “This isn’t smart.”
“Then maybe I’m tired of being smart.” I set down my glass and lift my hand to the waiting snakes. “Maybe I’m ready to follow what feels right instead of what makes sense.”
The snakes immediately move to nuzzle my palm, making pleased little sounds that their owner is definitely trying to ignore. “I came here for the truth, after all.”
“About what?” His voice is rough, and his eyes have taken on that dangerous amber glow.
“About why the most intimidating man in Harmony Glen keeps looking at me like he wants to run away.”
The snakes go still, then begin swaying in a pattern that makes my breath catch. It’s almost hypnotic, the way they move, drawing me closer until I’m definitely in his personal space.
“Not running.” His hands come up to rest on my hips, drawing me closer, chest to chest. “Protecting.”
“From what?”
“Fromme.” His thumbs trace small circles that make my skin tingle even through my clothes. “From the complications I bring. From your father’s disapproval. From Bradly Harrington III’s rejection. Take your pick.”
Reaching up, I trace the tribal snake tattoo on his arm, feeling the muscles tense under my touch. “What if I don’t want protection?”
A collective groan emanates from his snakes. “What do you want, Sloane?”
“The truth.” I meet his gaze steadily. “All of it.”
For a moment, he just looks at me, his eyes burning with something that makes my knees weak. Then his hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head with surprising gentleness. Without warning, he gives my hair a gentle tug that sends sparks skittering down my spine. Every nerve seems to lean into him, greedy and burning.
“Truth is,” he says roughly, “I’ve wanted to do this since you walked into my pool in those ridiculous shoes.”
Then his mouth is on mine, and the part of my mind that writes exposés shuts off completely. The first brush of his lips is surprisingly gentle—a question more than a demand. Butwhen I press closer, gripping his biceps for support, something inside him breaks loose. He kisses like he does everything else—with controlled power and absolute focus, a predator trying desperately to be gentle. And I’m the prey who doesn’t want to escape.
His snakes brush against my face and neck, adding layers of sensation that make me gasp against his lips. Some nuzzle, others flick curious tongues, creating a symphony of touches that sets every nerve ending on fire. When his tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting of bourbon and danger, my knees actually buckle.
His hand tightens on my hip, holding me steady as he deepens the kiss. The heat of his body seeps into mine until I’m not sure where I end and he begins. There’s nothing gentle about it now—it’s all passion and hunger and five years of enforcer control crumbling under the weight of whatever this is between us.
My fingers dig into his arms, feeling the shift of muscle under skin as he pulls me closer, eliminating any space between us. He’s so close I can count the flecks of gold in his eyes. The space between us is barely a breath, but it feels like a cliff I’m about to leap off.
One particularly bold snake wraps loosely around my throat in what feels like a possessive gesture, and the dual sensation of Thad’s demanding mouth and his snakes’ caresses draws a whimper from my throat. He growls in response—an inhuman sound that should frighten me but instead sends liquid heat darting low in my belly. God, why am I letting this happen?
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. His eyes have gone full amber, pupils contracted to predatory slits, and his snakes look as dazed as I feel, swaying drunkenly in satisfaction. The one around my throat gives a gentle squeeze before reluctantly unwinding. Just one kiss. Just one more, I tell myself, but my body isn’t listening.
I stay there for a beat, catching my breath, my heart still racing as I cling to his powerful shoulders. I don’t want to move. Don’t want the moment to end.
“That wasn’t exactly by the book,” I manage.
A laugh rumbles through his chest. “Going to put that in your article?”
“Which one?” I trace his jaw with my fingertips. “The official feel-good piece, or the truth about what happens when a journalist falls for the monster she’s supposed to be investigating?”
His eyes flash at the word “falls,” but before he can respond, my phone buzzes with an incoming call. The screen shows my father’s name, shattering the moment like a fallen champagne glass.
Reality crashes back. I’m supposed to be writing about monster integration and community harmony, not making out with an ex-enforcer in his converted water tower while running an anonymous blog exposing pre-Revelation secrets.
