Текст книги "Mate"

Автор книги: Ali Hazelwood

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

It’s nightmare fuel.

The rest of the shopping trip is marvelous. It’s my first time walking around in public since before my abduction, and I can almost make-believe that my life hasn’t changed in every way. I could be Serena Paris, journalist for The Herald. This could be the store closest to my apartment. The brands are different, the junk food selection is appallingly limited, and I cannot help giggling at the size of the fur-care section. But overall, there is something delicious about discovering that Weres like goldfish crackers, too– except theirs are shaped after the phases of the moon.

The box says Lunar Bites, and I text Misery a picture. But are they peanut butter? is her response.

I buy ingredients for a few of the dishes I enjoy cooking, more out of habit than hunger. A couple of people introduce themselves and shake my hand– nice, if unpleasant. I read the back of a bone-health supplement jar. Study the herbal teas. Feel the texture of every single blanket they have for sale. Pick up a candle. Smell it– lavender, vetiver, a hint of vanilla. Decide that I love the scent and inhale it again. Put it back on the shelf. Investigate pillows I don’t need, find the softest, and rub my face against it.

It’s so mundane and wonderful and cozy, the banality of the supply chain. The quiet thrill of BOGO sales. The rack of sparkly unicorn ears that Ana would totally squeal at. Koen follows a few steps behind. I think he wants to be discreet, give me space, but I don’t need much in terms of feminine hygiene products, because I’ve never had a period. I’m okay with using his shampoo– he smells really, really good– and he already gave me a spare toothbrush. Moisturizer feels like a hassle. I used to be a sunscreen evangelist, and truly believe everybody should use it, but people like me (i.e., those who won’t live long enough to develop melanoma) are exempt.

“It was nice,” I tell Koen in the car.

“Grocery shopping?”

I nod, unsure how to explain that I haven’t felt this normal and grounded in forever.

“If this is a beloved pastime of yours, you may continue doing my grocery shopping. At no cost to you.”

“Cool. I’ll be in charge of buying your– ”

“Unicorn waffles. Look at you, holding on to jokes like your life depends on it.”

It’s what I’ve got, I think. I lean back against the headrest, roll my chin up to look at him. “Thank you for– ” I immediately start laughing when he begins to protest.

“I told you to– ”

“Come on.”

“– just dust the goddamn fixtures– ”

“Listen, just . . .” I rub my eyes. He immediately falls quiet. “Do you think the Vampyres know I’m here by now?”

“I’m certain.”

I tilt my head. “Are you ever not?”

“Not what?”

“Certain. Are you ever insecure?”

“Not really, no.”

“Is it an Alpha thing?”

He shrugs. No. I think it means It’s a me thing. You’re welcome. The conversation pulls a little laugh out of my mouth, even though it never even happened. What a florid internal life I have.

“Well,” I say, “here’s hoping that it’ll rub off.”

He shakes his head and reaches out to me. His rough, warm fingers push a few strands of hair behind my ears, and heat glows in my belly. Up my spine. Zaps at my brain, like a lightbulb turning on.

It’s an odd thing for Koen to do. It surprises him as much as it does me, I think, but he doesn’t pull back. It’s like the rest of the world has taken a break from existing. It’s just us.

“Actually,” I whisper. “I had an idea. To show the gratitude I cannot verbalize.”

“We already discussed it.” His voice is a low murmur, too. “Dusting.”

“The problem is, you do not own a duster. You barely own fixtures.”

“I’ll buy more useless shit. To keep you busy.”

“No, I was thinking, what about . . .” It’s my turn to reach out, and he’s obviously not used to this– to people, to me, initiating physical contact. Guess that’s what happens when you’re the predator at the apex. Not a lot of spontaneity and liberties taken.

But he doesn’t jerk back when I tug at a wisp of hair brushing against his neck. “What if I fix this mess? Give you a makeover.”

“A what, now?”

“You know. The issue we discussed with Carter. The one where you look like a medieval peasant who’s about to die of the whooping cough. I’m a pro.” I might be coming undone. Or maybe some very dumb spirit has possessed me, because I let my wrist drag against the skin at the base of his throat, as if to . . . as if to rub off on him? More, my instinct screams at me. More. Make him smell like you. But Koen’s breathing speeds up, and he twists his head away after shuddering in something that could very well be revulsion. I force my arm to retreat. Clear my throat. “At the very least, I’m a very experienced amateur. Misery had a mullet phase.”

“Uh– huh.” He sounds raspy. “Was that before or after she scrambled your brain?”

“During, probably.” When did he start the car? It’s hard to think in here. My brain feels fuzzy. “Anyway, I can do you, too.”

He winces. Runs a hand down his face. “Do you even fucking hear yourself?”

“And I can shave you! I mean, I used to shave my legs, back when I made an effort to look presentable. All the time. Well, not all the time, just before dates, but I’ve never nicked an artery. That I know of.”

“Reassuring,” he grumbles, putting down the window. Fresh air blows inside the car, and we both take deep breaths. I feel instantly more clearheaded.

“Please. Let me make you pretty.”

“I’m already pretty. I’m fucking stupendous.”

I sigh. “Oh, if only you could use suppositories to– ”

“To cure my malignant narcissism?”

How does he always know? “Listen– I just want to make you presentable. You said that you don’t have time to go get a haircut, but I’m already in your house, and you’re my live– in nanny. Think of the ease.”

“Has anyone told you that you’re kind of a nuisance, killer?”

“A guy. Once or ten times.” I grin. “But I could be so much worse.”

“I’ll take it as a threat.” The car stops. Somehow, we’re back at his cabin. Excellent awareness of your surroundings, Serena. “I have to go meet someone,” he tells me, taking the bags inside. The only thing left for me to carry is Ana’s unicorn headband, which is already shedding glitter around Koen’s trichromatic home.

“Who?”

“A friend. It’s about your necklace.”

“Ah. Have you discovered who dropped it off?”

“I have not, which is a problem in and of itself.”

“So it’s not . . . The mother thing . . . ?”

He sighs. “I don’t know yet. I’ll be back in a few hours. If anything weird happens, anything, call my phone. And yell. Amanda is watching the northeast, and Colin the southwest.”

“What about attacks from above?” I tease. There are no chairs in the kitchen, so I try to lift myself onto the counter, but it’s too tall. “No werestork second on air patrol?”

“If a bald eagle dove in from the sky to abduct you, my life would be so much easier.” His hands close around my waist. Lift me up like I’m a feather. “And fine– I’ll get more goddamn furniture.” He lingers for a fraction of a second, his nose hovering by my temple, and I hear a deep inhale. A slower exhale. A gust of warmth against my heated skin. My forehead wants, demands, clamors to lean forward and kiss Koen’s collarbone. I manage to hold it back long enough for him to step away, and for the possibility to be removed.

Safer this way.

Remember? How he said that he didn’t care about you? When he called you a spoiled little girl? It was less than twenty-four hours ago. He’s not nice.

“I’ll get everything ready, then,” I yell after him as he saunters off. “For our little spa session.” He flips me off without glancing back. And it’s not until later, when I’m unpacking the bags and going through what we bought, that I find three important things.

The first makes me blush and roll my eyes and wish that I had a shovel to bury myself in Koen’s garden: every single pair of underwear he selected for me is red. Bright red. Dull red. Wine red. Blood red.

All.

Kinds.

Of.

Red.

I’m not equipped to process it, so I focus on the second, which makes me smile. At first, I think he may have replaced the plushie I mentioned. Then I realize that the little pink penguin in the bag is hard, made of plastic. A few seconds of fiddling with it tells me that it’s a pocketknife with a foldable blade.

It’s cute– and thoughtful, especially considering that I no longer have claws at my disposal. It has a different, deeper kind of heat spreading through me, and I don’t want to overthink it, so I shift my attention to the third thing.

And I stop breathing.

Because every single thing I glanced at, grazed, examined, eyed, or even considered when we were at the grocery store, every single thing I decided to walk past, every single thing I told myself I didn’t need– every single thing has somehow made it here, inside Koen’s house.

CHAPTER 14

He overhears her talking with Pavel.

“Hey, is it true that Humans put gnomes in their gardens?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s totally a thing.”

“Spine-chilling.”

Her laughter adjusts the spin of his atoms.

THEY START ARRIVING IN THE LATE AFTERNOON.

I spend several hours cross-legged on the couch, trying to reconstruct my lost letters, until the door bursts open. Two men walk inside like they were just handed the deed to the place. They’re both tall, both well muscled, and both completely naked.

“Oh, Serena. What’s up?” the first says.

The second just grins, waves at me, and bends over to stretch his hamstrings, giving me a thorough view of his butthole. “I slept wrong last night,” he moans. “Everything hurts.”

“Is that why you were so slow?”

“Fuck off. At least I have an excuse.”

I blink, wondering if this is a new symptom of CSD: vivid dreams of naked men bickering in Koen’s living room. That’s when an ash-colored wolf with thick fur and green eyes trots inside, comes to stand between me and the two men, and growls in their direction. In a quick symphony of bones cracking, keratin shrinking, and muscles unfolding, it transforms into a familiar shape.

Amanda.

Naked, of course. And pissed. “You guys are way early, and Koen doesn’t want anyone he hasn’t preapproved alone with Serena.”

“Oh. We did not . . .” The men exchange looks of sheer terror. “Sorry about this. We’re going to . . .” One points at the door.

“No, please. Stay.” I quickly hide my writing in the pages of a book and rise to my feet. “You are . . . ?”

Amanda sighs and points at the one with freckles and a spiky red mullet. “Colin.” She switches to the barrel-chested guy who clearly skips leg day. “Pavel.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, relieved by the lack of handshakes. “No, really. I’m glad you came over. I’m even getting used to your junk just . . . dangling there.”

Colin cocks his head. “Is it not supposed to?”

“Maybe Human genitals are usually retracted?” Pavel suggests.

“Ah, yes. In those cloacal openings.” Colin nods knowingly. “Like koalas and alligators.”

“Precisely. Now that I think about it, I remember reading somewhere that Humans shit and piss from the same ho– ”

“Guys,” Amanda snaps. “Do you want Koen to come back and find you here?”

They pale. Colin clears his throat. “Actually, we’re pretty hungry. We’ll go hunt some dinner and be back later– ”

“I can fix you something,” I offer. A vein starts pulsating on Amanda’s forehead, so I hasten to add, “I wasn’t doing anything, anyway. And, Amanda, you’re here and you’re preapproved. Koen won’t mind.”

In fact, Koen’s behavior is less predictable than a stock market crash. But a little over an hour later, when he returns to find Amanda and five more of his now-clothed seconds eating meatballs, salad, and freshly baked bread, no one ends up impaled on his claws. They all scramble to their feet to salute as he comes in, like he’s the strictest teacher at the boarding school, but return to their meal and conversation quickly enough.

“Do you always have guests sitting on the floor?” I ask him when he walks up to me, handing him a bowl of scraps. “And could you take this out? For Twinkles.”

“For who, now?”

“The wolf dog I met this morning. I sent Ana a picture and she picked a name for him.”

Koen crosses his arms, refusing the bowl. “What about a feral mutt covered in mud screamed Twinkles to her?”

“I believe she decided that he’s Sparkles’s long-lost brother, and she’s committed to the theme. Elle, since Koen won’t, will you put this on the porch?” I smile at the girl, who looks like a very badass kindergarten teacher. “Thank you so much.”

“Did you cook for my seconds?” Koen sounds less than enthused.

“Yeah. Isn’t that why you brought me here? To keep your home?” His face has me snorting out a laugh.

“I tried to stop her,” Amanda says, joining us. “But I couldn’t.”

Koen glares at her. “You were unable to physically prevent a hybrid half your size from producing a vat of homemade marinara sauce.”

“Well, the thing is . . . she’s kind of a good cook.”

“Aw, thank you. Want another helping?”

“Yes, please.”

“It’s on the stove.”

“Nice. By the way, boss, what did the Humans say? Anything useful?”

Koen shakes his head as Amanda disappears past him with a soft “Bummer.” He and I are left alone in the middle of the crowded room, and I go back to chopping veggies for my stir-fry.

“Serena.”

“Hmm?”

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“It’s this chicken dish that– ”

“Why?”

“You’re the one who invited over some of your seconds so I could meet them– without warning me beforehand, by the way. Thank God for Amanda.”

“I invited them because I wanted you to know who these twatwaffles are in case you need something from them– not to play house and entertain them.”

“But they were hungry. And I love to cook. And I never get to do it for anyone.” It’s always been a bit of a pipe dream of mine. Showing off my culinary chops. Feeding others. I enjoyed food a lot, before, and became good at preparing it, but never got to do much with those skills.

In my ideal, remarkably unremarkable future that will never be, I’d go to a job I love, come home, make dinner for someone whose face was in my head and heart all day long, and spend the rest of the night watching boring TV shows with them. Of course it’ll never happen, and it sounds so basic, I’m almost sure that if I had a chance to play in that particular sandbox, I’d grow bored of it in two weeks.

But maybe I wouldn’t? Mundane things can feel so exotic when your entire life has been one plot twist after another.

“Really, I don’t mind. Would you like a plate of– ”

“No,” he barks. But more people are trickling in, and he’s too busy telling them that “Serena doesn’t want to see your sad, wrinkly scrotum, and neither do I, so stop being a turd and put on some goddamn clothes” to spend time in the kitchen.

“It’s a Human thing,” Colin explains to every newcomer. “They have cloacas.”

I smile and work on my fruit salad.

“Koen has a lot of seconds,” I tell Jorma half an hour later, on the porch. There are over twenty people milling around, and someone explained to me several live too far away to show up.

“Not everyone here is a second. Some brought their relatives. That girl over there? Elle’s partner. And that’s Brenna’s brother. The woman and the twin toddlers? Pavel’s family.”

“Disappointing.”

“Why?”

“Was hoping the babies would be involved in pack leadership.”

Jorma looks at me like the concept of humor slashed his tires and shat in his rose bed, but it’s pleasant, being with a group with this level of camaraderie. There’s obvious affection going around, the kind that reminds me of my relationship with Misery: people who grew up together and went through shit. It’s etched in their omnipresent scars, the lines on their foreheads, the crinkles at the sides of their eyes when they smile.

There’s always someone around Koen. He trusts me enough to not be my shadow, but every few minutes I feel his inquisitive, lingering looks. Everything okay? I reassure him with a nod, but I still struggle with streams of information too intense to filter quickly, and slip to the back of the house for a breather.

“. . .is he doing?” I overhear someone asking, and immediately stop in my tracks. The sun has set, and a gentle sea breeze rustles through the trees.

“Same old.” It’s Saul’s voice.

“Highly doubt it.”

“Oh, yeah, he is so fucking . . .” Laughter. “Gone. She killed him, and now she’s haunting him. But he’s not going to admit it. Or make it her problem.”

“Does she know?”

“Never will. So . . . same old.”

“That’s rough. And the Favored shit?”

“We’ve been looking into it. It’s not too unlikely.”

“I thought we kept track of . . .”

“Well, yeah. But we were busy.”

“Right. I remember.”

“You were eight.” Laughter. “There are missing pieces. But he won’t tell her unless he’s sure. Maybe not even then.”

A ring clinks against a beer bottle. “If it was me, I’d rather not know.”

“Yeah. No one deserves that. What about you? How’s stuff up north?”

“Not bad. Did I tell you about the mountain goats incident?”

The wind picks up, and I take advantage of the sudden rise in noise to sneak back inside.

My thoughts bubble. Is it unhinged and self-centered to assume that Saul was talking about me and Koen? I’m debating the matter, but a gaggle intercepts me, and I end up having a really nice conversation about cross-species exchange-traded funds with Carl, a lovely hipsterish guy who clearly regrets making my acquaintance the second I step away for a glass of water.

“Are you insane?” I overhear Elle asking him. “Hitting on Koen’s mate?”

“Dude, no. We were just talking.”

“Just remember to tell Koen that while he’s hanging you with your own large intestine,” someone else suggests.

“Shut the hell up. He would never.”

“No– he has never. Because no one has ever hit on his mate before.”

I shake my head and rinse a few glasses, once again combing through what Saul said. When I turn around, I find . . . Boden, I think, is his name. Brenna’s brother, though they don’t look much alike.

“Clean cups are on that rack,” I say with a smile.

“You have no right to be here.”

I blink. “Okay. Clean cups are still on that rack.” I lean back against the edge of the sink, studying the boy. He’s tall. My age or younger. Not movie star handsome, but could snatch a TV role. He’s also highly . . . dominant, I believe is the word, and the awareness sits in the marrow of my bones. Not as much as Koen or Amanda, though, not yet. Whatever juice they use to baste future Alphas, he’s going to need a few more passes.

Still, it’s clear that he feels like he has something of value to say. I fold my arms and wait for it, and he doesn’t disappoint.

“You’re a half Human who grew up with a Vampyre.”

“Misery Lark.” I nod. “She’s my sister.”

“She’s a leech.”

“True. And therefore, not the slam dunk insult you believe it to be. But if you have more biographical facts about Misery you want to get off your chest, by all means.”

“I think that people with your allegiances have no place in the Northwest,” he says slowly.

His demeanor is calm, but I can tell that he’s furious. And in pain. And very unwilling to really listen to me. There is no point in engaging in this conversation, and I wish I could be more like Misery– take provocations as pathetic attempts at riling me up, shrug them all off, never be upset. The problem is, I’ve maxed out the amount of shit I’m willing to take. “Well, I think that people who grew up with the privilege of moral grandstanding could give some of us a little more credit.”

“It’s basic decency. Not moral grandstanding.”

“Yes. It is.” I push away from the counter and step toward him. “Good and evil are wide brushes that can’t always paint the fine details of real life. Lots of Vampyres and Humans and Weres have done terrible things, but Misery is not one of them. And, as I’m sure you know, my presence here has been approved by your Alpha, so if you have a note for the complaint box, you may take it to him. I did not ask to be born a hybrid, and I’m not some little princess on vacation from her blessed life of leisure, so you can take your snark– ”

I cut myself off. Boden’s eyes have doubled in size, and while I’d love to assume that it’s my little speech’s doing, they’re trained on a spot behind my shoulders.

When I look over, Koen’s a couple of feet away. Looking bored. “Mouthy, isn’t she, Boden?” He sighs. “Never thought I’d be into that, and yet. Bane of my fucking existence.” His eyes flit to mine. “Don’t stop on my account,” he says with a lopsided smile. “I love watching asses being ridden. It’s my favorite kind of porn.”

Boden tenses– with anger, embarrassment, or a mix of both. “If I were Alpha of this pack, she wouldn’t be allowed here.”

I cringe a little, because he feels so young. One day his frontal lobes will develop, he’ll think back to this interaction, and his friends will have to remove all sharp objects from his household. Koen, too, seems mostly embarrassed for him. “Boden, given the number of new sphincters this girl just tore you, I don’t need to tell you . . .” He stops and makes a pensive face. “Then again, I do love indulging in gratuitous displays of authority. So here you have it: Serena is my guest. Bother her again, and I’ll make you regret it.”

“She’s not your guest.” A sneer twists Boden’s mouth. “Half of the members of this pack want her dead.”

“Is that so.”

“Yes. And we all know that you despise her just as much as everyone else does.”

“Do I.”

“You’re just stuck with her because she’s . . .”

“Because she’s what?” Boden seems to have found his limit. The one thing he isn’t willing to bring up. “Come on,” Koen urges calmly. “Say it. What is she?”

“Your mate.”

“Ah, yes. I’d forgotten about that.” Koen slaps his own temple with the heel of his palm. He continues, monotone, “Since you’re so sure that everyone here despises her, including me, let this be known: fuck with my mate, and I’m going to kill you so slowly, draw it out so long, tectonic plates will move and create whole new mountain ranges. And when the rest of your family comes to avenge you, I’ll do the same to them. And if your friends come, I’m not going to fucking stop. Not even if all that’s left of the pack is me and her. I will paint this entire territory green before I let anyone in the pack spill a single drop of red. Okay?”

My belly swoops with liquid warmth. Boden’s fist clutches so tight, I brace for an attack.

But next to me, Koen never tenses. Like he knew from the very start of this conversation that Boden would eventually hang his head and say, “Yes, Alpha.”

“Good.” He clasps the boy’s shoulder with a grin. “Now get out of my kitchen and go put product in your hair, or whatever the fuck it is that you do in your spare time.”

Koen wraps his entire arm around my shoulder, the heel of his open hand bouncing loosely on my chest, and pulls me into him. It’s less a gesture of affection and more of a statement, so I don’t take it personally. But neither do I break away the second Boden disappears. Koen’s heat is like . . . like thermal water. Like one of those pillow chairs Misery loves, the ones that are terrible for your posture. Something to sink into.

“That sounded mean,” I say softly.

“Yeah. Unfortunately, I am mean.” He says it like he couldn’t care less but feels like he should. Kind of endearing. “And no one’s touching you on my watch.”

“Noted.” I clear my throat. Because my heart is beating in it. Koen is just . . . very, very close. And his touch, unlike everyone else’s, doesn’t make me want to fling myself down a scarp. “That was some intense stuff. I’m . . . flattered.”

“Don’t be. The threats were highly embellished, and less about you than about keeping pack assholes in line.”

“Right, yeah.” It’s not disappointment, the bitter taste in the back of my throat. Or, not precisely. “I figured.”

He pulls away, and my body wants to follow him. Since I can’t, I once again try to hoist myself onto the counter. Once again, his hands find my hips and settle me on the surface.

This time, they linger.

A ravenous, whiny little thing starts beating deep inside of me. “Is Boden going to be the next Alpha?” I ask to distract myself.

“I doubt it. There are a handful of young pack members that are as dominant as he is and don’t even behave like skid marks on the thong of the universe.”

Koen’s still . . . not too close, but not far, either. Warmth flares into something liquid as I stare up at him. The beard, the long hair, they don’t just hide his good looks– they are a mask of sorts. It’s impossible to tell how he truly feels about anything.

A lock has escaped the infamous topknot, so I reach up and push it from his forehead. “Does it worry you? That you could be challenged at any time?” Misery has given me a very graphic rundown of how Weres become Alphas, which involves physical duels that often end in death. It’s possible that she was just being dramatic, but she heavily implied the presence of cartoon fight clouds, torrents of blood, and confetti made out of skin flying about. “That one day a new Alpha will come along and try to take all of this away from you?”

He laughs softly. “Killer, none of this is mine to be taken. An Alpha doesn’t own a pack, and whoever tells you otherwise has no business overseeing a gas station toilet, let alone thousands of Weres. It’s the opposite: the pack owns the Alpha like it would a tool, and if a newer, better tool shows up, I’ll gladly step down.” There is no resentment in his tone.

“You don’t hate it, do you?”

“What?”

“Being Alpha.”

He cocks his head. “Why do you sound surprised?”

“I don’t know. I guess Lowe seems to feel much more conflicted about his Alpha status.”

“Lowe had a whole other life planned. He is a trained architect. I only know how to be an Alpha. As demonstrated by the fact that when he brought me to a museum, I sat on a sculpture that cost more than the gross domestic product of most packs.”

“Why?”

“Because it looked like a fucking chair.” I laugh, and it makes his mouth twitch upward in a curve that is so . . . so charming, I need to trace it. But then he continues, “Alpha is all I’ve ever been, and all I’ll ever be.”

“What about after?”

“There might not be an after. But if there is . . . I guess I’ll find a hobby.”

“What hobby?”

“No clue. I’ll have to figure it out.”

A sudden, stupid idea pops into my head. I hold out my fists and say, “Pick one.”

“Not this fucking game again.”

“Pick one,” I insist, more forcefully. He sighs like I’m forcing him to muck a stable and points to my right hand– thank God. I don’t know what his reaction to me gifting him an online architecture class would have been. “I’ll teach you how to play the piano.”

His brow furrows. “You can play?”

“Of course. The Collateral and her companion are well-rounded young ladies. Honestly, Misery was so terrible at it, I felt bad for our tutor.” I pretend to shudder. “I’ll give you lessons, and you’ll have a hobby that’s not, you know, just standing there and being tall and imposing and Alpha.”

“Can’t you just play something for me?”

“But that won’t make you a well-rounded young lady.” His laughter is a groan. “Plus, I need to earn my keep, and it’s not like I can defrost your freezer. Come on, I can teach you a chord every day.” I hop down from the counter, wrap my hand around two of Koen’s fingers, and pull him toward his bedroom. We get a couple of curious looks on our way, but I ignore them, and so does he. It’s not like I’m planning to ravish him in the closet, anyway. I just want to . . .

“Sit,” I order once we’re in front of the piano, and despite his usual overburdened sigh, he obeys. The door remains wide open. Chatter and laughter seep in from all around us.

Back at the Collateral mansion, the piano came with a little bench that could house two. Koen’s just has a round stool that is not wide enough for the both of us. “Hang on.” I glance around. This is going to be a problem, considering his strained relationship with sittable furniture. “Let me drag another chair– ”

Before I can go in search of one, he tugs at my wrist and pulls me between his knees. My ass hits the hard muscles of his quads none too gently, and his left arm loops around my hips, the back of his hand resting on the upper part of my left thigh. He angles me so that my legs occupy the slice of space between his.

“Let’s just get this over with,” he grumbles, low against my ear. My heart skips around for a minute, and there is no way he misses it, but . . .

Okay. Sure. Fine. Just one chord. He picked it. He won it, fair and square. “Any objection to C major?”

“Nope.”

“Cool.” I swallow. Take his right hand in both of mine and gently splay his fingers– thumb, index, ring. “Here,” I whisper, and they seem to fall on the white keys instinctively, almost too easily. Maybe someone else tried to teach him how to play in the past? Maybe there is some knowledge of the basics, deep in the recesses of his brain? “Now, you just press– like this. Yeah.” The simple chord rises up, enveloping us. “You did it. Look at you.”

I grin wide, lift my eyes to meet his, and find that he’s already staring at me, black eyed and voracious.

“Look at you,” he says. At least, I think so. I could have imagined it, because it’s little more than a whispered growl, quickly followed by a much lighter question. “Now what?” he asks.

I take a deep breath. “Now you just, um . . . I don’t know. Repeat the chord over and over, and play the most boring song in history?”

His eyebrow lifts. “I think I’ll do that. It’s what my roommate deserves.”

I snort and watch him hit the C chord ten more times in quick succession, his this is what you get look boring into me and making me laugh even harder. I’m so busy being amused, it takes me a second to realize that his left hand, the one on my thigh, is moving, too.

It’s not unpleasant. His fingers press lightly into my flesh, the warmth of his skin branding through the cotton of my pants, a rapid beat that makes my heart speed up. It’s almost as though he’s walking through the chord, stepping up and down and up again in a sustained rhythm, skimming closer to the crease where my thigh and my abdomen join, and . . .

With a sharp exhale, I snap my legs shut. It’s an automatic gesture, one that traps his fingers there, right between the soft fat that wraps around the inside of my thighs. I look up at him, confused. All at once, I’m hot all over. Liquid.