The self-deprecating humor couldn’t mask the sincerity underneath. Vaughn’s thumb brushed across Newt’s cheekbone, feeling the warmth of his skin.
“Then we should try again,” he said. “Do it right this time.”
Before Newt could respond, Vaughn leaned in, closing the distance between them. Their lips met, soft and tentative at first then with growing confidence. Unlike their first desperate kiss, this one unfolded slowly, each moment stretching into the next like honey dripping from a spoon.
Newt made a small sound in the back of his throat, something between a sigh and a moan that vibrated against Vaughn’s mouth. His hands came up to tangle in still-damp hair, pulling him closer.
Heat bloomed between them, slow and steady. Vaughn’s hand slid down Newt’s side, feeling the contours of ribs and hip beneath the borrowed shirt. His mate was so much smaller, fitting against him like they'd been designed as matching pieces.
When they finally broke apart, Newt’s eyes remained closed for a moment, lips slightly parted.
Their second kiss deepened almost immediately, hunger edging out hesitation. Vaughn’s hand slipped under Newt’s shirt, palm flat against warm skin. The contact drew another of those addictive little sounds from his mate.
“Wait,” Newt gasped, pulling back slightly. “I need to—I just—”
“What?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted. “And I don’t want to disappoint you.”
Vaughn pressed his forehead against Newt’s. “You couldn’t.”
“You say that now, but—”
“Newt,” Vaughn interrupted. “Shut up.”
He kissed him again, swallowing whatever protest his mate had been about to make. Slow and deep, with enough heat to make his intentions clear but enough restraint to let Newt set the pace. His hand slid higher under the shirt, tracing the ridges of his spine where wings had disappeared beneath skin.
Newt arched into the touch, breaking the kiss with a gasp. “That’s—that feels—”
“Good?” Vaughn’s fingers traced the spot again, feeling the subtle difference in texture where wings connected to flesh.
“Like electricity, but…nice electricity. Not the demon-cattle-prod kind.
“High praise.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. Vaughn growled low in his throat, tempted to ignore it.
“Hey, lovebirds,” Preston's voice called. “Quinn made breakfast. And Zeppelin says if you don’t come down, he's sending me back up with a bullhorn.”
“We’ll be right there,” Vaughn called back, hearing Preston's footsteps retreat down the hall.
Newt laughed softly. “Saved by breakfast.”
“Temporarily saved,” Vaughn corrected, reluctantly releasing his mate. “We’re finishing this conversation later.”
“Is that what we’re calling it? A conversation?”
“Among other things.”
Twenty minutes later, they sat at the kitchen table surrounded by pack members who tried and failed to pretend they weren't fascinated by Newt. Preston kept sneaking glances at his back, clearly hoping for a wing sighting. Jalen asked about a dozen questions about fae magic, each one making Newt squirm in his seat.
Quinn had outdone himself with breakfast—platters of French toast, bacon, fresh fruit, and enough coffee to fuel a small army. Vaughn filled his plate then added extra for Newt when he noticed his mate taking tiny portions.
“You need to eat,” he said, sliding more French toast onto Newt’s plate.
“I’m not sure I can fit all that in my body,” Newt protested. “There’s a size differential issue here.”
“Try.” Vaughn cut a piece and held it out on his fork.
