I turn on the receiver and tune to channel 23. As expected, the signal’s weak this far out.
“…shht… never makes a move…shtt… wish he’d say something… pretty eyes…”
Two women, clearly gossiping about some guy who’s too shy to confess.
I grab the mic. “Hey girls, don’t worry—he’ll make his move. Be patient!”
“…you think?…shht…”
“Absolutely! By the way… what do you think of Do-yun?”
“…the manager?…crht… not my type, sorry!… he your kind?”
“Maybe! Is he single? Nice?”
“…meh… Genny tried… gave up. Not interested.”
“Anything else about him? Secrets?”
“…hard of hearing…crshht… far away?”
“A little,” I say, used to these patchy conversations.
“Do-yun’s private… that’s all…crshhtt…”
“Forget it,” Prax murmurs in my ear. “You won’t learn anything that way.”
I nod silently and switch off the transceiver, feeling a bit frustrated that we didn’t get a more detailed description of our upcoming contact. Then again, I remind myself that keeping a low profile is probably a good sign—especially compared to Vassili’s flair for the dramatic.
“There’s actually a better way to get info right from the source,” Hans chimes in. “There are some neighbors about six miles from here—Constantin and Anatoli. The latter used to work for Naoto for quite some time. Well… I guess now he’s under Do-yun. I can take you there tomorrow morning, if you’d like.”
“That sounds perfect,” Prax agrees right away.
And he’s right—if Anatoli was close to Naoto, chances are we can trust him.
Hans chuckles. “None of my business. Neela’s a beautiful young lady. Just keep the noise down, alright? At my age, unusual sounds interrupt my sleep.”
“I’ll make sure of it,” Prax promises.
“Most interesting evening I’ve had in a decade. What about the manul?”
“Pallas stays with us!” I say firmly. Prax rolls his eyes.
I gently scoop up my little manul, who’s fast asleep, and place him on a cushion in the corner of the room with all the tenderness he deserves.
Within seconds, a pair of warm, furred arms wrap around me from behind, pulling me into a familiar, protective hold. Once again, Prax buries his face in the crook of my neck, seeking out that sensitive spot he knows so well. When his tongue glides slowly over that precise area, a deep shiver sparks at the base of my spine and ripples all the way down to my toes.
“Hans…” I begin, trying—weakly—to appeal to reason and perhaps discourage my sensual tormentor.
“We don’t care,” he whispers against my skin, his voice low and full of mischief. “You won’t make a sound. I’ll make sure of it. Right now, you’re way too tense. Let me take care of that... immediately.”
His promise is both a warning and a gift.
And he makes good on it.
His mouth trails along my neck with slow, lingering intent, stirring up every nerve ending he finds. I can’t help the way my body responds, melting into his touch as he expertly works me out of my thoughts and into sensation. His hands slide under the fabric of my top, his fingers feather-light at first, then more purposeful, mapping the curves he already knows by heart. I feel him press against me, hard and ready, but patient—always patient—as he guides me toward the bed.
His every movement is deliberate, coaxing, claiming.
