“Yeah, and?”
“Most humans find that intimidating enough.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not most humans.”
That, at least, is undeniable truth.
Lena Reyes is many things, but she is certainly not “most humans.” Most humans don’t stand toe-to-toe with a Minotaur twice their size and argue about cake. Most humans don’t name their bakery “Moist” just to watch people squirm. Most humans don’t look at me the way she’s looking at me right now—like she sees past my horns and bulk to something underneath.
Something worth seeing.
“No,” I agree. “You’re not.”
She smiles, and it transforms her face. Makes her glow in a way that feels dangerous to look at directly.
“Thank you,” she says, “for taking care of my hand.”
“It’s nothing,” I echo her earlier words.
She laughs again, that sound that does things to my insides. “Now who’s being dismissive?”
Before I can respond, she rises up on her tiptoes and presses a quick kiss to my cheek.
I freeze.
Everything stops.
Her lips are warm and soft against my skin, and the contact lasts barely a second, but it might as well be an eternity.
She pulls back, looking suddenly uncertain. “Sorry, I?—”
I don’t know who moves first.
Maybe me.
Maybe her.
Maybe both of us at once.
But suddenly her lips are on mine, and my hands are at her waist, and everything else in the world ceases to exist.
She tastes like cake and something uniquely her, and I’m lost in it instantly. Her hands slide up my chest, over my shoulders, and I feel her fingers brush the base of my horns.
A growl rumbles up from my chest, unbidden.
She pulls back slightly, eyes wide. “Was that?—”
“Don’t stop,” I manage, my voice rough even to my own ears.
Her lips curve into a smile, and then she’s kissing me again, deeper this time, her fingers exploring the sensitive skin where my horns meet my skull.
I tighten my grip on her waist, lifting her slightly. She makes a surprised sound against my mouth, but then her legs are wrapping around me, and I’m backing her against the kitchen counter, pressing her against it as our kiss turns hungry, desperate.
My hands slide down to her thighs, holding her steady as she arches against me. The scent of her—vanilla and flour and something spicy beneath—fills my lungs, making my head spin.
“Thorne,” she gasps when we break for air, her forehead resting against mine.
I can’t form words. Can only breathe her name against her skin as I trail kisses down her neck.
