I pressed my lips to her inner thigh, just above the edge ofher sock. Her breath hitched, and her fingers tightened on her knee—but she didn’t stop talking.
“Other versions of the story say the mimic is lonely,” she murmured into the mic, her voice wobbling only slightly. “That it doesn’t know it’s hurting people. That it’s just looking for a way inside.”
I kissed higher. Her skin was warm and soft, and I was starving for her.
“Or maybe itdoesknow,” she said, her voice starting to strain. “Maybe it…oh fuck, Beau?—”
I ran my tongue just beneath the hem of her sleep shorts, felt her shiver.
“You can’t make me come while I’m recording,” she hissed, not into the mic this time.
“Can’t, or shoudn’t?” I whispered, nosing the fabric aside.
Above me, she let out a strangled noise, half-choked with laughter and desperation.
And I thought:God, I love this woman.
Everything about her. Her mind. Her mouth. Her voice in my ears, her hands in my hair, her laugh when she tried to pretend she wasn’t already giving in.
“Noelle?” I murmured. “You gonna keep recording? Gotta get your story done before midnight, right?”
Her hand found the edge of the table, gripping it tight. “You’re evil.”
“You knew what you were doin’,” I said, licking a slow stripe along the inside of her thigh. “Sittin’ here in my hoodie, legs bare, talkin’ about ghosts with that sweet little podcast voice of yours. You were beggin’ for distraction.”
She made a noise like she wanted to argue—but I slipped one hand under her hoodie and flattened it over her stomach, holding her still as I finally tasted her properly.
The noise she let out wasn’t safe for broadcast.
I chuckled against her and kept going, slow and greedy,until her hips started to roll and her head hit the back of the chair. She tried to keep quiet. Really tried. But her mic was still hot, and she must’ve realized it, because she reached for the mute button with a shaking hand.
“You better not stop recording,” I warned. “Let all those little cryptid fans hear what happens when you rile me up.”
“Beau,” she groaned, “you’re gonna ruin the whole episode?—”
“Guess we’ll have to do another take,” I said, voice thick with want. “Or maybe we just leave it in. Tell ‘em it’s the sound of the mimic gettin’ what it came for.”
“You’re the worst,” she gasped.
“Mm. Maybe.” I eased a finger inside her, then another.
I brought her right to the edge, watching her come apart with a kind of fascination that never faded, even after all this time. She clamped a hand over her mouth, muffling the worst of it—but her body didn’t lie. She was trembling, thighs twitching, hips chasing my mouth like she never wanted it to end.
And God help me, I didn’t either.
When she finally sagged back against the chair, boneless and flushed, I crawled up to kiss her—her belly, her ribs, the soft curve of her jaw. She turned her face into me, eyes glazed.
“You’re such a menace,” she whispered.
“Still wanna get back to work?” I asked.
She blinked. “What?”
I reached up and flicked one of the bat wings on her headphones. “Because I could flip you over right now. Bend you over this desk. Keep those socks on.”
Noelle bit her lip.
“Take you nice and slow,” I said, “until you’re so full of me you forget what episode number you were even on.”
