He raises an eyebrow, but it looks like he's glad it amused me. “Not patronizing?”
“I don't know if you fully grasp how primal the need for a shiny, little sticker runs.”
I wiggle my eyebrows, perhaps a little too drunkenly. Decorum is gone, I want a sticker, and I don’t know how far I might be willing to go for one right now. Thankfully, I stop short of elaborating on that.
“Well. I usually try to include a note about the reason I want to recognize their work. I didn't think my last team cared about them at first, but they all started displaying their stickers where I could see them.”
He pauses a moment, before sizing me up, taking a sip of his drink as he does. “If I were Soven, I'd give you a sticker for your retention proposal. It's a good idea, and, clearly, you’ve done the work to back it up.”
That wasn’t what I expected to hear, honestly.
My entire body heats up, and it isn't the alcohol. My insides are as gooey as molten chocolate.
I don't know if I wish he were my boss or...something else. It's hard to keep my thoughts from being horny about coworkers when I can feel my nipples harden at the thought of being awarded a sticker. I zone out a moment, wondering where he would put a gold star on me. Maybe somewhere sweet like my cheek. Or my collar. Or my hip.
No. The last thing I want is to get invested in the sort of guy who is only emotionally available for stock market shares and financial portfolios. Or maybe it’s like the third thing I want, after a raise and one of those really big chocolate sculptures. I’m definitely not sober enough to put numbers on my priorities.
I stand with half a thought to step outside and fan myself off, and my heel snags on the damn barstool rung. Before I faceplant though, a clawed, tri-fingered hand catches me. His grip is stronger than mine, and it probably takes less than half of the effort to bring me to my feet and hold me steady.
It’s a little too quick, being lifted from the ground, and I tilt bodily into his chest, my free hand thankfully catching me before I break my nose on his sternum. My fingers curl inelegantly around the seam of his breast pocket like it’s a handle.
“Easy there,” the gargoyle murmurs, too low to be anything but inviting, his tail flicking behind him. The rest of him is always so put together, so calm and collected in his perfectly pressed suits, but his tail gives off just a hint of his thoughts. I think I could watch it all day.
He raises an eyebrow—the ridge that is where eyebrows normally are but are stony scales on him.
He leans in close, and I inhale a little too sharply. The scent of him clouds my mind. I want to smooth my hands against his suit lapels, to feel the broadness of his shoulders. I want to so badly, I close my eyes and just let myself do it. I’m not going to think about any of the reasons I shouldn’t.
Releasing my grip on his shirt and leaving a crater of wrinkles behind, my hand curls around his tie. I don’t have enough boldness to reach for his horns, though I imagine that would be better leverage.
I can taste the scent of surprise on his breath at first, quickly overwhelmed by want, need, touch, crave. Feelings so primal they’re easy to forget, but their subtle scent overpowers here.
His mouth is firm, not so soft and giving as other kisses I’ve had. My first instinct is to catch his lip between my teeth and drag them over it, sucking hard and then grazing my tongue over his teeth, the sharp and blunt edges a tease for what they might feel like across my skin.
His big hands span across my back, holding me gingerly. I feel the way he leans down to something more manageable for my height.
But I’m not here for a manageable kiss.
I reach up, the way I might normally grab a fistful of hair from the back of his head and find one of his horns to hold onto. His head pulls back just enough, opening his mouth more for mine. I pull myself closer, wrapping a leg around—either his hips or further up, I’m not totally sure. Somewhere in his middle.
He must not have been ready for me to launch myself into him, but his hands slide down to cup my ass, hoisting me off the ground. He keeps kissing me; every too-careful touch of his still pulling me further in. The notes of his emotions mix like a good cup of coffee, invoking floral, earthy, nutty scents that last only long enough to conjure half a memory—rainy days, foggy breaths against the windowpane, falling asleep in the middle of fresh laundry. A nostalgia for the home that exists only in memories, a nest. His teeth are sharp against my lips, his tongue sweeping over each brief nip, a salve of warmth for every piercing sensation.
I pull back for a breath, glancing around the bar. It’s mostly emptied by now, and I don’t see any coworkers. At least, none I recognize. My feet find the ground again with some uncertainty. I’m not sure if anyone saw us, but the worry still cools my libido a few degrees.
I look him up and down, really obviously, like I wasn’t just kissing him for the past minute or so. I blink a little too slowly at him as I decide, hmm, maybe I do like him.
I’m genuinely considering inviting him back up to my hotel room for the night, and I think the same thought is crossing his mind. I can feel the way arousal moves through my body pushing the need to stretch, to straighten, to appeal to him. I don't hold back against the feeling, allowing my bones and muscles and skin to stretch into what feels right.
Then the bedroom look in his eyes falters. “You're not what you seem.”
A needle of panic pricks the back of my neck.
“What do you mean?”
He tilts his head, and I watch his nostrils flare as he takes a deep inhale, and levels a curious look at me. “Not entirely...human.”
5
I do not extract myself from this situation as gracefully as I would like to imagine. I flash a quick smile at him and immediately turn and bump into Deanna, spilling her drink onto my pants. Of course, then her need to be the nicest person in the room takes over; she drags me to the bathroom in a fuss and starts offering to grab me a pair of pants out of her suitcase.
