I rake my fingers through his hair, desperate for an anchor. I fist a handful as he slides his tongue in a slow, brutal circle. I want to say cutting words, to get back the upper hand, but it’s all stripped away, just this flood of sensation, the hollow ache at my center growing sharp and dizzy.
He murmurs a nonsense encouragement, and the vibration is too much. My heels drum against the drawer, and he holds me down until all I can do is gasp and tremble, my blood hissing through my veins.
It hits hard. Sudden. Electric. My thighs clamp helplessly around his head. He keeps going, tongue relentless, fingers digging into my legs, and I come apart with my whole body, a sucked out of orbit explosion, clutching at him, the sharp, dry taste of ozone behind my eyes.
When I finally blink back reality, every muscle is slack and quivering. He’s resting his chin on my knee, grinning like a cat in a sunbeam, utterly self-satisfied. I’m not sure if I want to strangle him or kiss him, so I settle for shoving his shoulder, weakly, as if I could ever move him when he didn’t want to be moved.
I swear the whole house is holding its breath.
Which is exactly when a voice cuts clean through the kitchen.
“Well, damn. If I’d known dinner came with a show, I’d have skipped town more often.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Silas
Boone jerksback as if he’s been shot.
Delaney slams into the counter, air whooshing out of her in a noise I will absolutely never tease her about out loud, because something about the look on her face says she might actually perish on the spot.
They both whip toward the doorway.
I lift two fingers in a little salute.
“Sup.”
For a solid three seconds, no one breathes.
Boone looks murderous.
Delaney looks for a trapdoor to open under her feet and swallow her directly into the earth’s molten core.
The kitchen smells of lemon, rosemary, and sex.
Not awkward at all.
“Silas,” Boone growls, low in that way he uses when he’s one wrong word away from committing a felony.
I raise a brow. “Boone.”
Delaney’s still plastered against the counter, holding it up with her spine. Her jeans are halfway up, her shirt is wrinkled, and she looks so gorgeous and wrecked and alive that my chest does a weird, sharp twist I don’t have time to unpack.
She makes a noise, a strangled little squeak, and shoots off the counter, pulling her jeans up.
That’s new… I don’t usually care what happens after.
With Delaney, I do.
“I… I need to, uh, I have to…” She gestures vaguely toward the hallway, face flaming. “Timer! My room! I left… I forgot, I’ll just…”
She flees.
I watch her go, torn somewhere between impressed and mildly concerned she’s going to run straight into a wall.
The second she’s gone, Boone turns on me.
A storm pivoting directions.
