He’s obviously trying to shutter his anxious expression, but his eyes keep flickering to the left. It reminds me of the first time Isaw him, the way he darted glances at me like a prey checking on a possible predator. I liked that, but I prefer when I get the attention of those pools all on me.
I reach out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. It slips out again just after I do.
“We shared nothing. He just saw me watching you,” I let him know.
His lips part in surprise. “So he knew about you…spying on me?”
“Everybody seems to know now.”
“My brother doesn’t. He called me five times already today and never even hinted about you, only about what happened…” His frown deepens.
“Not yet, but he will.” Oliver called me as well but I didn’t pick up. He knows about Sully’s attack and that I was the one saving him.
“What is it?” he asks a few seconds later. “Why are you staring at me?”
“Don’t you know? I just like watching you.” His touch, his smile, and his tentative kisses, the way he yields under me.
His cheeks turn pink. He grabs my hand under the table and squeezes. “I like your name.”
“I like making you scream it,” I whisper in his ear, savoring the little shiver of his body and how his cheeks darken to an apple red.
“I heard Uri saying you chose it. Why?”
“My name is Azrael, like the angel of death. Ezra is a plainer version.”
“An angel, like your brother and the others?”
I shrug. “You shouldn’t read too much into it.”
He nods. “Angels are prolific, relentless, powerful, and lauded by their followers. I get why you’d like to be one.”
I’m having trouble really concentrating on what he is saying. I’m too busy thinking about resuming that kiss. Or fucking him against the glass window behind him. Fuck, my dick could cut glass.
As he keeps talking, Sully moves his hand, tipping one of the cups over the table with his forearm and spilling what looks like soda all over his books and himself.
He hisses and jumps up, pulling the soaked sweater away from his torso. “Shit!” he curses, fumbling with the paper napkins on the table. “Did you get wet?” he asks me, looking upset.
Sully doesn’t have any kind of emotional shield, not even the simplest ones.
“No.” I stop his hands and slide the wet sweater off him—his glasses are in the way, so I pull them off. Then I take off my hoodie and lift it over his head, but he halts my movements.
“I’m fine.” He shakes his head. His shirt is so thin I can see his nipples through it—like everybody else.
“I am not,” I counter, pushing the collar over his head, then an arm through the sleeve, and the other. The hoodie looks huge on him, but the smell of me on him placates my irritation.
“I don’t want you to get cold,” he whispers, looking down at his hands on his lap.
I push my knuckle under his chin to tilt it up. “You need to keep close and share your warmth with me then.” I lift an eyebrow at him, making him snort.
My body reacts as a rush of satisfaction sweeps over me. Christ, I want to devour him and keep him inside me—deep where nobody can touch him. He pulls the collar of my hoodie up, covering my claiming marks on his neck.
“I don’t like when you cover my marks, Little Chick,” I say with a rumble in my voice, pulling down the fabric around his neck once again.
“Marks?” he repeats. “You-you mean the signs you made with your mouth?”
“And hands. And tongue,” I remind him. His pupils are dilating the more I talk. “Want to get out of here?”
He nods but continues to stare at my face, unmoving. I close his books and stand, grabbing his bag to slide them in. Then I make him wear his jacket and take his hand to pull him toward the door.
