“I already did. Don’t you remember the guard who’d let you pass the city’s gates for a price, and who I tied to the table in our underground? For you?”
“He was a pig, not a person.” She unzipped her leather jacket, revealing a skintight soldier’s uniform shirt underneath. “Filth doesn’t count.”
She had a point there.
“That gives me an idea.” I seized her hip, and my thumb slithered under the hem of her pants. “Why don’t I make you count the number of times in a row I can?—”
“Do not”—she covered my mouth, her curves molded to my front so perfectly I had to bite my tongue to keep my sanity in check—“finish that sentence.”
Locking her flush with me, I licked her palm restricting my speech. Lush and scrumptious, like the rest of her.
Edible.
A clearing of a throat dragged my eyes from her blush. The pink was such a stunning shade I pondered if I could bottle it and use it as paint to draw on my playthings later on.
“Ahm, hi.” Arlo approached us, dressed in a pair of loose gray pants and a matching turtleneck, casual for once. The last time I’d seen him, he’d boasted a guard’s outfit, including a black helmet that hid his now exposed dark, tight curls cropped close to his scalp. “I’m Arlo,” he introduced himself to Kali.
“I remember you,” she said. “A friend of Ava’s. You guided us through the inside of Ilasall’s wall a few months ago.”
The black-banded contact who continuously risked his life to help us achieve our goals, choosing to spend his miserable days in the city despite knowing what kind of freedom could await him in our compound, or Damia’s, or Conall’s. All he had to do was traverse the tunnels sprawling underneath Ilasall to find freedom.
“Glad I made an impression.” His crooked nose reflected the candlelight spilling from the lanterns.
Kali’s eye corners crinkled. “Keep it to yourself, or Zion will try to one-up you.”
“I won’t.” I kissed her temple. Which was not the same as kissing her nose. She didn’t wipe it afterward, and a glower didn’t scrunch up her sharp features. I made a mental note to lick the slope of her nose tonight. Her sputtering and ticklishness were addictive. “I’m alwaysupfor you.”
“Yes, yes, we’re all aware.” Ava popped out from behind us, her pointy chin held high as she rounded Arlo. “I live a floor below yours, you know. I haveears.” She draped an arm over his shoulders. “Now stop torturing my poor friend, who Zola sent to tell you she’s ready. It’s painful to watch.”
Arlo rubbed his forehead. “I need a drink.”
“I may have smuggled something in my jacket.” Ava steered them toward one of the ragged tables, the wooden surfaces branded by countless rings of condensation and gouges from gods knew what. A few steps away from us, she paused to gesture at the center of the chamber, where a middle-aged, stocky man was helping Zola climb onto a bench and then a large table. “Now, I’ve got Eli nestled in the corner, the broody prick that he is today, so why don’t you give him a show as a pick-me-up?”
I poked Kali’s high bun, the hair tie barely holding her strands together.
The mass wobbled, and she batted at my hands. “Stop it. I need to concentrate.”
What she actually needed was to get out of her head. And my expertise did encompass a field called distraction.
So I did the one thing you could in such a situation: bent down and threw her over my shoulder.
Her yelp drew the multitude of curious gazes toward us, effectively silencing the crowd. The rebels perked up, their interest as to why we’d organized this meeting spiking.
“Zion,” she seethed, rucking up my dark green shirt, searching for leverage to push off my back.
The neckline of the fabric dug into my throat, and I stroked her smooth ass. “Be nice. We have a performance to run,” I said, striding to the table Zola had commandeered as a makeshift stage.
“What do you think I’m doing?” Kali yanked my shirt down, her smugness palpable—the material sliced my throat.
The cloth affected my vocal cords as I strained to say, “Getting me hard in public?”
My grip on her upper thighs tightened, mimicking the zipper of my pants. The city had made it a point to make their military uniforms as uncomfortable as possible.
“That’s not—” She buried her face in my lower back. “I give up. You’re impossible.”
The warmth of her breaths permeated the synthetic fabric that was supposed to be moisture-wicking, but instead, trapped your sweat. The cavern had become a furnace from the sheer number of people gathered.
“Impossibly handsome, you meant,” I pointed out.
