And now, he knows about it—the creature those dildos are vaguely fashioned after.
I want to crawl into a hole and die.
“Are humans aware krakens exist?”
Wait. He seriously has no idea. Fuck, his mind is going to blow once he hears about hentai and the romance books I’ve been reading.
“No.” I don’t think so, at least. If America knew, I’m pretty sure they would have figured out how to drain the ocean and twist it to say they were protecting democracy by now.
Ordus nods at the luggage. “It smells like your sex.” He says it so innocently.
Jesus H Christ.
“Too far. Boundaries,” I snap. I’m burning up. I feel red from my hairline to my toes. “We are not talking about my—what’s between my legs.”
His gaze drops to the area in question, and I squirm. Wearing shorts wasn’t a good idea.
That perplexes him even more. “I like what’s between your legs. The human music on the beach always mentions the female?—”
“Boundaries,” I repeat.
This conversation is physically paining me. And because my mind is a traitorous bitch, she’s decided to remind me how it felt to stretch around the base of the dildo, and she’s taking it a step further by replacing blue silicone with Ordus’ brown, spotted tentacle, the same stray tentacle fighting tooth and nail to break free from his hold to get to me.
By a stroke of pure weakness, I fall for the compulsion to look at his ocean blues, and I wish upon everything I never did. Stormy black has eaten every drop of clear seas, ready to devour me whole. They’re heated and starved, a beast pulling on his last thread, ready to pounce.
His nostrils very obviously flare, and his eyes flicker to my thighs and back.
He—fuck, can he smell when I’m aroused?
My gaze darts to the tentacle leaking an iridescent liquid onto the stone floor. Try as I might, I can’t help but squeeze my legs together. I’m telling myself it’s to conserve the modesty I left dead alongside Tommy, but I’m well aware at a certain angle, the pressure from the seams of my shorts pushesjust rightand feels a little too good to be acceptable.
“Are you a witch?”
My jaw drops. “What?”
“You have potions like our healer,” he says cautiously, nodding at the skincare products in my luggage.
I say a silent thank you to whoever is listening for getting Ordus to change the subject. I pick up the white dropper bottle. “This?” He tips his head in confirmation. “It’s…”
Am I really about to explain my skincare routine to him? I suppose someone would’ve accused me of witchcraft for it two hundred years ago if they saw it.
“Niacinamide,” I read out the label. “It’s for, uh—” I don’t remember. Someone recommended I use it, and I did. “Pigmentation. I think.”
He looks at the other bottle at the top of the bag, a silent question.
This one, I know. “That’s hyaluronic acid to hydrate your skin.”
Tommy practically forced me to get beauty treatments—Botox, dermablading, LED therapy, IPL, facials, the works. Early on, if I ever refused or pushed back, he’d subtly compare me to the other Gallagher women.They do it, so I should. Lily’s thirty-five with two kids, but she looks like she’s in her early twenties. Olivia’s on baby number three, and she’s making sure she’s on top of her figure.
Well, why would I be selfish and inconsiderate regarding my body when Tommy’s the one who had to have me by his side at events?
Aren’t I embarrassed? Don’t I care? He’s doing this for me, not him. It’s because he loves me. He cares about me.
I grind my molars.Fuck you, Tommy.
“So the potion is like water on your skin?”
“I, uh, guess so?” I’m not about to explain the science about it. I couldn’t if I tried. I could spend hours explaining to him what robots and aliens are, but I highly doubt he knows what they’d mean.
