and moan.
“If you keep that up, we’re going to need a safe word,” I blurt.
That’s it, brain, you are in time out!
He laughs and then pushes away from me, moving to pull the pans out of the oven and turn the timer off. An odd sense of loss trickles through me as he does, but I do my best to ignore it. So that was the best kiss I’ve ever had—it doesn’t mean anything. I’m not going to go full needy-Nancy and ask for a play-by-play of what the hell it all means.
Nope. It’s fine.
Casual. Just like I like it.
“What about moonstone?” he asks as he turns back to me.
I look from him to the tea ingredients spread out on the pans. “Why would I put moonstone in it?” I ask, perplexed.
“No,” he chuckles. “For a safe word. I was going to go with immortal, but it feels too on the nose and cocky,” he adds, a teasing smile on his face.
“I thought we established that you can’t exactly tick the immortal box on your census form, because it’s yet to be proven,” I counter, mouthing premature ejaculation at him. “Oh I know,” I volunteer excitedly. “The safe word could be I swear that’s never happened before...no, that’s too long,” I note cheekily.
His eyes narrow, a playful glint alight in them as he slowly stalks toward me. Just watching him floods my lady basement, and I have to actively tell myself to keep my head in the game. As though the world decided to second that thought, the doorbell rings, and Hoot starts barking like a maniac. I swear he sounds like a dying goat, his bark caught somewhere between a donkey bray and a cat howl.
Rogan stops hunting me and straightens, his serious side shuttering down over him in the blink of an eye. I want to tell him not to answer it, not to break the moment of whatever is happening between us, but that’s selfish and stupid. I’m here because people are missing. And Rogan just placed a fuck ton of other reasons at my feet as to why it’s dumb to get caught up in our feels right now. He looks down at me, and it’s as though I can see the same argument going off in his mind that’s going off in mine.
“I think it might be Marx,” he declares, as though I need a reason to be okay with popping the bubble that was just around us and letting reality snake its way in.
“We should answer it then,” I encourage.
He watches me for a beat and then leans down and kisses me quickly. “I blame the kitchen too,” he tells me quietly against my lips, and then he leaves to answer the door.
I chuckle softly and touch my hand to my mouth, a mantra of holy fucking shit repeating in my head. I take a deep breath and try to clear my mind. “Well, that sure as fuck was informative while also being confusing as hell,” I mumble to myself and then chuckle. I guess that’s the story of my life these days though.
I hear Marx and Rogan exchanging greetings in the living room. With a silly smile and the warm and fuzzies making their way through my body, I move to go join them. Here’s to hoping that Marx has good news and somewhere pressing to be. Now to come up with that safe word.
20
I lean back against the corner cushion of Rogan’s modern yet buttery soft sectional. The large lounge room is taupes and grays, and with the large windows surrounding us, I practically feel like I’m sitting in nature’s fancy-schmancy living room.
I refocus on what Marx and Rogan are talking about, having been momentarily distracted by the couch that cupped my ass better than my best pair of jeans. I don’t know if that’s a compliment to the couch or a call to replace my wardrobe, but either way, I put this couch on the list of things I need to figure out how to take with me when I go.
“I couldn’t find a registration for a witch named Nik Smelser,” Marx is telling Rogan as I tune back in. “I checked the human databases as well as what we have for other supes, but nothing was coming up. I asked the desk clerk if she had any other suggestions for places I could look, and when she was showing me how to navigate some archives, that’s when we got a