Fathom (Mermaids of Montana #3) - Elsa Jade Page 0,11
wanted, he eyed her sturdy ankles flaring upward to the rounded flesh at the back of her legs. His fingers would wrap comfortably around, and he might boost her up higher to reach…
“Hey, pretty little beebees,” she was murmuring. “Good morning, Aphrodite. Morning, Ursula. Come and get your yummy sea monkey chow, Moana.”
He was surprised there wasn’t a boiling rush in the water racing to get to her at that tender urging. He found himself inexorably drawn forward. “Which ones are the beebees?”
With a gasp, she glanced over her shoulder at him, eyes widening. Her balance wobbled—
He took another long step forward and steadied her with a hand at the small of her back. “Which ones?”
She scowled at him, but then her gaze shifted to the creatures in the water. “These. They’re seahorses, actually.” She pressed one fingertip against the glass, and a little shiver traced down his spine. “They’re too shy to come out and eat right away. But they’ll rise up when they get hungry.”
His hand drifted a little lower, toward the curve of her hip. He was feeling a little hungry himself. “Why don’t you call to them?”
Her eyes widened again. “Call to them? I can’t do that.”
“You are Tritonan, partly.”
Her features scrunched up. “They said I’m…I’m a monster. They don’t want to claim me.”
Claim me… The anger and yearning in her voice sent waves through him. “Their words change nothing,” he pointed out. “A calling is a little thing. Just a tightening from here.” He put his hand over his chest. “Call.”
She bit her lip. “I don’t know…”
“Call,” he urged.
Though his hand was on her backside, not above her heart, he felt the tension of her muscles. But he didn’t feel the sub-acoustics.
“It’s not working,” she said, disappointment making her tone waver.
“Here. Let me show you.” With a hand on her hip, he turned her toward him.
Since she was up on the step, her position put them closer to eye to eye. He took her hand, still wet, and flattened her fingers across his chest, before angling them both toward the cistern.
“They are tiny, delicate,” he murmured. “So the call must be tiny, delicate.” He pushed the wavelength through his chest, not so different from a sound in the air.
Her eyes—the same dark brown as the edible thing he’d licked out of the domed container—widened. “I felt that!”
“Look.”
She seemed to have some trouble dragging her gaze off of him to the cistern, but then she let out a delighted laugh. “They’re dancing.”
The little distant cousins—seahorses, she’d called them—rose up from their protective weeds in a helix, releasing a whorl of bubbles from the fronds.
“I don’t know dancing.” He sent them another ping, pointing them toward the food, then guided her down from the step.
Evading his touch, she warned, “Stay away. I don’t want to accidentally zap you.”
“You let me close just a moment ago.”
She grimaced. “Maybe because I wanted to purposely zap you.”
That made sense to him. “If you mastered your power, you could zap me on command.”
“Honestly, that’s the best news I’ve heard in a while.” But her scowl smoothed. Instead, she sighed. “Why are you still here, Sting? I told you I’m not going back to Tritona.”
“But I need to go back. Which means I need the ship you crashed.” He glanced over his shoulder a moment before the Earther male glided through the doorway.
“Breakfast is served,” he intoned. “I set the nook, if you’d like to follow me.”
Since the male was wafting interesting smells, Sting fell willingly into step behind him. After one disgruntled huff, the soft clunk of Lana’s heavy footwear echoed behind him.
“Do you have more of the dirt-colored substance that was in the container I returned to you?” Sting asked as they made their way to the inner room that he’d ransacked last night.
“Chocolate cake is usually considered a dessert, sir,” the Earther informed him. “For breakfast we have these.” He lifted the lid off another container to reveal a much lighter-hued concoction. A scent reminiscent of the little female beside him rolled toward Sting—something that seemed to sink spicy teeth into his olfactory system and heated his blood inside. “Cinnamon rolls.”
Sting peered down at them. The golden hue was just a little lighter than Lana’s skin, the inner swirl the same color and pattern as her hair. The silky, white drizzle across the top… He plugged his finger into the middle of the swirl, then stuck his finger in his mouth.