Page 112 of The Fake Divination Offense
“Hilarious,” he deadpans.
I grin and shift him to dig my keys out of my pocket, but as I unlock the door and deactivate the security wards, I lower him to press his back against the wall.
“To answer your question,” I say into his open, gasping mouth, those glossy lips slick on mine, “this isn’t about surviving the lunch. This is because my boyfriend”—he used that word and I’mwildfor it; it’s ours now—“won over my parents. He’s earnest and brave and sexy asfuck, and I need to stretch him open for me so I can let him feel how much I love him.”
Bel whimpers, hips rolling against my stomach as he babbles, “Yes, that. Oh my gods. Yes, please.”
I get the door open and we topple inside. He tugs me down to lay kisses and bites all up my neck, interspersing his attack with progressively needier mewls, nails digging into my neck.
I spare enough composure to relock the door and reactivate the wards.
Another startled squeak when I scoop him up again, but I only take him as far as the bedroom before I’m tossing him onto the comforter. He rolls, half finding his balance, half yanking off his clothes, and he struggles around until he comes up for air, shirtless, cheeks flushed.
“Like this?” he asks on his knees, and it takes me a beat to realize what he’s asking. In his human form.
“However you’re comfortable,” I say honestly. “Every version of you is perfect.”
That flush goes to raging scarlet as he shimmies out of his remaining clothes. His tail thrashes against the bed, the only part of him rose gold, a delicate contrast of his two presentations. He’s a sunset, every hue of pink in a perfectly clear sky, coral and rose and a pastel blush.
Panting, he looks up at me, coy and yearning. “You’re not getting undressed.”
I rock my neck side to side. The pain from my injury is all but gone. “I dunno. My shoulder’s pretty sore. I think you’ll have to put on a show for me.”
What starts as concern quickly morphs to a popped eyebrow of interest. “Oh yeah?”
“Mhmm.” I kick off my shoes, move around the bed, and sit propped against the headboard.
Phei’s healing spells were potent, but I keep the sling on. This is the game, after all.
Bel immediately crawls up me, the contrast of his lithe, naked body while I’m fully clothed sending a debilitating pulse of arousal through me. I regret leaving on my jeans when he straddles my lap to grind his dick against mine. My own cock’s been hard since the restaurant and the sensation’s muted by the fabric, and Bel rotates his hips, his face pinching in a delicious moan.
With my good arm, I dig my fingers into his hip, helping him writhe, the flex of his muscles shuddering under my palm. “This what you want? Let you get off on me like this?”
Bel shakes his head, curls flying. “No. Want you in me again. You promised.”
Gods damn, his pout. Does he know how potent it is? Does he know he could ask me for anything, in this plane or ones I can’t even reach, and I’d rip apart the magic of our reality to lay it at his feet?
“All right, sweetheart. Need you to get ready for me, though.”
Bel reaches for my hand, guiding it back around his ass, but I change course to drag my hand to his stomach. The muscles jump under my fingertips; I groan, thrusting up against him.
“I want to watch you,” I tell him, absorbing the way those brown eyes dip further into desire, pupils blowing out, lashes fluttering. “Show me how you fucked yourself before me.”
He sips in a stunted breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”
Then he’s scrambling off me and racing into the bathroom, to the closet that’s past the shower. He didn’t have much in the boxes we brought from his old apartment, but he’s somehow taken over more than half the space already, including claiming a bunch of my own clothes.
I need to take him shopping. Just pull up at a storefront, hand him my card, and let him go wild. Gods, he’d look pretty in some suits; or maybe more of those flowy satin tank tops like he wore to the charity gala. Get him something like that, but a dress version, so I could lift it and fuck him anywhere I—
Bel stumbles into the room. He fluffed his hair while he was gone and reapplied some lip gloss, his mouth now a shiny blush-pink color—and he’s wearing a pair of black lace assless panties. Which he shows me by doing a quick little spin. They cup his dick but frame his tail and ass in a way that’s absolutely sinful.
My jaw drops.
If possible, he’s blushing even more, breathing even harder. “I bought these a while ago,” he whispers. “I always hoped I’d get to—to, um, wear them. For someone.”
“For me,” I growl. Can’t help it. My throat’s gone to gravel.
His eyelashes pulse, those pretty lips parting.
