Page 46 of The Fake Divination Offense
I gnaw on my response. Carefully, painstakingly select each word.
“Well. I can at least understand that. Wanting you to be safe.”
He hums. “Yeah. That’s all that matters, right? People being safe.”
The lot for the smash room comes up. I pull into it, park, and twist to look at Alexo.
He doesn’t move. The smash room is a massive warehouse in the industrial area of town, all lit up with a few people lingering outside, and Alexo stares out the windshield at it, bracing. Like he knows I’m going to push. Like he knows—suspects, fears—that I’m like Tem, wanting to overbearingly protect him.
The thought of being at all like that asshole has nausea roiling in my stomach. Yes, I want Alexo safe. But I also want him how he was when he sang at the bar. How he is when he dances.
“Is he hurting you?” I ask.
Alexo flicks his eyes to me. “Not physically.”
That’s loaded. I exhale through my nose, then ask, “Do you want my help with him? With getting away from him?”
Alexo hesitates, curious, and shakes his head. “No.”
“All right. If that changes, let me know. I’d still very much like to date you, and I can’t promise I’ll always be good at not, for lack of a better word,smotheringyou, but I can promise I’ll try. I don’t want to force anything on you that you don’t want.”
His eyes are huge by the time I’m done talking. The light from the smash room fills the car, reflecting off his brown irises, and I have a moment of panic that I finally succeeded in being too much and scaring him off.
But Alexo unbuckles his seat belt, lurches forward, and kisses me.
It is decidedlynotthe PDA list’s framework of kissing, no tongue.
There is tongue.
And the taste of him.
With the unendurableflavorof him fed directly into my mouth, buffeted at the edges by his apple scent but an onslaught on its own, syrupy, masculine, I grab the back of his head and feast. He makes a helpless, lewd moan, pushing against me so his glossed lips slip and slide and his tongue wars with mine, each brush ricocheting straight into my gut. I quickly forget that he initiated this, that I should let him lead, too lost in devouring as much of him as I can, and I distantly note that I’m memorizing out of fear this will be the only time. Memorizing the silken feel of his curls against my fingers and the warmth of his breath in my mouth and the hemorrhagic, blissed-out whimper I get out of him when I suck on the tip of his tongue.
It wells and wells, rising waters behind a dam, and where he was a solution to a drought before, now I know it’s a flood.
I reel back with a wet gasp. His dark lashes are splayed on his cheekbones, swollen lips parted in ragged breaths.
He’s beautifully wrecked.
“That’s just for us,” I whisper.
Those lashes flutter open. Beat once, twice.
“Kissing like that,” I clarify. “It’s just for us. Not for the cameras.”
Alexo smiles. It’s small and wondrous. “Possessive, huh?”
You have no idea.
The constant, crushing echo ofmineis silenced, though. Satisfied. I imagine a contentedly purring lion curled up in my chest.
I sweep my thumb across the diaphanous skin under his eye. “Come on.” I grin. “We have some shit to destroy.”
Because if we stay in this car, I’ll spend the rest of the night learning every divot and dip inside his mouth. And while that isn’t the worst idea, I do want to do this with him, for him.
We climb out and head for the front doors. A few groups are still clustered around; there’s a food truck nearby. It’s late, but the smash room doesn’t close until midnight, and there’s a general atmosphere of relaxed fun as I hold the door open for Alexo.
The main room is small, a glass counter and shelves holdingspell components and weapons. A siren woman with bright blue hair and translucent aqua eyes greets us with a smile, and after signing safety waivers, we look through a photo book of smash room options. One is filled with electronics, one with ceramic dishware, another with concrete blocks. Alexo flips through pictures, chuckling incredulously, until he gets to one of the last.
