by Ruby Dixon
The bookstore is less raided than the pharmacy. There’s no surprise there. Other than spilled coffee grounds and empty trays of long-gone pastries, the cafe’s not in bad shape. I spend a while opening containers and sniffing their contents, and eventually just pocket some tea and move into the book section. There’s a tipped shelf or two, but everything else seems to be in order, and it feels eerily quiet and forgotten…and lonely.
I wish Zohr was here, which is strange given that I’m so dedicated to my independence. But it’d be nice for another person to see this with me, to understand what I’m feeling. To feel less alone, I guess. Like I’m not the only person left in the world.
I am here, Zohr sends, and then his thoughts—and everything else—are full of gushing blood and fresh meat.
I chuckle to myself. Is this the mental equivalent of talking with your mouth full?
Mm. Almost done here.
I’m in no hurry, I tell him. Just saying hello.
I like that you said it, he sends affectionately.
Me too. It feels good to know he’s there, and the feeling of isolation dissipates.
I pick my way through the aisles of books. There’s so much dust, but even through that, I’m fascinated by the rows and rows of books in here. I’ve been in other bookstores in the After. Heck, even in the Before. My mom used to love getting new books, and she shared Sasha’s love of romances. I drift over to that section and pick up one “new release” with a tattooed biker on the front. Yuck. Not my thing. I put it back and grab a vampire one, thinking of Sasha. Maybe I’ll see her again. She’d love this, and the cover’s so pretty and perfect and unblemished that I can’t help but pocket it before I move on.
I drift past the cookbooks, since they’re all but useless now unless they can tell me what to do with expired beans and moldy flour. Art books just make me sad. Ditto biographies and history books. They’re all part of a world that’s completely gone now, and they serve no purpose any longer. I skip past the rest of the fiction, heading for gardening. There are a few books on homesteading and I pocket one that might have some useful information. I can’t take too much with me. My bag is already bulging and getting heavy and I’ll probably have to resort to tearing out any chapters that look interesting, which feels wrong to do inside the store. I’ll do it after we leave.
I move down the next aisle and pause, my eyes going wide at the cover there. It’s covered in a brown paper wrapper that hides the majority of the cover, but underneath, I can see the title. THE EVERYTHING SEX GUIDE. I pick up the book, feeling a bit like a giggly child, and gasp at the photos inside. There’s a picture of a middle-aged man with his mouth between a woman’s legs, and she has her eyes closed, her mouth open in ecstasy.
I’m fascinated, because now I know what that feels like. I can feel a tingle moving through my body in response.
Your thoughts are changing, Zohr sends, puzzled, then they turn sensual. Are you thinking of me?
I slam the book shut as if I’ve been caught in person. No! I’m not thinking of anything!
You are certain?
Positive, I tell him and then try to shut our link off through sheer embarrassment. I can feel his amusement, and he mentally “distances” to give me space. Thank goodness. I start to put the book back on the shelf…and then pause. I pull the dustjacket off, revealing a plain cover, and add the book to my pile. Might be a few pages worth tearing out in this one, too.
Just in case.
23
EMMA
Zohr returns to my side a short time later to find me cross-legged amongst a stack of sports nutrition books. I sense his thoughts growing closer as I flip through pages, and give him an absent smile as he approaches. He’s in human form, naked, so I do my best not to stare at anything that might bring on thoughts of that sex book.
A dead animal thumps to the ground at my feet, limp. I brought you food, my mate.
I close my book on therapeutic massages and try to look pleased at the mangled goat inches away from my shoe. “You shouldn’t have.”
It is small, because your stomach is small. His thoughts are pleased. I tried to catch you a small black and white animal, but it got away.
“Oh yeah, avoid those. They’re skunks and they smell bad.” My nostrils flare in memory of the time Jack and I accidentally ran into one and got sprayed. “Takes forever to get the smell out, too. You’d hate it.”
He moves behind me and puts his arms around my shoulders, nuzzling my neck from behind. I catch a whiff of his scent—char and sweat and fresh meat.
Instead of being grossed out, it’s kind of comforting. I pat his arm. “You eat well?”
I did, but I missed you. He rubs his nose along my neck, sending goosebumps up my spine.
Not gonna think about that book. Not gonna.
“I missed you, too,” I tell him, and I’m surprised to realize it’s the truth. It was a quiet afternoon, but it edged onto lonely. That worries me a little. What’s it going to be like when we go our separate ways and I’m on my own again? I can’t be missing people. It’s not safe to depend on anyone else. Like it or not, I’m best alone. So I change the subject. “How are your wounds? Paining you?”
There is a little tenderness in my back, but I am otherwise fine. You smell nice. I missed your scent. His nose rubs against the curve of my shoulder. You are wearing far too much, though.
I can’t help but chuckle a bit at that. “That’s what humans do. We wear clothing.”
I find it annoying. Plus, it smells bad. What purpose does it serve? He tugs at my heavily repaired shirt. I like your natural scent much better.
“Well,” I say, opening my book again. “Clothing is protection.”
He snorts against my neck, and one claw plucks at my stitching. This will not protect you from fire-spitters. Are humans that stupid?
I smother a laugh. “Different kind of protection. Think about…okay. Think about me without a shirt or pants, and then think about me running into Azar’s men.”
Zohr’s thoughts go dark. They would touch you, even if you were claimed as another’s mate?
“They wouldn’t care one bit,” I tell him. “Guys like that are just into that sort of thing because they’re jerks.”
He growls low, and his hands tighten on my shoulders. I would rip their throats out if they tried.
“And I appreciate that sort of bloodthirsty enthusiasm,” I tell him with a grin. I pick up one of the books scattered at my feet and pat it. “I need to read a bit more in this one. I think I found some stuff about treating scar tissue, but I need to concentrate.”
Before I can open the book, Zohr pulls it out of my hands. Later. We have plans, remember?
I eye the dead goat in front of me. “Dinner?”
Kissing.
Right. How could I forget? I can feel a flush moving over my face and I automatically set the new book down atop the book I’m trying very hard not to think of and feels terribly conspicuous despite its plain cover. “Kissing, huh?” I sound all choked and awkward. “You still want to do that?”
I want to do more, but we agreed to kissing. His thoughts are playful, erotic.
Oh, man.
Okay, we’re going to kiss.
I can do this without being ridiculous. I can. I’ve had sex with this guy. Dragon. Whatever. A kiss is nothing.
But right now, a kiss just feels so…intense. It’s a commitment to a relationship.
I’m not good with commitments.
We were committed the moment you took my cock inside you and accepted my fires, Zohr tells me. Nothing else has changed.
“I know,” I whisper. “But you have to be patient with me.” I still think of myself as a lone wolf. Of friends being liabilities. It’s why I never stuck around despite Sasha’s invites to stay with them. It’s how Boyd dragged me into his cesspool of friends. Connections drag you down. They sink you with them.
Which is what makes it so hard for me to figure out with Zohr. Will my connec
tion with him sink me if I stay? Survival’s easiest alone, but when I think about him going on—or going back to the woman in his memories—something about it doesn’t sit right with me. Maybe it’s obligation. I feel obligated to Zohr because I have a mental connection with him.
Or maybe you like being with me? He slides around to sit beside me, his gaze meeting mine. His eyes are warm and friendly and full of gold. There’s even a smile on his fascinatingly beautiful mouth, displaying a hint of fangs.
Maybe. Maybe there’s no point in stressing over him and me, because right now we have to be together. We can let the future figure out itself and not borrow trouble. De cualquier malla sale un ratón, as my father used to say. Under any net, there might be a mouse. I need to appreciate what—and who—I have.
And at the end of the day, it’s just a kiss. Nothing to get all freaked out over.
Zohr reaches out and caresses my cheek with one clawed hand, studying my face. Do you not like the thought of kissing me?
Oh, I do. I like the thought too much. “I’m just nervous. This is out of my comfort zone.”
Then let us make it comfortable. How shall we do this? What is best? Do we sit? Stand?
He looks at me, so earnest and serious, and I can’t help but chuckle. We’re both newbies to this, aren’t we? He’s not familiar with kissing and all I know is from—
Shit. Now I’m thinking of that book with the pictures again.
His eyes widen, and the gold deepens. What are these images flashing through your mind? I keep seeing them.
Oh god. Busted.
I feel nervous at the thought of explaining it. “It’s from a book…about sex. I just wanted to see if there were…” I swallow hard. “Tips. Make sure we weren’t missing anything.”
A book? Show me. There is fascination in his gaze.
Show him? Wordless, I pick up the book and hold it out to him. He takes it and examines the dark brown cover and then looks a little puzzled. “Um, you open it,” I tell him, and then flip the pages. It falls open to a rather graphic and huge picture of a hairy guy’s flaccid dick, with pubes everywhere. I blanch at the sight. All that hair.
Zohr looks less skittish than I am. He peers down at the book, fascinated, then touches the picture. Then he turns the book over, as if trying to see where the “person” on the pages goes. What is this?
“It’s a picture. It’s an image that’s captured and printed on paper.” He touches the paper again then tries to turn a page. His claws make it difficult to delicately lift the paper and he frowns down at them, then glances over at me. Can you do this for me?
“Oh, sure.” Why the hell not. I flip back a page and there’s a close-up of an equally hairy different penis. Jesus, was this book done in the 70s? “Anything you want to look at in particular?” I ignore the squeak in my voice.
Is there kissing in this book? Or just cocks with no faces?
A half-hysterical giggle escapes me. “I’m pretty sure there’s everything in this book.”
I want to see kissing. He nudges the book toward me and then gives me an expectant look.
Right. I take the book with sweaty hands and flip through the front, looking for kissing. There’s a fair amount of words and anatomy drawings, and then I find a picture that looks like kissing. I open the book wider so we can both look at it, and Zohr peers over my shoulder.
It’s…well, it’s kissing. Kind of. It’s really gross, tongue-y kissing. There are two people on the page and their mouths are wide open, their tongues pushing against one another in an awkward way that shows far too much mouth and not enough kiss. I’m also pretty sure I can see slobber. “Maybe this isn’t a good example.”
You do not kiss like this? He gives me a curious look.
“I’m not sure anyone kisses like this,” I admit, and I’m disappointed. I was hoping for some sexy illustrations or titillating pictures. So far all I’ve gotten is excessive body hair, weird-ass kissing, and a lot of secondhand humiliation.
Show me how you would kiss, then.
My mouth goes dry. I forget all about the book and look over at him. His eyes are whirling gold and beautiful, and his face is close to mine. I glance down at his mouth, and he leans in, expectant.
I lean closer to him, too, unable to resist. As I do, I catch a hint of his scent—spicy and musky and dragon-y all at once. His breath is warm on my cheek and our noses brush against each other as we move closer.
Our lips brush, and then I’m kissing him. My mouth moves against his, and I’m both uncertain and fascinated. He feels firm against my lips, but his skin is soft. His mouth parts slightly under my own, and experimentally, I graze my tongue against the seam of his lips.
The groan he utters makes goosebumps flash through my entire body. I pull back, breathing hard and surprised at how much I felt through all of my body just from that one small kiss.
“Emma,” he pants, and his hand goes to my neck, curling around it to hold me close. He nudges my mouth with his once more, our noses bumping, and then we kiss again. This time, we lead with tongues, as if we’re both eager to taste the other. I lean into him and bury my hands in his hair even as his mouth locks on mine and the kiss goes deeper.
I barely notice as he puts a hand to my waist and pulls me against him, crushing me against his chest. Nor do I notice that his big hand slides down to my butt, or that I’m straddling his thigh. I’m too fascinated by the play of our mouths against one another, of his tongue and the hot spear of it into my own mouth, and how it feels when I lightly play mine against his.
I’m not only fascinated by the tactile sensations of kissing—of wet mouth against hot tongue—but by how our minds seem to twine together with every caress. Zohr’s thoughts are a flurry of sensation and emotion, and I’m positive mine are, too. There’s no filtering of thought, and his experience through this kiss crashes into mine, and it’s almost overwhelming with how intense all of it is.
He loves my mouth, my scent, my tongue. He loves the way it feels as I straddle his thigh, and the slight press of my breasts against his chest. He loves the little sounds I’m making—I didn’t even realize I was doing any of that. I’m too lost in the kiss.
I thought I’d be terrible at kissing, but now I realize it doesn’t matter. Kissing is awesome, no matter how good or bad you are at it, as long as your partner is sexy. And mine is incredibly sexy. Zohr’s hard body presses against mine and he holds me close as we kiss over and over. I lose track of time; my world slows to nothing but his perfect, delicious mouth.
We break apart when it becomes too difficult to catch enough air, and, panting, I flick my tongue against his in one last playful caress.
I like kissing, he tells me, and his gaze goes to my mouth. I feel soft and swollen—and hot and achy in all the right ways—from our makeout session, and I like it far, far too much to even care. I want to see more in the book.
“B-book?” I stammer, confused for a moment. It takes a second for me to remember just what book he was talking about. “Oh. Right. You want to see more?”
I want to see what other things humans do with mating. I want more things like kisses. His claws lightly brush against my wet lips, tracing over them. Show me more.
“Well, you kind of had a crash course already,” I tell him breathlessly, remembering our quick, interrupted first mating and then the feverish heat of the second.
Yes, but this time I want everything to go as it should. And I want to remember all of it.
Right. Can’t blame him there. I start to crawl out of his lap to get the book.
He doesn’t let me get far. His hands lock around my waist, and when I move forward, he pulls me back against him the moment my fingertips brush against the book. Sit against me. I want to feel your skin against mine as we look at the headless cocks.
I giggle, flustered. “If it’s nothing but headless cocks, I don’t think I want to see any more.”
Because they are hairy and mine is much better, yes? I am smooth and mu
ch larger than them. He sounds very proud of this fact.
I can feel my face growing hot.
You do not have to answer, he tells me smugly. I know the truth from your emotions.
Mental links are definitely taking some getting used to. I adjust the oversized book in my lap and settle down against him, my butt on his thigh. He pulls my legs over his and cradles my body against him, and we shift and adjust our seating until we’re both comfortable and I’m curled up crosswise against him. Before I can open a page, though, he drags one claw along my sleeve, a frown on his face.
I look over at him. “What?”
I wish to feel your skin against mine, he repeats. This is not skin. This is annoying.
I blink at him for a moment as the realization hits me. “You…you want me to undress? To read a book?”
No, for kissing. Not for the book.
“People don’t have to undress for kissing,” I tell him, flustered.
I know this. His tone is patient, even as he tugs on my mended sleeve again. We have already kissed. But I do not wear these foolish things, and I want to touch my mate without them in the way.
Oh. I hesitate, because it’s just habit to me to wear clothing. I’ve been taught that you’re safe covered up. That a girl on her own in the After is in far less danger when she’s covered, even if she’s not around anyone at all. Even all the time I spent alone I never went naked.
But you are not alone, Zohr says, leaning in and pressing his nose against the curve of my neck and inhaling deeply. You are with me.
Hard to argue with such fascinatingly straightforward logic. He sends an image of his claws shredding my shirt—again—and that decides me. “Bully,” I say, breathless, and lift my shirt over my head.
Zohr watches with fascination as I toss it aside, and then he pulls at my bra strap. What is this thing? Why do you wear more than one skin?
“Sometimes I wonder, myself,” I tell him, and unhook the clasp and toss it aside, as well. “Definitely not my favorite piece of clothing.”
