Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
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 much 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.”