Aurora laughs softly, nervous. "I’m starting to seriously resent my lack of culinary and domestic education."
I hum, a low throaty sound. "Even I’ve gotten soft after years of spoiled castle kitchens."
Aurora’s lips twitch. "You, soft?"
Her gaze drifts down to my abs, as her tongue darts out.
My muscles tighten.
"I guess I should get out of the kitchen," she murmurs. "I’m not any help."
I meet her eyes. "I haven’t known you to back down from a challenge."
Her breath catches again.
She tightly grips the counter behind her, chest pushing out. I swear I smell her arousal in the air. Judging by the tight buds pressing against her thin tank, it’s more than wishful thinking.
In another life, I’d have her splayed out on this counter screaming my name. And then I’d finish making her breakfast, draw a bubble bath when she was done eating, and spend the rest of the day alternately washing her body, feeding her, and getting her filthy all over again.
"You never tell me to just sit down and do it for me," she says softly. "That’s what everyone else always did."
My throat closes.
“You aremorethan capable.” The words are no more than a whisper.
She licks her lips again and shifts a centimeter closer.
The words are there. Pressing into the air between us. The longing is a palpable thing, attracting and repelling us with its massive presence.
Even the continued angry chorus from Lucifer, still perched on the fridge, doesn’t break the moment.
My throat works. I swallow then step back.
My stomach sinks even as I grab the tongs. Nothing can come of this. I have to remind myself of that before I hurt Aurora. Best to keep things light and easy.
I give her a lopsided smile. "Let’s try pancakes. Maybe they don’t catch fire as easily."
Chapter 12
Flirting with the Dragon
AURORA
The Poison Apple pulses, alive and thrumming. The music thrums low and dark, vibrating through the floorboards. Lights flash hot and fast. Every breath drags in sweet liquor and perfume, laced with sweat, magic, and lust.
A cheer goes up from the dance floor.
I glance over just in time to catch a mage conjuring a ribbon of glowing smoke between his fingers, twisting it into the shape of a snake. It slithers through the air before bursting in a harmless flash of gold sparks.
I’ve learned that Boston used to be a human city, but it’s shifted in the last couple years. Fae, mages—they’re pouring in. Poison Apple’s becoming a hotbed for supernatural nightlife. And all that junk reality mage television has given me a knack for spotting the different levels of magic.
The mage on the dance floor is a level one—low power, high showmanship—but the girl he’s trying to impress claps and giggles with an enthusiasm that guarantees he’s going to get laid.
I shake my head, smiling to myself, and line up four shot glasses.
Pour. Pour. Pour. Pour.
My movements are quick, practiced, no longer plagued by clumsiness. The deep plum liquor catches the neon overhead, glowing with the shimmer of a potion. I swipe a napkin beneath one glass before it can drip, just as Snow whistles from across the bar. “Look at you, bartending and everything, babe.” She throws up two thumbs of approval.
