Page 21 of Eat, Slay, Love

His eyes trail back up to mine, the blue nearly eclipsed by black.

Another shared trait, apparently. “What was that inconvenient biological trait you mentioned back at the soup kitchen?” I purr, because subtlety has never been my strongest attribute.

“I think you know, brat,” and wow, I like that very, very much. His tongue sweeps slowly across his lower lip. “And slayers?”

“Maybe even more so.”

His right hand spasms, as if he’s consciously stopped himself from reaching for me. “I’ve technically known you four days. And you were unconscious for three of them.”

“In your bed,” I remind him.

“In my bed,” he agrees, voice rougher now. “But all I really know about you is that you wear the fuck out of a leather bodysuit⁠—”

“Catsuit.”

“—Catsuit,” he amends, “your soul holds no rot, you love cheese, and you’re a terrible demon slayer.”

“I also enjoy online rabbit-holes,” I offer. “But who cares? I almost died. Let’s bang.”

A huff, a surprised laugh leaves his mouth at that. But then the air tightens, the space between us stretched tight like a bowstring.

“Like what you see?” I try again.

His eyes travel up and down, impudent now, dragging over all the important bits, as if he can’t decide where to look. “I like seeing you in my clothes,” he admits.

I hook my fingers into the hem of the shirt and peel it upward. The cotton slides over my ribs, my stomach, my chest. His gaze follows the movement with open hunger, controlled but unmistakable.

“Would you prefer them on the floor?” I murmur, dropping the shirt beside me.

To his credit, he doesn’t immediately pounce.

Instead he steps forward and inspects my abdomen, expression sharpening with something protective. His fingers brush lightly over my stomach, tracing where the wounds had been. The touch is careful at first, testing, pressing gently as if confirming I’m truly healed.

The path of his fingers leaves tingles of magic in its wake.

His eyes lift to mine, a silent question.

I nod.

Deliberately, he continues his path down. Down, and down. Without hesitation, he glides a finger through my folds possessively, as if he’s hoarded it and it’s already his.

A moan escapes my lips at the slow caress, at the electricity there.

“My warm, wet Nightmare,” he murmurs, sliding his hand back and forth. He takes my wetness and uses it to circle a nipple. “These are divine.”

“I know,” I breathe. “More.”

He gives me more with his tongue. Pressing his lips to mine and sliding it right in, toying and tangling with mine with a skill and confidence that speaks to decades of experience. Soft nibbles and deep licks, all while his hand works magic at my cunt, circling and spearing with even greater care.

“Jonah,” I gasp. “More.”

Jonah studies me. He understands what I mean. He takes his thumb, now wet with me, and pushes it into my mouth, pressing down on my tongue. I wrap my lips around his finger and suck.

His eyes flash with dark delight, and I feel pressure on my jaw. Downwards. “On your knees, Slayer,” he commands, voice both harsh and full of heat.

9

“Touch yourself, Mayari,” Jonah drawls. “Get yourself ready for me.”