Page 192 of Primal

Her. He means his mother. And he’s dead serious.

My stomach drops—like my heart just got hijacked.

I should laugh. Tell him he’s insane for going from zero to living together.

But he says it with the same quiet certainty I feel whenever I let myself imagine it.

Us. A real home. A family.

Something more.

Something good.

I kiss him—soft, sweet.

He pulls back to rasp, “So that a yes?”

“Might be.” My hand slides down his stomach.

“Might?”

I wrap my fingers around his cock—already half-hard, getting harder. His breath stutters.

“I mean…” I give him a few pumps. “I’ll need at least two-thirds of the closet.”

“You can have the whole damn thing. I’ll live out of a backpack if you keep doing that.”

I lean down and swirl my tongue around the head of his cock. “And I’ll choose the mattress.”

“Fine. But Max gets to pick the couch.”

“Deal,” I say, mouthing down the underside of his shaft. “But we’re not adopting a dog just because Max wants one.”

“Too late. He’s already picked a name.”

“Oh, has he?” I stroke him again. “And when exactly did you agree to that?”

“Somewhere between you trying to ghost me and realizing I’d do anything to keep you.”

I lift a brow. “Desperate.”

“Devoted. And catastrophically dick-drunk.”

I suck him like a lollipop, watching his eyes roll back. “Okay. But if we get a dog, I’m naming it Gizmo.”

“You already did that to the cat.”

I blink. “What cat?”

He gives me a look. “The demon tabby you hauled out of a tree while drunk. Bit my ear. Slept in my laundry basket for a week.”

“Right,” I say brightly. “You read it sonnets on Halloween.”

He snorts. “Bullshit.”

“And you made it scrambled eggs.”

“It was malnourished. And still not my cat.” His cock twitches in my grip.