Page 63 of Grim Tidings

“Found some tequila,” he tells me, and my eyes snap to his hands. “It’s all I’ve got left.”

He arranges his items—bottle, glass, lime—then digs in his pocket. He pulls out a small saltshaker, then a pocketknife that looks like it survived the Middle Ages. Knowing how old he is, it’s a distinct possibility.

He flicks the blade open and picks up the lime.

“Uh, no.” I grab the lime. “Don’t cut it with that.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows lift. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to get diphtheria.”

He rolls his eyes and steals the lime back. “You’re not going to get diphtheria from a pocketknife.” He holds the fruit steady, then slices it down the middle. He slices it again, so there are four wedges. “Plus,” he adds, “you’re already dead.”

A bit of juice slides down his thumb to the jut of his wrist bone, and he lifts his arm, catching it with his tongue. His eyes crinkle in a smile when he notices my attention, then he winks.

My stomach performs an Olympic-worthy somersault.

I know what this is. He’s shown me too much, so now he’s covering his tracks with shameless flirtation and tequila. But I’m running from something, too, and maybe a little distraction is something we both need.

“You ever do a tequila shot?” he asks.

I shake my head. It always seemed like a silly activity to partake in by myself.

“Guess it’s time for me to add something to your little list, then.” Gabriel scoots closer, his wings stretching and then relaxing behind him. He’s on his knees, and I have my legs tucked beneath me, a half inch of space between us.

“Lick, sip, suck,” he says.

Those words sound more like a dare than a set of instructions. “What?”

He drags the lime across his wrist and sprinkles it with salt. Quick and easy. Like he’s done it a thousand times before.

“Lick,” he explains. He licks the line of salt, his tongue a slow swipe against the delicate webbing on the inside of his wrist. His voice sounds like tires on gravel. Like a cigarette shared in an empty alley between two strangers. Something hot and wild unfurls low in my belly, and I shift my legs, edging closer, entranced by the ceremony of it all.

He reaches with one hand for the tequila, bypassing the glass he brought out.

“Sip,” he grinds out, bringing the bottle to his mouth. He watches me the entire time he tips the bottle back, his throat flexing as he drinks.

“Suck,” he says when he pulls it away, and the lime goes in his mouth. Some of the juice escapes, slipping down his chin and along his neck.

My mouth goes dry. My stomach flips.

“Just like that.” He holds out the bottle, and I take it, pressing my palms to the glass.

“Is that how it’s normally done?” I manage. My throat is tight. It feels, inexplicably, like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff.

His head bobs side to side. A curl flops over his forehead. “More or less.”

“I might need your help with the—with some of the steps.”

“We’ll do it together, then.” His eyes dance in amusement. “Let me see your arm.”

I hold out my wrist between us and he considers it, dark blue eyes trailing from the inside of my elbow to the heel of my hand. Fingers curl loose around my wrist and then he bends, warm breath along my forearm.

“What are you—” I gasp when I feel the hot press of his tongue, the rest of my question swallowed up by the hot cinch in the pit of my belly. My arm jolts, but he holds me steady, his grip tightening, his fingers overlapping.

I make a high-pitched noise instead, and he pulls his head back with a grin.

“Cute,” he murmurs.