Page 110 of Heimlock

He snorts, running a hand down my back. “You’re welcome to eat me any time, Firefly.”

“Anything?”

“Anything,” he says firmly. “Including my armpits, if you’d like.”

“Eww, they’re hairy.”

“It helps you floss,” he assures me.

“Eww!” I squeal, laughing as I push him away. “Take your floss pits and go make coffee or something. Leave me to this glorious bed.”

“Can’t,” he says flatly. “You haven’t paid the pancake toll yet.”

I crane my neck to look at him. He looks down at me past his nose awkwardly. “What is a pancake toll?”

His breath is warm on the shell of my ear as he whispers, “I get to lick anything I want.”

My breath catches. “Anything?”

“Anything you agree to,” he corrects. “Naturally.”

“Okay, Pancake God, what’ll it be?”

Trinte taps the side of my hip with a finger. “This scrumptious morsel, please.”

I laugh, pushing the blanket away. “Go ahead, Mr. Gleanscale. All yours.”

His fingers slowly, so slowly, curl around the edge of my underwear, gently tug it down a couple of inches. Casting me a mischievous look, he says, “I made up the pancake toll thing.”

He licks the slope of my hip with fierce precision, dragging his tongue to the bottom of my ribs. I gasp as he nips my skin lightly before replacing my underwear back to its original location, giving it a pat before tucking the blanket around me again.

“Lemon and sugar pancakes, coming right up.” He scoots out of bed, wearing dark purple boxer briefs. Everything else is bare. My mouth goes dry at the muscles flexing with each step. He watches me visibly gobble him up with a smirk.

“Hey, I’m not a piece of meat, you know,” he says, walking into his bathroom.

“So you’re saying you never want me to try to swallow your meat log?” I slap a hand over my mouth, mortified. The joke sounded way better in my head.

There’s a prolonged silence, then Trinte’s head slowly begins to crane around the edge of the door. “Can you repeat that, please?”

“No.”

He steps fully into the doorway, still in his boxer briefs. With an expression of dismay and delight, he says, “Did you … just say ‘meat log’?”

“No, I said ‘street smog,’” Well, that was lame. I want to die, just a little bit.

“You want to eat my meat log?” he says, now looking a little horrified.

“See, if I say yes, this turns into a different conversation that will possibly prevent the timely delivery of pancakes.” I cross my arms. “If I say no, then it will for sure prevent the timely delivery of pancakes and possibly hurt your feelings.”

“Sounds like the best option is the one that doesn’t hurt my feelings,” he says, smirking.

“I do not want to eat your meat log,” I say swiftly, narrowing my eyes. “I want to eat your corn on the cob.”

We stare at one another; he in disbelief and I in humiliation. I’m digging this grave — someone come bury me under the dirt.

“Kyrielle?” he says calmly, expression blank.

“Um, yes?” I draw my knees close, wanting to melt into a puddle of quickly evaporating liquid.