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Casting her duffel a quick look, he said, “I almost forgot to tell you, you left some of your stuff here last time.”
“I did?”
“A comb and a hair tie.”
Humming, she casually stretched her legs out. “I wondered where the comb was. Remind me to toss them in my bag before I leave.”
He crossed to her, his eyes narrowed, his mouth curving. “You know, Gideon has a theory.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask what it is. In fact, I don’t want to know.”
Teague’s smile widened. “He thinks you left your stuff here on purpose. That you did it to put your mark on my territory.”
“Because a hair tie and a comb make a real statement,” she mocked, her voice bone dry. But in the privacy of her own head, she had only one thought: Busted. “Take your jeans off.”
His forehead wrinkled. “What? Why?”
“It’ll make it easier for me to blow you.”
Teague pressed his lips together, squeezing one eye shut. “I really feel like you’re trying to distract me, but I don’t have it in me to choose pursuing this line of conversation over having your lips wrapped around my cock again.”
Success. “Then the jeans need to go. So get to it.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I don’t know why you keep glaring at me,” said Teague the following day, sitting across from her at a table in one of the Underground’s ice-cream parlors.
Larkin didn’t credit that ridiculous, bullshit statement with a response. She did, however, pause in devouring her waffle cone to shoot him a sneer of disgust.
He responded with a mocking oh-so-innocent look. She’d slap it right off his face if he wasn’t careful. Which he likely wouldn’t be. Because this was Mr. Who Cares About Self-preservation?
Larkin went on to irritably lick at her honeycomb ice-cream, scooping up some caramel syrup and chocolate chips with her tongue. A sucker for such treats, she’d ordinarily be enjoying the moment. But at present, she was feeling too antsy to properly relish its icy smoothness and the slight fizz of the honeycomb chunks.
In no way edgy, her demon wanted Larkin to playfully tease him with some sexually suggestive licks of her ice-cream. The entity wasn’t a little bit bothered by the current situation, unlike her.
“It’s not my fault people are staring,” he added, his eyes still wide-eyed with faux innocence.
No, it was his demon’s fault. But Teague was fully responsible for the fact that he kept smirking. There was nothing funny about this matter. “Keep pushing me and I will hurt you.”
“What? Why? My beast is the one in the wrong, not me.”
She scowled. “Don’t act like you think your demon did anything bad. You’re not one little bit bothered by any of this. It’s all one big source of amusement for you.”
“At no point have I laughed.”
“You did it this morning. Twice.”
“I wasn’t laughing at you, I was laughing at . . . I can’t actually remember, but it definitely wasn’t you.” His eyes dancing, he dipped his plastic spoon into his bowl and scooped up a dollop of chocolate ice-cream mixed with cookie dough, chopped nuts, and toffee syrup. “I swear it on my mom’s grave.”
“Is she dead?”
“Uh . . . well, no.”
Larkin ground her teeth. If she could reach one of the metal scoopers behind the glass case, she’d honestly hit him with it. Hard. Probably more than once.
He scoffed down his spoonful of dessert. “I’d like to point out that we’re in the same boat. Your demon branded me again as well. You don’t hear me complaining about it.”
The same boat? Seriously? “Mine didn’t leave a barcode on your ass or a tribal horse-head on your goddamn face.”
Though she was not whatsoever impressed by the barcode, she was more annoyed by the facial tattoo. There might as well be a note on her cheek that read, ‘Chattel of Teague Sullivan’s Demon’.
Not that the latter brand wasn’t pretty. Feminine and loosely detailed, it almost looked like someone had stylishly doodled it on her skin. It would definitely work as a logo. Yeah, she liked it. But it was on her face.
On. Her. Face.
It bore repeating.
He gazed at the brand, clearly stifling a smile. “It’s really not that noticeable.”
Larkin managed to hold back a hiss. Reminding herself that he wouldn’t look so pretty with a broken nose, she resisted slamming her palm into his face—barely. It was a close call.
She took in a steadying breath, inhaling the scents of caramel, vanilla, chocolate, ozone, and fresh fruit.
It didn’t help.
Pinning him with yet another glare, she delved back into her ice-cream. As it was her day off work, they’d last night planned to hit the Underground together for a few hours today. But that was before his demon had pulled its asshole move.
Knowing the facial brand would earn her plenty of startled looks, Larkin had pushed to cancel their day out. Call her odd, but she wasn’t fond of being stared at. Teague, though, had been determined that they go out as planned. He’d teased her and poked at her when she’d resisted, calling her a chicken—which her demon happened to agree with.
