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When he was almost done, he took a small foil package back out of the cupboard—which was now stuffed to the gills—and handed it to me. “Here. It is calledyin. We eat these to supplement our energy. Protein. They are … snacks.”
Theyinlooked kind of like fried chicken bites, only bright green. I took a small piece, not wanting to offend him by declining. I mean, he was able to eat human food without problems, so theoretically this wouldn’t poison me. The meat, if that’s indeed what it was, had a crunchy exterior with a pleasant chew inside. It was surprisingly tasty. Like if shrimp and grilled chicken had a popcorn baby.
A little moan of satisfaction slipped out, and Q’on smiled. “You like it?”
“Yeah. It’s actually good. I’m almost afraid to ask what it’s made from.”
“Hrallameat cooked inflamoil.”
Nope. Not gonna ask him to elaborate.
I glanced down, and I really should not have. Those sweatpants … I could see his, er, excitement over my approval of theyinin high def. Why did I buy him grey sweatpants? I should have known better. Averting my gaze, I decided a change of subject was in order. “So, Q’on, what do you want to do tonight after dinner? We could watch TV, or if you want to read more I can let you do that.”
He paused a moment, seemingly pondering his choices. “May we try some of the activities in your books?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and groaned. “Please, dude, let my pussy have a breather after last night. I think it’s bruised.”
The look of abject terror on his face shocked me, and when he scooped me up into his arms and held me close, tears streaming from his eyes, I froze in a panic. “Q’on? What's wrong?” Shit! What did I say to make him react like this?
He sniffled and nuzzled his wet cheek to mine. “I am shamed. I hurt you.”
Oh! Oops. “Oh, Q’on, I'm sorry. I was just exaggerating. I'm not hurt.” I turned and let my lips brush against his. He kissed me back, still sniffling, and he relaxed enough for me to pull back. “I'm okay, Q’on. Really. Calm down.”
A couple more sniffs, and he nods. “Apologies. I worry. You seem less … sturdy than Xalanite females. I thought perhaps I was too rough.”
I swatted a tight pec and laughed. “I'm plenty sturdy!”
That got him grinning again. He growled and nipped the tip of my nose with those iridescent teeth. “Excellent. I plan on testing that later.”
He set me down, and I opened the fridge to get a couple of steaks out for dinner. “You'll like these. Meat slabs. I'll sear them up for us, and we can sit on the couch and eat while I tell you more about life on Earth. How does that sound?”
Q’on sidled up behind me and wrapped his arms around me while I cooked, resting his chin on my head. The fit was perfect. I've never been more comfortable while cuddling. It was almost enough to make me buy into Q’on’s mates-for-life philosophy.
When the steaks reached a nice medium rare, I plated them, tossed some premixed salad, and poured a couple glasses of wine. I didn’t know what alcohol would do to Q’on, but after the stress of the past twenty-four hours, I knew I, at least, needed a drink. I would have carried the plates, but my alien lover insisted on doing it for me. He only let me handle the drinks when he realized he didn’t have enough hands to get it all in one trip.
I sat with my legs tucked under me on the middle cushion, ensuring that Q’on would have to sit next to me. He settled in with his plate and watched me eat for a few minutes before digging in himself. It amazed me how well he handled the silverware, and I realized that was why he watched: so he could see how it was done.
We ate in silence, but as soon as we finished devouring everything, Q’on started in.
“I read seventeen books today. Some of them were easy enough to understand, but some of them confused me. How can so many humans be from this New York City, yet none of the people in one story know the others?”
I shrugged. “It’s a massive city. There are millions of people living there, and even more commute to work there from the surrounding towns and cities.”
His eyes grew wide. “Millions? In one city?”
“Sure. Well, there's these different boroughs inside the city, but … You know what? It doesn’t matter. These stories are all fiction, anyway. Written by different authors, so of course the characters don't know each other.”
“Do the authors know each other?”
“Maybe? I’m sure some of them do.”
He seemed to ponder this for a moment. “Are all of the cities in these stories real places?”
“Nah. Some are completely made up.” I picked up a book from his stack on the coffee table. “See this one? Small-town romance. I don’t think this is set in a real place. I mean, some authors use real places, like New York, but some just make up towns or cities to suit their purposes. Basically, don’t necessarily believe everything you read. A lot of this is total B.S.”
“B.S.?”
“Bullshit. So … let me see … Essentially, it’s crap. Fated mates, mate bonds, all that shit. None of it’s real. I don’t think I have any nonfiction in this house.”
