Page 20 of Bonded to The Boo Hag

Hells bells.

“When your glamour blushes, are you blushing too?” he asked with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Yes,” I grumbled, walking around the couch and sitting down in front of the coffee table.

He didn’t say anything else, instead selecting A Christmas Carol.

I moved the paperware and opened the first box just enough to see a classic cheese pizza, then slid it aside to see the second.

“A veggie pizza?” I was pleasantly surprised. “How did you know?”

“I asked Prudence, but I’d like to know what else you like. What’s your favorite snack food?” He picked up a plate and served himself a slice of cheese pizza.

“Is cheese your favorite?” I asked instead of answering, taking a slice of the mushroom, banana pepper, onion, green pepper, tomato, and jalapeno topped pizza. “It doesn’t have olives.”

“You don’t like olives; what’s your favorite snack food?” he asked again, biting into his steaming slice and using his flexible tongue to collect errant strings of cheese.

“I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine.” My defense trailed off into a moan when the robust flavors hit my tongue.

Gatlin watched me, and I felt myself flush again. I hadn’t had pizza in years, and I didn’t realize I missed it until now.

He was bringing a lot of things I missed to my attention.

“Yes.” His voice, a bit lower than normal, raised goosebumps along my skin.

“I like spicy snacks: Hot Fries, Hot Cheetos, spicy shrimp chips… I mostly snacked until recently.” I trailed off, putting my pizza down to pour us both a cup of soda. “What is your favorite snack?”

“I love BBQ pork rinds.” He reached for the cup of cola I poured for him. “Thank you.”

“Mmmmhmmm, is it because of the lack of carbs?” I asked, taking another sip.

“It started that way, but now I like all the flavors, and I enjoy the crunch,” he admitted.

We continued like that, trading little factoids about ourselves while we ate. I ended up having two and a half slices of pizza. I had been increasing my food intake since he moved in, but I could remember a time when six wasn’t difficult to do.

Gatlin disposed of our plates, and I put up the leftover pizza. Before returning to the den, I popped the lid on Cook’s blue tin of imported German peppermints. Not that I need fresh breath—this isn’t really a date—but at the same time…

I fished one out and stood there for a moment, feeling once again like I was being foolish, when an arm wrapped around my waist and Gatlin leaned over my shoulder.

“Oh, I love these,” he said, his hand splayed across the skin of my stomach like a brand.

My breath hitched when he leaned down and took the mint from my fingers with his lips.

“So good,” he mumbled around the mint, kissing me on the temple and walking away.

I stood there frozen like a buffering movie, my brain looping as I tried to mentally load the data of that last interaction.

“I’m going to start the movie, Palmer,” he called from the den, my supernatural hearing more than picking up the smugness in his tone.

I blinked back online and reached into the tin again for a mint of my own.

“Okay then,” I whispered, heading out of the kitchen and down the hall to him.

I sucked on my mint, thinking about that kiss at the club and wondering if I was reading too far into his actions tonight. I came into the room just as he turned the dimmer switch on the chandelier. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the Christmas tree, the shadows held at bay by the sconces on the wall. I snuggled down into the corner of the couch and stretched my feet out over the seat cushion. Gatlin pushed play and joined me, lifting my feet up and into his lap.

It never occurred to me that my ankles were an erogenous zone until his large hand wrapped around one and began to lightly stroke downwards. When he moved on to massaging my feet, I gave up any semblance of decorum and moaned, melting into the couch.

He chuckled, continuing his ministrations as the opening scene cut to the opening credits. “It’s those heels you wear,” he murmured, making me gasp when he reached a particularly sensitive place in my arch. “But they make you look fucking fantastic, so I’m not complaining. I probably should do this for you every evening, a fair trade for beauty?”

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