Page 78 of Star-Crossed
Lyra moaned, clutching at his shoulders.
Those words.
I do.
She pretended she hadn’t heard them. Pretended they hadn’t meant anything.
Pretended…that they’d not shattered the shards of ice surrounding her heart.
SIXTEEN
Gall
A LOCALIZED SWELLING OF BRANCH OR STEM GENERALLY CAUSED BY FUNGI, BACTERIA, INSECTS OR A PHYSIOLOGICAL DISORDER.
Cy rinsedhis lungs with crisp autumn air as he and Lyra strolled down Water Street. Pumpkin spices, wood smoke, and the briny scent of the sea air mingled with the occasional salty whiff of popcorn or smoked turkey legs. Which was a welcome distraction from the smell of his blouse.
Yes. A fuckingblouse.
“I reek of mothballs and patchouli,” Cy grumbled, bending to sniff the puffed shoulder of his shirt.
“Probably because Raven lives in his grandmother’s basement,” Lyra said, shooting him a sideways grin. “We’re just lucky that he was willing to lend the shirt to you on such short notice.”
“Not that I don’t appreciate your sense of irony,” Cy said, slowing for a beat, “but you really think coordinated costumes were the way to go?”
Lyra laughed, the sound carrying on the breeze. “Oh, come on,” she said, tugging on the billowing sleeve. “We’re so meta.”
For about the thousandth time since he’d picked her up, Cy stole a glance at the outfit that had nearly caused him a stroke. A tight black corset with purple lacings pushed her luscious tits nearly up to her neck and whittled her waistline to the classic hourglass. From the swell of her hips, layers of purple and black chiffon danced on the breeze, revealing hip-high glimpses of her long legs clad in fishnets that looked like black spiderwebs. Her dark hair hung in long, loose waves below a wide-brimmed, pointy hat embroidered with gold stars. Around her neck, a bejeweled spider pendant mostly covered the hickey he’d given her in their passionate post-fire tangle.
Lyra wasn’t just a sexy witch, she wasthesexy witch.
And if he didn’t peel his eyes away from her, he was in danger of growing a stiff yardarm behind the laces of his knee-length leather breeches.
“You’remeta,” Cy muttered. “I’m the punch line of a bad joke.” The uneven clomping of his cavalier boot only served as punctuation.
Boot. Singular.
On the foot of his prosthetic, he wore a sneaker covered by a knee-high sock printed with a woodgrain pattern that proved surprisingly convincing. Like he was a peg-legged pirate.
“That’s the whole point,” Lyra said, scuffing through the confetti of leaves with gold-buckled shoes pointy enough to double as prison shanks. “We’re throwing the town’s stereotypes right back in its face. Which you were one hundred percent on board with, may I remind you.”
“Your thighs were wrapped around my head. You probably could have suggested I scrape the rain gutters of Roy’s junk shop clean with my teeth and I’d have been on board.”
And indeed, with her bare breasts swaying above his head and his mouth on her slippery sex, he’d heartily agreed that wearing couples’ costumes featuring his prosthetic and her alleged prognosticative abilities would make gossiping about them no fun.
As had her idea that they arrive late enough to make an entrance. Which was right up there with recreational flaying on Cy’s list of Fun Shit to Do.
He really had to stop agreeing to things during sex.
The auditory soup of carnival sounds floated over on a gust of wind that showered them with a scattering of gold aspen leaves like fluttery coins.
“You’resureyou want to do this?” he asked, slowing on the sidewalk.
Lyra arched an eyebrow at him. “How many times are you going to ask me that tonight?”
Gazing into the depths of her gold-green eyes, Cy couldn’t find an easy answer. “Depends on what we end up doing.”
Lips painted a vampy purple curved into a wicked smile as Lyra slid her hands up his chest. Tugging the laces—laces, for fuck’s sake—at the shirt’s open neckline, she brought her mouth to his ear.
