Page 24 of Purring for Her Lion
That’s where you’re wrong, little mate. It will happen again. And more.
I hold her gaze a moment too long. Something in my look must give me away, because her eyes narrow, suspicion flickering through her embarrassment.
“We should check on the egg,” I say, getting up.
I move around the room, adjusting the incubator, checking the readings, all the while acutely aware of her eyes on me. She’s watching, probably trying to figure out if I’m as calm as I seem.
I’m not. I’m the opposite of calm. I’m completely, thoroughly bothered, in all the ways that matter.
But my face shows nothing as I peer into the incubator’s crystal dome.
“Is it okay?” she asks, voice shaky.
“Temperature stable. No stress patterns in the shell.”
“Good.” She hesitates. “About last night?—”
“You clung to me,” I say, meeting her eyes. Three words. No explanation. Just fact.
She opens her mouth, closes it, tries again. “I—that’s not—I mean, yes, obviously that happened, but I didn’t—it wasn’t?—”
I let her flail. She gestures wildly, hair falling in her face, still gripping the sheet. It’s almost impressive, the way she tries to explain away the obvious.
“It was cold,” she blurts. “You’re basically a furnace. It was purely thermal.”
“Thermal.” I echo her, deadpan. My eyes glint with amusement, but she’s too flustered to notice.
“Yes. Thermal. Physics. Body heat. Nothing weird.”
“Nothing weird,” I agree, solemn. My tail flicks behind me, betraying my mood.
She narrows her eyes, realizing I’m laughing at her, but unable to prove it. “You’re making fun of me.”
“No.” My mouth threatens to twitch. I keep it steady.
“You are! You’re just doing it very quietly!”
I turn back to the incubator. “We should leave within the hour. The egg will travel better in the morning, and we need to set up the permanent incubation station at your place.”
She grabs the topic change like a lifeline. “Right. Yes. The egg. Our priority.” She edges toward the bathroom, sheet still wrapped tight. “I’ll just get ready. For the egg. And the leaving.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Only when the door closes do I let myself smile.
I tell myself I’m being kind, letting her off the hook. Giving her space to process. Not making a big deal out of it.
The truth? I want it to happen again. I want what happened in dreams to happen in waking life. I want her wrapped around me, warm and trusting and unguarded. I want her to turn to me, even in sleep.
If I made a big deal this morning, it would never happen again. So I’ll play it cool. Let her think it was just about body heat and proximity.
Tonight, when we’re back at her place? We’ll see.
My tail flicks, satisfied.
The dragon eggsits secure in its incubator as I load the last of our supplies into the truck. Liana hovers, avoiding eye contact, moving fast and nervous, like a spooked bird. She’s been like this all morning, talking too much about nothing, obsessed with the egg, always keeping at least three feet between us.
It’s amusing. Also a little irritating.
As if one night of unconscious cuddling rewrote the laws of the universe.
