Page 39 of Consume Me
I nearly spit out my drink.
“What?” I manage, swiping my mouth while he watches bemused.
“Your nose piercing reminded me,” he says as if that’s all the explanation I need after what he just said.
I shake my head and set my glass firmly out of reach—for safety. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you do not seem like the kind of guy who pierces his nipples.”
To my surprise, he laughs. “You’re not wrong. It was a drunken dare.”
“Ah, I stand corrected. You absolutely seem like a drunken dare kind of male.”
His lips remain curved upward, a small twinkle glimmering in his dark gaze. The happy expression he wears does something to my insides. Or maybe it’s the fact thatI’m the one who put it there after all his perpetual scowling.
“So, who dared you? And how was it?” I prompt when he doesn’t go on.
“Makim, one of my cadre, was a menace at parties. He thought I brooded too much, so one night he got me drunk enough to ‘fix it.’ His words.”
I shake my head, mostly because I already see Makim’s point. But I keep my mouth shut and let Noctan go on.
“At about two in the morning, when I could barely stand upright, he dared me to get my nipples pierced.” He grimaces. “I said no, of course. He accused me of being a coward and a bore and dragged me to the smith anyway. I figured the first one would shut him up.”
Laughter bubbles up and out; I can’t help it. “And did it?”
He shakes his head. “He insisted it had to be both. And Skol—the bastard—actually held me down for the second one. Claimed it was for my own good.” I shake my head. “I don’t know what was worse—the piercing or Makim bragging about it for a century after.”
“Your cadre sounds like fun,” I say.
His smile turns wistful. “They were.”
The mood shifts, and I silently curse the daggers—again—for what they took from this beautiful male.
“And, uh, do you, uh, still have them?” I ask, suddenly awkward about the mental images distracting me.
“You’d know if I did,” he points out, and I know he’sreferencing that moment on his couch where I rubbed my body against his, getting to know it intimately before I’d even gotten to know him.
“Good point,” I say, cheeks heating, because, gods, it would be hot if he did have them.
The silence that follows is heavy, but not uncomfortable. It feels like he’s seeing right through me, though, and I hate how much I want him to. And not just about nipple piercings. About everything I’ve told him tonight.
Finally, he leans back, studying me with that maddening calm. “You’re wrong, you know.”
I snap my gaze to his. “Excuse me?”
“You belong wherever you decide you do,” he says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world.
My chest tightens. I cover it with sarcasm. “Philosophy lessons with dinner? You really know how to woo a girl.”
His smirk is pure trouble. “Am I wooing you?”
“You’re trying,” I shoot back, but we know that’s exactly what he’s doing. And it’s working.
The waiter arrives with our food, then, saving me from whatever smug thing he was about to say. We eat, and the conversation drifts, easier after that—him asking what it’s like working with Natalia (“like juggling live grenades in a library”), me prying a little about his years traveling (“You make your life sound like one long war”). By the time dinner is over, I’m laughing more than I thought I would tonight.
Halfway through dessert, I catch him watching me again, not with hunger this time but something softer. It knots something deep inside me.
“Careful,” I say, pointing my fork at him. “You’re going to make me think you’re enjoying yourself.”
He doesn’t even blink. “I am.”
