Baxian ran into the goalpost again, his avatar ricocheting onto the field. “Life’s too short to hold grudges.”
“That’s not a good enough reason.”
“It’s the only one you’ll get.” Baxian managed to gain control of the ball for all of ten seconds before Hunt took it from him. He cursed. “Solas. You can’t go easy on me?”
Hunt let the subject drop. The gods knew he’d had plenty he hadn’t wanted to talk about when he first arrived here. And the gods knew he’d done plenty of terrible shit on Sandriel’s orders, too. Maybe he should take his own advice from earlier. Maybe it was time to stop letting Sandriel’s specter haunt them.
So Hunt smiled roughly. “Where would the fun be in that?”
“This sucks,” Bryce muttered into the phone that night, splayed out on her bed. “You really aren’t allowed to leave?”
“Only for official 33rd work,” Hunt said. “I forgot how crappy the barracks are.”
“Your sad little room with its lack of posters.”
His laugh rumbled in her ear. “I’m going to be extra good so she’ll let me go early.”
“I won’t have anyone to watch Beach House Hookup with. You sure I can’t come over there?”
“Not with Pollux and the Hind here. No fucking way.”
Bryce toyed with the hem of her T-shirt. “Even if we stayed in your room?”
“Oh?” His voice dropped low, getting the gist of what she was suggesting. “To do what?”
She smiled to herself. She needed this, after the insanity of today. She hadn’t even dared tell Hunt what had happened with the mystics, not over the phone, where anyone could listen in. But the next time she saw him face-to-face, she’d tell him about everything.
Including the otter Tharion had sent to her two hours ago, as promised, with a note that said, Forgive me yet, Legs? Shall we kiss and make up? She’d laughed—but sent a note back with the screamingly cute otter: Start with kissing my ass and we’ll see how it goes. Another otter had arrived before ten with a note that said, With pleasure.
Now Bryce said to Hunt, mood significantly lifted despite the news, “Things.”
His wings rustled in the background. “What kind of things?”
Her toes curled. “Kissing. And … more.”
“Hmm. Explain what more means.”
She bit her lip. “Licking.”
His laugh was like dark velvet. “Where would you like me to lick you, Quinlan?”
They were doing this, then. Her blood heated. Syrinx must have scented what was up, and took it upon himself to leap off the bed and head into the living room.
Bryce swallowed. “My breasts.”
“Mmm. They are delicious.”
She slickened between her thighs, and rubbed her legs together, nestling further into the pillows. “You like to taste them?”
“I like to taste all of you.” She could barely get a breath down. “I like to taste you, and touch you, and when I can leave these barracks again, I’m going to fly in a straight line to wherever you are so I can thoroughly fuck you.”
She whispered, “Are you touching yourself?”
A hiss. “Yes.”
She whimpered, rubbing her thighs together again.
“Are you?”
Her hand drifted beneath the waistband of her shorts. “Now I am.”
He groaned. “Are you wet?”
“Soaking.”
“Gods,” he begged. “Tell me what you’re doing.”
She flushed. She’d never done anything like this, but if she and Hunt couldn’t be together … she’d take what she could get.
She slid her finger into her sex, moaning softly. “I’m … I have a finger inside myself.”
“Fuck.”
“I wish it was yours.”
“Fuck.”
Was he close, then? “I’m adding another,” she said as she did, and her hips bucked off the bed. “It still doesn’t feel as good as you.”
His breathing turned sharp. “Open up that nightstand, sweetheart.”
Frantic, she grabbed a toy from the drawer. She shimmied off her shorts and her drenched underwear and positioned the vibrator at her entrance. “You’re bigger,” she said, the phone discarded beside her.
Another primal sound of pure need. “Yeah?”
She pushed the vibrator in, her back arching. “Oh gods,” she panted.
“When we fuck for the first time, Quinlan, do you want it hard or do you want a long, smooth ride?”