Chapter 348: The worship thing stays

Bridget was trying to help me remove the racing harness when Cherry walked past the apartment door and asked whether we needed privacy or a mechanic.

I had returned from the quarry with Lyra, sent the suspicious cage photographs to the organizer, and demanded the lane be checked before tomorrow’s qualifier. He promised an inspection. I didn’t trust the promise enough to sleep on it without telling the others exactly what we had seen.

Lyra finished the explanation with the part where I had called the machine Moist Tax Deduction. Bridget looked at the harness again and said she had expected better camouflage for such an embarrassing investment.

"The color was included, sweetheart, and I felt the name made a serious contribution to public morale."

"It certainly made the commentator sound like he needed time alone," Lyra said.

Cherry offered to take her downstairs for dinner so Bridget and I could finish our equipment dispute. There was no pointed reminder about whose turn it was, just the comfortable understanding that wanting time together didn’t require anybody else to feel rejected.

Bridget watched them leave, then touched the strap that had caught behind my fin.

"They made this easy," she said. "I thought I would spend longer figuring out where I fitted."

"You fitted where you wanted to be, although I should warn you that Cherry’s idea of cupboard space changes whenever she buys snacks."

She smiled and freed the strap. "Lyra already gave me a shelf and asked what I wanted to do on the next outing. She didn’t make it sound like a favor."

I liked hearing that more than I could turn into a clever answer, so I simply told her I was glad.

Old Mate leaned over his bar, watching me with an expression usually reserved for a snake he suspected of learning something useful.

[System: There you go, mate. Turns out the women you love can like each other without you chairing a bloody committee in your underwear.]

You were the only person here who had imagined the meeting, and I wanted that made very clear.

Once the harness came off, Bridget asked for the route map. I showed her the actual photographs through her phone after forwarding them, keeping my internal device where it belonged instead of inventing a convenient screen on my forehead.

She traced the way back from the qualifier and asked what happened if the collector tried closing the lane.

I pointed out the public service entrance and the turning area the trainer had shown us. If the viewing tunnel became unsafe, I wouldn’t start until it was empty. If the equipment trap became obvious, losing an entry fee would be cheaper than proving my pride could withstand industrial machinery.

"And you were still going because you wanted to beat them," she said.

"I wanted the prize too, but I didn’t expect that to make the answer less annoying."

"It made it honest," she replied. "I can decide what I think of honest."

She sat beside me after putting the phone away, and the conversation turned from the race to the afternoon she had spent with Cherry. They had tested milk flavors, judged customers’ terrible pickup lines, and chosen which ugly souvenir I should bring back if I insisted on winning something.

The souvenir was apparently a tiny plastic toilet.

"I had several concerns about the level of faith being expressed in my sporting career."

Bridget touched the side of my head. "If you lose to the sanitation machine, we wanted you to have a smaller opponent at home."

I laughed, caught by how pleased she looked with the joke. She was not only there to bandage me or argue against danger, and I wanted to stop making those the jobs she performed most often.

I asked what she wanted that evening.

"Dinner without a business call," she said. "Then I want to see how long you can pay attention when there isn’t an audience to impress."

That sounded considerably more threatening than the recovery cage.

She chose the meal herself and sent me downstairs to collect it, giving me a job I could complete without turning it into a rescue. Tasmin handed over the tray with a warning that romantic customers still paid for broken plates. I carried everything carefully, returned with the food intact, and accepted Bridget’s teasing applause as the fairest reward I had earned all day.

We ate together by the apartment window. I kept the ordinary calls muted, left the emergency contact available, and listened while she described the things she wanted for the place that would be ours even when trouble stopped briefly to breathe.

A chair that fitted her wings comfortably, a shelf she could reach without moving my clutter, and a morning when I didn’t disappear because a message used the word prize.

I promised the chair and shelf immediately. The morning needed effort, which made promising it worth more.

She’s lying on her side in my bed, those four wings folded soft against her back, hair spread out like spilled milk across the sheets.

I’m coiled behind her, smoke curling off my scales, and I swear my brain short-circuits every single time I look at her.

I love this woman. I think about fucking her more than I think about literally anything else in my life, and that includes food, danger, and whether or not Old Mate is judging me right now.

He’s not, by the way. He goes quiet during this stuff. Some unspoken rule. Probably off somewhere getting hammered in whatever dimension he lives in.

Good. I don’t need commentary for this.

My tongue flicks out, tasting the air around her. Vanilla. Flowers. Something warm and sweet underneath that’s just her, just Bridget, and it drives me insane every single time.

"You’re staring again," she says, voice soft, a little giggle tucked into it.

"I’m always staring," I say. "You’re the best thing I’ve ever smelled."

"That’s a weird compliment."

"It’s the best compliment. Trust me."

I let my snout drift along her shoulder, slow, barely touching. She shivers. Good. I want her shivering. I want her trembling by the time I’m done with her tonight.

I trail down her arm, following the curve of her waist, the softness of her hip. Every inch of her is something I want to memorize. Every curve gets cataloged in my head like I’m some kind of pervert archivist, except I’m not ashamed of it anymore. I used to be. Now I just own it.

Bridget’s mine. All of her. Every soft curve, every sound she makes, every little gasp when my tongue finds a ticklish spot.

"Matt," she breathes, "you’re doing the worship thing again."

"The worship thing is good," I say. "The worship thing stays."

I nuzzle against her stomach, feel it tense under my snout, and something hot and possessive claws up through my chest. I press my tongue flat against her skin there, right over her belly, and just breathe her in for a second.

"I think about you all the time," I tell her. "Like, constantly. It’s actually a problem. I’ll be doing something important, something that could get me killed, and I’ll just think about you."

She laughs, a little breathless. "That’s dangerous."

"You’re dangerous. Worth it though."

I move lower, coiling my body so I’m settled behind her now, her back pressed near my scales, warm and soft against the cool smoothness of me. I hook my tail gently around her leg and lift it, slow, giving myself room, giving myself access to every part of her I want.

She gasps at the movement, wings fluttering slightly.

"Easy," I murmur. "I got you."

My tongue flicks out again, slower this time, more deliberate, tracing along her inner thigh. She’s already so warm, already reacting to barely anything, and the little whimper she lets out goes straight through me like electricity.

"Matt, please."

"Shh. Let me taste you."

I drag my tongue up, slow and broad, right along her slit, and the sound she makes is somewhere between a moan and a squeak. I do it again, savoring her, the forked tip of my tongue teasing right at her clit before pulling back just enough to make her whine for more.

"You taste incredible," I say against her skin. "I could do this all night."