Page 15 of The Devil’s Feather

But he softened for me, cautiously exploring the contour of my lips. His body heat, the strength in those arms around me, his scent—I wanted to drown in him. I wanted to batter myself on the mysterious gates of his heart until he opened and let me in.

He took my lower lip in his teeth. I may have moaned into his mouth. The energy shifted. Suddenly his tongue prodded mine. Our mouths clashed, and I kissed back as hard as I could. He made a sound low in his throat, and my body lit up.

My breathing sped, and I gasped for air. I wanted him to rip my clothes off and take me right there on the floor. I wanted to rip his off and taste the muscular body beneath. I wanted to lick and bite and fuck until neither of us remembered our names.

Cruelly, Rafael released me and stood. I wobbled in the absence of his arms. He caught my shoulders and steadied me.

Holding me upright, he pinned me with a stare down his nose. “I am not a casual person, and I do not want to be ‘just friends’. If I am with you, then I am with you only—and I expect the same. I will not lie to you, and you will not lie to me. If this is not what you want, or if it frightens you, I would rather know now.”

Wordless, breathless, I shook my head. “You’ve already crawled inside my ribs and made a nest there. I’m a terrible liar, anyway. Even lies by omission; if I feel something strongly, it’ll always come tumbling out of my mouth.”

“I like that about you.” The corners of his mouth quirked upward. “I beg for patience, though. I have had some impressively bad luck with relationships.”

Oh my god. Rafael fucking Nazim was asking me to be in a relationship with him? Had I stepped into an alternate reality?

“I’m in no rush.”

“Good.” He gave me a considering look. “Some women dislike being asked directly for consent. I have never understood that.”

“Some women are neurotypical and expect you to read their minds,” I countered. “I’ve never understood that either. Especially not with something as important as consent.”

Rafael smiled his approval and led me back to a cavernous kitchen with phthalo blue cabinets where a carafe of red wine sat on a glimmering labradorite island. He poured us each a glass, and we clinked them together. The wine was rich, smooth, and complex—much like Rafael himself.

“What are your food restrictions?”

I swallowed my sip of wine. “I’m very lactose intolerant. Actually allergic to tomatoes, and sometimes peppers make my mouth get tingly if I eat too much. I have kind of a delicate tummy overall. English peas don’t make me sick; I just hate them.”

Rafael tapped the counter in thought. “A shame about the tomatoes, but I can work around that.”

Through the kitchen was a tiled bathroom, complete with a claw-foot tub, and a spare, white-walled bedroom. It clearly didn’t get much use, given the stacks of books and sheet music on the bed. I admired the Joan Miró hanging over the headboard; the first abstract in his collection.

To my starkly boring parents, the decor would have been garish. I loved all the colors and textures, and Rafael had somehow combined them all in a way that kept them from becoming overstimulating or cluttered. Artful maximalism.

His recording studio branched off from the music room. It was filled with screens and technology I didn’t understand, and was the only room with no art or decor. His office on the other side had a similar vibe to the den, though the paintings there were slightly macabre still-lifes and⁠—

“Shut up! Is that an original Giger?” I almost touched the suggestive portrait of a nascent xenomorph.

“It is.”

“Which of the Alien movies is your favorite? I will absolutely judge you based on your answer.” I tried to look as stern and judgmental as he had about my music choices, but he laughed in my face.

“Hard to beat the original, but Aliens is such a classic. If you say your favorites are the AvP movies, I will kick you out of my house.”

It was my turn to laugh. “I mean, there was that one scene in the second AvP movie with the ovipositor that really made me question my sexuality, but no, you are correct.”

“Oh, are you a monster fucker?” Rafael’s eyes glittered.

I planted my hands on my hips. “You read my book.”

He snorted. “No wonder you are attracted to me.”

I swatted his arm. My hand stung at the contact; he was solid as a rock.

“Oh please. You know you’re hot.”

His brows shot up. “With how strongly and often I have been advised to get rhinoplasty for this nose? Doubtful. And useless, given the number of times it has been broken. Plus, when you make a habit of taking punches, a mouthguard can only do so much.”

Rafael bared charmingly crooked teeth in a crocodile grin, running the tip of his tongue over the edges. A couple were slightly chipped. Whatever he intended, I just imagined him running that tongue over my body.