Page 35 of False Catch

"I know. But with you it feels... easier somehow. Less heavy."

We're standing close now, close enough that I can smell him - cinnamon and vanilla and something uniquely Zane that makes my skin warm. His scent is stronger than usual tonight, richer somehow, like it's calling to something in me I don't quite understand.

"Reese," he says quietly. "You smell different."

"My suppressants are wearing off. Sorry."

"No, not that." He leans closer, inhaling against my throat. "You smell like... us. Like the team but also like... you belong."

Neither of us knows what to make of that, so we just stare at each other, something shifting in the air between us.

His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "Can I kiss you?"

"We shouldn't—"

"That's not what I asked."

I consider his question for a moment then rise up on my toes instead of answering, pressing my lips to his. He makes a sound low in his throat and pulls me closer, backing me against the counter away from the stove. The kiss is different from Gray's desperate possession or Eli's surprising dominance. Zane kisses like he bakes - with patience and skill and attention to what makes someone melt.

But there's something else too - a rightness that makes no biological sense. Like my body recognizes his in a way that goes beyond simple attraction.

His hands slide down to my waist, lifting me onto the counter easily. I wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him closer, and we both groan at the contact.

"Fuck," he breathes against my mouth. "I've wanted this since the bus. Since you let me taste you."

Heat streaks through me at the memory, the way he’d buried his face between my thighs while everyone else was within earshot. The way he’d looked at me after, like he couldn’t believe what he’d been given.

"Zane—"

"Do you know what it did to me?" His lips drag along my jaw, down to my throat. "Having you come on my tongue while everyone was right there? Knowing I was the first one to taste you like that?"

His hand slides between us, fingers pressing against me through my sleep shorts. I'm already wet, have been since Jackson ordered me around earlier, and Zane groans when he feels it.

"So responsive," he murmurs, pushing the fabric aside and running his fingers along my folds. Teasing through the edges of wetness. "Is this for me or from earlier?"

"Both," I admit, gasping as he slides two fingers inside me. The stretch makes me gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. "All of it. Everything."

My head falls back against the cabinets as he works me with a steady rhythm, the heel of his palm grinding against my clit. Each curl of his fingers sends sparks up my spine.His thumb finds my clit and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. With his free hand, he pulls the neck of my tank down so he can suck a nipple into his mouth. I whimper at the dual sensations.

"Let me hear you," he says around my skin. "Everyone's asleep. Let me hear what I do to you."

I try to bite back the sound, but when he crooks his fingers just right I break, moaning his name like it’s a confession. He grins against my neck and speeds up, thumb circling my clit until I’m writhing on the counter, clutching at him like I’ll drown without his hands on me.

"That's it," he encourages, increasing his pace. "God, you're so wet. So perfect."

"Zane, please—"

"I've got you," he promises, and then he’s gone, dropping to his knees before I can protest. His mouth replaces his hand, tongue stroking over my swollen clit with obscene focus. He licks me like he’s starving, every movement purposeful, greedy, reverent.

The combination wrecks me—his fingers thrusting inside, his mouth sealing over me, the low growl vibrating against my skin. My thighs clamp around his head, but he just groans into me and pushes deeper, relentless.

I shatter around him, hips bucking, cries spilling unchecked. He doesn’t stop. He drags every last aftershock from me, tongue stroking softer now, fingers easing until I’m trembling against the counter.

When he finally stands, he licks his fingers clean with deliberate slowness, eyes locked on mine. “Better than anything I could cook,” he says, voice gravelly.

I’m still panting, hair sticking to my damp face. “My turn.”

His brows draw together. “Reese, you don’t have to—”