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“Doesn’t sound as though it’d suit you.” If she’d learned anything, it was that he was a born nomad. She almost envied him that. The ability to make a home out of wherever he was right now, because right here, right now, he’d somehow made this glass house into a home.
“Nah,” he agreed. “Music’s my thing. Ain’t never going to be owt else. Water’s probably hot enough if you want to throw a teabag into it.”
She nodded, and he did the honours for her. Black tea wasn’t normally her preference, but she wanted to save the rest of the milk powder for the kitties. It was still the best cup of tea she’d had in a millennium. She drank half of it straight down before passing it to him. He rested it against his chest, his head still in her lap, only occasionally curling up enough to take a sip. She ended up stealing most of it from him, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“Nibbles?” He squeezed a line of the mushroom pâté onto the side of his index finger, then offered it up to her. Obligingly, she opened her mouth and sucked his finger clean.
“Don’t think it’s ever going to be a favourite.”
“Philistine. This stuff is delish.”
“More for you.”
“True.”
“I’ll take the crackers.”
He held onto them a moment, then handed them over and watched her crunch through them, spraying crumbs, while he contemplatively sucked pâté from the tube.
“So, entertainment?”
“Yes.”
Neither of them moved.
“I’m probably not… You probably don’t want to—”
“Shush, woman, are you kidding me?”
It was sweet of him, but she wasn’t fooled. The world of rockstars and celebrities wasn’t one she’d ever fit into. “I wobble in too many places.”
“You wobble in all the best places. Who the hell’s been telling you otherwise?”
Society at large, since she was thirteen.
“You’re all curves. Ain’t nothing hotter than that. Why do you think I have my head in your lap?” She’d been trying not to think about that, to better appreciate it.
“Most of the world says otherwise. Also, what you just said is that I make a good pillow.”
“Precisely. Also, most of the world are fooling themselves or liars if they think that’s a bad thing. Soft is good. If I want hard lines and muscle, I can pull up my top.” He was good for her soul, even if she didn’t entirely believe him.
“I wouldn’t mind if you did that.”
Immediately, he crunched into a sitting position, unzipped the fleece, which he spread out on the ground, then grabbed the neck of his T-shirt and pulled it off. “I’d offer to smear myself in mushroom pâté so you could lick it off, but weirdo that you are, you don’t like it.”
Licking him, on the other hand, certainly merited serious contemplation. “It might grow on me,” she chirped, drinking down her fill of him again. She’d not had the proper focus to appreciate him properly the first time she’d seen him topless. Ink covered most of his skin, with just the odd deliberate patch of white. His navel was a tight hollow, nipples two brown peaks. The swirling lines formed a motley of tribal designs, insects, and birds, and now that she looked closer, more than a few lusciously endowed goddesses, too, in well… frankly explicit poses.
“Touching is permitted.”
That was an invitation she wasn’t passing up on. Jodi reached out and traced one swirl over his biceps, then poked his six—make that eight—pack with a finger. There was precious little give—Rock Giant, indeed. His muscles were like concrete.
“Take a perch,” he encouraged, taking hold of her hand and tugging, until she shuffled over and settled astride him. It was certainly a more comfortable seat than the paving slabs that formed the base of the dome. Warmer. Friendlier. Titillatingly so. It didn’t seem real that this was the turn the evening had taken. It’d been surreal ever since he came storming towards her down the aisle of the bus in that teeny towel with soap suds on his shoulders.
“Are you for real?”
Paul grasped her shirt front and pulled her down towards him as he raised his head. “Nah, I’m a figment of your imagination. You knocked yourself out when you crashed the bus.”
That was actually more believable.
