She’s got a set of tiger chompers on her.
I don’t know why I find them kinda sexy.
“Good?” I ask.
She swallows and smiles. “Yes, thank you.”
“Good. Tomorrow we’ll try Mexican.”
She takes the next chunk off her skewer, politely chewing and swallowing before attempting to talk. When I ease back into the couch, she tries to sit back too, but her horns are just long enough to prevent her from resting her head with natural ease. They jab into the headrest of the sofa so that it looks like her head is suspended by double pikes: not comfortable. She straightens and wipes her mouth with the napkin I gave her. “We will eat together tomorrow? What is the significance of ‘Mexican?’”
“I’m not letting you go to work hungry. And we’ll have Mexican because I’ve been jonesing for it like crazy. Steak, rice, queso, and all the grilled peppers and avocado you can eat. And salty tortilla chips with salsa.” I can almost taste it now, and I wish I had that in front of me. Not necessarily instead of Chinese. Let’s not get crazy. Why not have a living room buffet of both?
The idea nearly makes me salivate. I shake myself and look back to my adorably-baffled guest. “What’s not to love?”
“I don’t know.”
Poor girl. “We will fix that.”
I grab a carton of lo mein. I twirl the noodles on my fork and hold it up for her to take a bite. “Try this.”
Her gaze locks on mine, and when she shifts just the slightest bit closer and parts her lips, my system’s NOS panel gets triggered without any warning.
You know the one. Like the 1967 Shelby Mustang GT500 in Gone in 60 Seconds, remember how Memphis flips up the NOS switch, stomps that button, and grabs that GO-BABY-GO shifter? You remember what happens?
It must be the combination of her beautiful eyes, her exotic scent, her quirky charisma, her interest for mechanics—and her lips (I suspect it might be these most of all)—and my brain and body, which had been operating at an intelligent level, is immediately fed an additional one hundred and twenty-five horsepower in a GO-BABY-GO! direction.
This is bad.
This is a woman I’ve brought into my house under my protection. You do not dick with anyone you bring in under the banner of sanctuary. That’s one door down from sacrilege.
I know all this. Yet the moment is suddenly taking on a very different charge than I expected. A dangerous one.
See, sometimes men get erections for no reason. Those are frustrating and confusing. We also get them for pretty understandable reasons, like when we get a particular interest in someone. Those are not always frustrating, because sometimes it's appropriate to make a move on the object of our interest.
But in this instance, in all of a heartbeat, I have a half-on because I’ve offered to feed an alien employee. It’s not a full-blown meat wrench, but it’s uncomfortably stiff.
Inconvenient.
Sacrilege!
Inara leans forward and closes her mouth around my fork, drawing the lo mein off the tines. There should be nothing sexy about this.
The tightness occurring in my slacks disagrees.
You dirty, dirty creeper.
I shift and clear my throat. Skeeviness of the moment aside, I’ve reached the age where I’m grateful I still get spontaneous erections. And because I’m afraid of pissing off my dick, I don’t beat myself up too much about getting one—just the inappropriateness of its timing.
Surreptitiously dragging a sofa pillow over my lap like a table, I plop the lo mein carton over it like that’s why I’m covering my crotch. Then I proceed to reach for and open up every container, warning Inara about this and that—like poking the fried breaded zucchini in their middles first before biting into them if she doesn’t want to scald her tongue.
She’s game to try everything, but when we get to the sugared donuts—which are powdered-sugar-coated along with the regular granulated sugar—her brain explodes. “What IS this?” she exclaims in wonder, mouth ringed in white like she’s inhaled a bag of blow. She starts licking the crystals off of the donut like the dough only exists to provide a surface for the sugar.
Even with the blow-lips, I can’t take my eyes off her mouth. Or maybe it’s because of the blow-lips. I bet she’s just as addictive as crack cocaine… not that I should be having that thought. Bad Matthew. SHAME. “It’s a donut.” My voice comes out rough and deep.
“It’s amazing!”
I can’t help but return her grin. Her eyes are sparkling; I bet the sugar is hitting her system right in the happies. “We’re going to blow your mind. I’m gonna take you to a donut shop first thing before work tomorrow.”
Inara purrs.
Frickin’ purrs. And it isn’t the kind of sound a feline serves up. It’s the playful, ripping growl a ladylike baby blue Porsche makes.
For the record, under my lap pillow, I was having a polite boner. But at her sound, it explodes into something else, and it’s definitely crossing a line. I shove fried breaded zucchini in my mouth without cooling it off first.
“Ffffk!” I hiss.
Inara leans into my space, giving me a real good shot of her perfume, which I swear smells like sex. “Oh no—are you hurt?” Her eyes look so pretty and worried. Also confused. “Didn’t you just advise me not to scald my tongue’s surface?”
I shove in another one, growling, “Yesss.”
Inara stares at me. “Why are you hurting yourself?”
Because my blistered tongue is distracting my dick. “I love zucchini.” As I stare at her, I cram another one in my mouth to prove it.
“Oh.”
My dick deflates; I stop punishing myself with flame-hot fried food. We finish our meal in relative silence, I can’t taste a thing on account of the third degree burns I’ve given my taste buds, and once I have my dick firmly in hand—so to speak—I take the cartons and pillow off my lap and get up to hunt for sheets, blankets, and spare pillows.
Inara’s tail sways slightly as she roams around my place, examining everything from the exposed ductwork to the plasma screen TV with curiosity and perfect manners. She doesn’t touch anything; she even keeps her hands behind her back like she’s at a museum. But she looks like she wants to touch everything. Her face is keen, her ears forward, their tips sweeping just a few inches past her mane of hair.
I glance down at her outfit. “Do you sleep in that or do you have nightclothes to change into?”
She turns to me. “Night clothes?”
“Hang on.” I walk into my room, jerk open my dresser, snag a shirt, turn—and smack right into Inara. “Sorry. Here.”
Inara takes my shirt with cautious fingers and a furrowed, scaly brow. “Is there significance here in regards to the wearing of a human male’s clothing?”
I start to say no, but correct myself. “It’s pretty common for couples who are dating. And… I guess if you have a boyfriend, it’d be inappropriate to offer.” I tip my head, my mouth twisting. “I wouldn’t want my woman wearing another man’s shirt to bed, and I’ve never met a woman who would want her man touching another woman’s shirt either.”
Inara eyes my shirt in her hands, then glances at me thoughtfully. “I have no man.”