Page 231 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Whiskey's breath is hot against my neck, his hands trembling where they grip my hips. I feel wetness against my inner thighs. He came in his fucking jeans without me even touching him, and somehow that makes the whole thing hotter.

"Holy shit," he wheezes.

"Yeah." I collapse against his chest, boneless and satisfied. "Holy shit."

We lie there as the last of the fireworks crackle and fade, leaving trails of smoke drifting across the stars. The smell of gunpowder mingles with his warm, cinnamon-tinged scent, and I breathe in deep, letting it fill my lungs.

"Ivy?"

"Mm?"

"That was the best date I've ever been on."

I laugh, face still pressed to his flannel. "It was pretty fuckin' sick, bro, as you'd say."

He lets out a low, deep chuckle and his arms wrap around me, pulling me closer into his warmth, stroking my hair.

"I mean it," he says quietly. "I know I joke around a lot, but... you're it for me, wildcat. I've never had anything like this before."

I lift my head to look at him. His honey-brown eyes are soft in the moonlight, his expression open in a way I've never seen before.

My throat tightens. "Whiskey..."

"You don't have to say anything." He brushes his thumb across my cheekbone. "I just needed you to know."

I kiss him instead of answering. I pour everything I can't say into it. That I feel the same, that he's helped me learn to be loud again, that I never knew safety could come with sledgehammers and fireworks.

His eyes are glassy when I pull back.

"O-okay," he croaks. "That works too."

I burst out laughing at the dazed look on his face and his chest shakes beneath me as he joins in. We laugh together under the stars, covered in firework ash, and I think this is what it feels like to not even try to be quiet.

I'd almost forgotten.

Chapter 48

Plague

Iown a frankly obscene number of turtlenecks, and I still had trouble finding one I like enough for tonight.

After all, it's the most important night of my life.

This one is black cashmere, fitted enough to sit clean beneath my jaw without bunching up. I smooth the fabric across my collarbone and check the mirror, turning left, then right, checking for nonexistent lint and creases.

I look like someone who has his shit together.

I look like a fucking liar.

My hair is still a problem, though. And it's been a problem since I washed it an hour ago and let it air-dry instead of using the diffuser, which was a mistake born of distraction and praying Whiskey would occupy himself on the other side of the house so he wouldn't hound me about it. He never did, of course, and then I forgot.

I know Whiskey. Either he'd want to use it himself, which would end with it destroyed, or he would think it's hilarious that I take grooming seriously.

Now the waves have a mind of their own. I gather it into a low ponytail, examine the result, pull it out, try again. The elastic snaps.

"Fuck."

I dig through the bathroom drawer for another one and grab a fresh disposable mask while I'm at it, pitch black. I pick it up, loop it over my ears, and adjust the wire across the bridge of my nose.