Perhaps they were best friends. How cute.
More questions flew by, all of which were answered correctly. But Dani refused to be impressed that Zaf knew her favorite season—autumn—and she wasn’t remotely happy with herself for remembering that he preferred dogs to cats. He had once told her, over the security desk, that cats were sneaky creatures who hid their toilet business, and an animal that hid its toileting could easily make a habit of pissing behind your sofa, and you wouldn’t even know until you died of ammonia inhalation. Really, when he’d displayed such an unexpected passion on the subject, how could she forget?
“All right,” Edison said finally. “Last question. Zaf, what is Dani’s area of academic interest?”
Those words popped Dani’s buoyant mood like barbed wire—which made very little sense, because they were doing well enough to excuse a single mistake. Zaf answering this question incorrectly shouldn’t throw any real doubt on their relationship. Ph.D.s were slippery and frequently boring things.
“Zaf, show us your board!”
In fact, this time last year, Dani might have struggled with such a question herself. It was a tricky—
“Race and gender in the West after slavery,” Zaf said.
At which point, Dani released a garbled sound of astonishment, one that sounded like a cross between a cough, a burp, and a squawked “What?,” into the ears of the entire city.
Zaf shot her a look of concern, as if he suspected she’d accidentally swallowed a passing pigeon. Which would be quite a feat, considering the room’s lack of windows.
“Dani,” Edison said patiently, “what’s your answer?”
Slowly, she turned her board over. “Evolution of misogynoir post–chattel slavery,”
“That’s close, right?” Zafir looked inordinately pleased with himself. He actually smiled, a big, beaming grin that made him achingly handsome, all white teeth and dark beard and lovely, lovely mouth. But she mustn’t get distracted by the mouth. In fact, for once, she couldn’t be—she was too busy staring at his whiteboard in astonishment. There it was, in black and white: a valid understanding of her general thesis topic.
“How did you know that?” Dani demanded in a whisper.
Zaf arched an eyebrow. “You think I don’t listen when you talk?”
“When I’m rambling about work? I was absolutely certain you weren’t listening, correct.”
“Yeah, well.” He tapped his lovely nose and looked smug.
“Zaf, that’s almost the title of my most recently published article.” In line with her twenty-year plan toward professorship, Dani had, of course, secured bylines in minor academic journals over the past few years.
“And now you think you’re the only one who knows how to use a library.”
Her voice reached dolphin pitch. “You’ve been reading my articles at the library?”
He shrugged, and she got the impression common sense had broken through his competitiveness, because he now looked slightly hunted. “Er . . . yeah. I mean, they’re interesting.”
Interesting?
It wasn’t that Dani didn’t find her own work interesting—of course she bloody did. She had to, or she might have stabbed herself in the throat with a ballpoint pen by now. And she knew very well that lots of other people found her work interesting, too. It was just . . . well. She’d never been with one of those people.
Not that she was with Zaf. But still. Even Dani’s sisters didn’t read her papers. The only friend who did so was Sorcha, and that was because Sorcha had studied a similar field at undergrad. No one outside Dani’s profession had ever withstood her disjointed ramblings about literary theory and come away with a burning desire to learn more about it all. She simply wasn’t as fascinating as the written work itself, as evidenced by the number of dates who had gently informed her that she was more boring than thrilling in long-term conversation.
Back when she still did silly things like date, that is.
So Dani couldn’t think of a single damned reason why Zaf would carry himself to the library to read her essays. Then he slid one big, warm hand over the nape of her neck, squeezed, and said, “Don’t look so surprised. You know I love your brain.” At which point, Dani stopped thinking of anything at all. Her throat dried up like the desert, and tiny darts of sheer, sunlit happiness zipped through her blood, and her eyes prickled oddly hot at the corners because—actually, she didn’t know why. All she knew was no one had ever said a thing like that before.
And Zaf, she realized abruptly, wasn’t saying it, either. He was lying. He was performing. He was faking it.
“Well, that was adorable,” Edison cooed, dragging Dani rudely back to earth. She tucked her stormy confusion away and hoped her expression on camera hadn’t been too shocked, or alarmed, or bewildered.
Meanwhile, the deejay continued. “And there we have it, folks! Zaf and Danika, aka #DrRugbae, are most definitely couple goals.”
Edison was getting on her nerves, all of a sudden. Back to the workhouse with him.
Chapter Eleven
@HANNATHEESTALLION: Can’t decide who sounded hotter on Trent tonight, Zaf or Dani
@BEYONCESBANGS: Both. #DrRugbae IS the bisexual agenda.
Zaf wasn’t the only person in the world who’d noticed Danika was kind of a genius. He couldn’t be. For one thing, she had a B.A. and an M.A. and they were letting her get a Ph.D., and that didn’t really happen by accident. For another, journals published her articles, which meant they got it, too. So it must be the people in her personal life who were oblivious dipshits. Clearly, none of them appreciated her enough—not if Zaf admitting he’d read her work was enough to make her wide-eyed and stutter-y.
He only understood about 60 percent of the things Danika wrote, but even that 60 percent made him feel smarter. More interesting. Educated, and all that good shit. She was talented, damn it. Why was no one reading her stuff?
“You’re brooding,” she told him.
Zaf looked up. They were standing in her kitchen, steam rising between them from the boiling kettle. As soon as they’d gotten home, Danika had changed into pajama shorts and that nearly translucent white T-shirt that reduced his concentration to tatters. Barefaced and barefoot, arranging mugs and teaspoons, she looked . . .
She looked like a fantasy he had no business entertaining. Not when she’d made it clear the only relationship she’d bother with was a fake one.
She arched an eyebrow at him as she poured the hot water, and Zaf remembered they were talking. Or Dani was talking, and he was staring at her mouth like some kind of sex-starved animal. Which made sense, since he felt like one.
“Brooding’s kind of my thing,” he told her, and she laughed.
“Is that what the heroes do in those books of yours?”
“For someone who isn’t interested in romance, you ask a lot of questions about it.”
She rolled her eyes—which isn’t an answer, Danika—handed him a mug, and wandered off toward the living room. He followed, and they sat down on her vast, purple velvet sofa, side by side. Close, but not close enough. She could never be close enough. His hands always ached to touch her, and tonight was no different—fuck, tonight was worse. But he wasn’t about to mention it. Changing into pajamas and making tea didn’t really scream Plough me, Zafir, so he wasn’t sure if their whole gentleman’s-agreement thing was still a go. If he wasn’t twice her size and strong enough to throw her around, he might be pushier about it.
But he was both those things, so he kept his hands to himself and looked down at his mug, eying the murky liquid skeptically. “Dan. There’re plants in my tea.”
“Tea is a plant, Zaf.” Her tone was severe, but when he looked up he saw her lips twitch.
“Are you trying to poison me?”
“It’ll help you sleep.”
“Don’t start complaining about my sleeping patterns,” he snorted, “or I’ll stop answering your texts at two A.M.”
“I’d know you didn’t sleep eve
n if we’d never texted.”
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
Instead of pointing out the bags under his eyes, she said, “You have the energy of a newborn baby.”
He spluttered.
“Which suggests that you are, amongst other things, pure of heart and always hungry.”
“I don’t know about that first part.”
“And tired,” she continued. “You’re always tired.”
She wasn’t wrong. But she was soft—her voice, her eyes, her words—and that softness wrapped itself around his heart like a blanket.
Don’t think like that. I promise nothing good will come of it.
“While we’re on the subject,” he said, “you don’t sleep great, either.”
“I’m a machine,” she said airily.
“No, you’re not.” The words were fiercer than he’d intended. “You’re a human being, and staying up all hours of the night isn’t good for you, any more than it’s good for me. If you can sleep, you bloody well should.”
The eyeroll she gave was dismissive, but he knew the way the air crackled when Dani was thinking. And she was thinking, right now, about everything he’d just said. But all she did was mutter, “Drink your tea.”
Like an obedient puppy, he bent his head and inhaled. Caught lavender and spices, heat and comfort. “Can I ask you something?”
“When people start with a question like that, it usually means they’re about to be rude.”
His lips quirked. “I’m not trying to be.”
“Well, in that case,” she drawled.
Zaf tried his tea, enjoyed it more than expected, and sipped again. Then he nodded at the little table in front of them—the one with the golden goddess and the orange slices. “This statue, the tea, the garnet you gave me.” He’d given it back, but he still felt the phantom pressure against his chest. “What’s all that about?”
“I’m a witch.”
“Oh,” he croaked after a moment. “Witch. Okay.” Crap. Knowing Zaf’s luck, she’d received the mystical equivalent of a push notification every time he thought about her tits. “So how does that, er, work?”
Dani sipped her own tea, clearly hiding a smile. “It depends, really. It can be very personal. For me, my Nana—my maternal grandmother, Rose—she was an obeah woman. It’s a spirituality that started with enslaved Africans in the Caribbean, so it has a lot of influences and variations, but . . .” She trailed off, her eyes distant in a way that told him thoughts were arcing through her mind faster than lightning.
“Is that what you do?” he asked, nudging her gently. His knee brushed her legs, which were curled up beneath her like a cat’s.
She blinked back to him. “Oh—hardly. It’s passed down through generations, but I was never interested in learning, not until Nana died and left me her statue of Oshun. And then, of course, it was too late.” Dani flashed a smile Zaf recognized: the kind that hid grief and longing and regret and a secret wish for five more fucking seconds. Five more seconds with the person you’d lost. “I sort of cobbled things together on my own, after that, so I could feel closer to her. I’m a hodgepodge of modern witchiness, I think. Whatever feels right. Whatever feels real.”
You. You feel so fucking real to me. Zaf held out his hand, and Danika took it. The braid of their intertwined fingers, the pressure of her palm against his, lit up the shadows inside him. If this touch could take away a fraction of her sadness, too, then his right hand had never been so useful.
Which, considering how often it had wanked him off recently, was saying something.
“Oshun and I get along well,” she continued, nodding at the statue. “She’s the goddess of beauty, purity, abundance, and”—she flicked a glance in his direction, and suddenly the curve of her mouth and the sweep of her lashes became a slow, hot tease—“lust,” she finished, her tongue flicking against her upper lip. “Which is why I asked her to send me you.”
Funny thing about the human body: it went haywire so fast. Dani’s words shot through Zaf’s veins like liquid pleasure, his heart pounding like a war drum against his rib cage. In the space of a second, his cock became the center of the universe, and it fucking ached. Lust. He’d thought she’d changed her mind, which would be an absolute travesty, but the look in her eyes said she hadn’t. She hadn’t. Thank fuck.
Zaf needed to sleep with her so he could stop wanting her so bad. Needed to take the edge off, to know the unknown, because unfulfilled desire had her on his mind 24/7.
Kiss me. Cure me. Please.
Danika gave his obvious hard-on a satisfied glance and murmured, “Well, that’s encouraging. I thought you might be too tired.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “Too tired for you? Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?”
She laughed, and just when he stood a chance of gathering actual human thoughts for a moment, maybe holding a coherent conversation to follow that I asked for you thread, she ruined everything by rising up on her knees and straddling his lap. Just like that, he couldn’t move. He might’ve forgotten how. She sank down like soft, fluid sin, her incredible arse smothering his dick, her fingers digging into his shoulders, and the tips of her breasts brushing his chest, and Zaf shouldn’t be able to feel her nipples through both their clothes, not really, but, holy fuck, he could. And judging by the flutter of her pulse at her throat, the spilled ink of her blown pupils, she felt something, too.
Just as his options narrowed to either kissing her or exploding, Dani arched an eyebrow and looked pointedly over her shoulder. “Are you enjoying that?”
Only then did Zaf realize he’d grabbed a healthy handful of her arse. Apparently, he did remember how to make his limbs move, but only for important things. Fair enough.
“Yeah,” he said honestly, and squeezed some more, his hips jerking up into her soft, warm weight. He could feel the little ripples and dimples of her skin, could feel her tattoo, the lines of ink slightly raised, and maybe it was the fact he now knew what Danika Brown’s arse felt like, or maybe it was the sound of her breathing heavy and the way she pushed against his hand, but Zaf’s dick felt like it might break in two. He was leaking pre-come so slow and steady, he wouldn’t be surprised if he soaked through his jeans.
“Well,” she said graciously, “if it helps you concentrate.”
“It does,” he lied. “So. You . . . asked for me?” He had to clarify, because it was possible Dani’s magic tea was slightly hallucinogenic and he’d only heard what he secretly wanted to.
“I asked for the perfect fuck buddy,” she said, “and various signs pointed me in your direction.”
Zaf stared. “You prayed for a fuck buddy.”
“That is correct,” she said calmly.
“You do realize,” Zaf told her, “that you’re . . . you.”
“Me?” A smile played at the corner of her lips.
“Yes, you. Danika fucking Brown. A woman who does not need divine assistance finding someone to shag on a regular basis.” People should be lining up for her attention. He’d always imagined she lived like a fertility goddess: appear to a village of cowering mortals, choose the hottest one, crook a finger. Like that.
But for some reason, Zaf acknowledging her perfection—even slightly—made Dani uncomfortable for the first time all evening. She looked away, that teasing smile fading to something more serious, her fingers fiddling with the seam of his shirt. “Well,” she murmured, “that’s rather flattering. And I do know I’m wonderfully attractive.”
Now he wanted to laugh, or kiss her, or both. Of course she knew. And of course he loved that she knew.
“But I’m not the easiest person to get along with,” she continued. “And—”
“Aren’t you?”
She faltered. “Pardon?”
“Aren’t you? Easy to get along with?” Because he’d never had any trouble.
“No, Zaf, I’m not. And I don’t want to be. So relationships aren’t my thing, but sex definitely is my thing—”
“—and I think you can give it to me. No strings attached.”
No strings attached? Ha. Zaf had never had casual sex in his fucking life. His relationships so far had been made of strings, and they’d only ended due to incompatibility, not because he hadn’t wanted them to last. But Dani was in his blood, and this was the only way he could have her—the only way he should want her. And the only way she wanted him.
That thought shouldn’t hurt, so he didn’t let it.
“Zaf?” she whispered, her eyes searching his face. Waiting.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “No strings. I can do that.” I hope.
Her smile was pure sunshine. “Good. I do have some conditions, just to make sure we’re on the same page.”
“Okay, but I can feel my actual pulse through my dick right now, so I don’t think I’m legally compos mentis.”
She grinned, leaned closer. Now her tits were pressed hard against his chest, and her mouth was brushing his ear, and he might be having a heart attack. “I’ll be clear, then. One: make me come. Two: don’t catch feelings. And three: don’t spend the night.”
Well, that was a fucking cold shower. Not that it made his dick relax or anything—at this point, a horse tranquilizer probably couldn’t do that—but it did punch a hole through the lies he’d told himself, laying the truth of his feelings bare. No matter how hard he rationalized this, Zaf was barreling headfirst into meaningless sex with a woman he’d accidentally started to adore. Which most people would consider, at best, bad.
And he still wasn’t sure that sex could be meaningless. Not for him, anyway. Did that make him a liar, or just a trier? Shit.
Take a Hint, Dani Brown Page 16