Because we weren’t bonded yet, our contact was merely physical, although my suckers began reporting in all of her minutia. Her wrist was small. Her bones, delicate. I could feel the thrum of her pulse, and the slight heat radiating from her body. And her taste . . . a lick of salt, the last chemicals in which she’d bathed, and something beneath both of those, something inexorably hers—I wanted more of it, and I wound her ankles readily, without thinking.
Oh, Ceph. You are so gone.
