“Ready to go, my little wet kitten?” Zavier asks from where he watches next to me. “Strike that nickname off your list.” I fiddle with the vent so warm air blasts me in the face. “Would you prefer sweet cheeks? Or honey bun? Or pudding pop?” He purses his lips in thought. “Oh, I know, pookie.” “Shut up,” I groan. “I beg of you. No pet names.” He grins maniacally. “Where are we headed?”
