“I'm a homeless vagrant now,” Tristan drawls, leaning his shoulder against the kitchen cabinets and watching us with sharp, silver eyes. “Does that make you happy, Zayd? Do you lather up your dick with lotion and dream about it?” “No, I lather my dick up and dream about Marnye,” Zayd retorts with a smirk, grabbing me again. I wiggle out of his arms and cast a look over my shoulder. “You shithead,” I grumble, but I'm not entirely displeased at his statement.
