7. Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Breaking the Distance
Aubrey
I’m trying not to feel guilty about spending seven dollars on coffee, but Maggie’s enthusiasm is infectious. Besides, she’s right: we deserve to celebrate. She’s finally landed her first successful client after months of trying to launch her side business as Houston’s first monster-human matchmaking consultant, and I’ve finally started padding my savings account again thanks to two weeks of Sundar’s generous salary.
While Monday had felt like it lasted forever, what with our mutual professionalism and the appearance of Sundar’s apparent ex, the rest of the week moved fast enough without incident, and now it’s Friday morning.
“I still can’t believe it worked,” Maggie says, both hands wrapped around her seasonal pumpkin-chai-whatever. “When Marcus first came to me, all ‘my pack won’t stop talking about legacy’ this and ‘I hate dating apps’ that, I thought maybe I was in over my head.”
“But then you remembered Sarah?” I take a sip of my own drink, remembering how excited Maggie had been when she realized her yoga instructor friend might be perfect for her werewolf client.
“Exactly! I mean, here’s this guy who just wants someone peaceful in his life, without all the pack politics, and Sarah’s literally the most zen person I know.” Maggie looks off dreamily. “I still can’t believe I convinced them both to let me arrange a meeting at her studio. Just imagine the sight, Sarah demonstrating the mountain pose to this absolutely anxious werewolf. And I mean, Marcus is this big burly guy, probably bench presses compact cars for fun, but he’s looking at her like she’s about to bite him .”
“And now?” I ask, genuinely curious. Maggie’s been talking about breaking into monster-human matchmaking ever since the Great Unveiling made public mixed relationships possible, but this is her first real success.
“Now?” Maggie practically vibrates in her seat. “Now Marcus just asked me for advice on how to propose.” She grins, stirring her drink with unnecessary flair. “But enough about my budding matchmaking empire. Tell me more about Monday’s drama with the ex. You promised you’d give me the details. A naga ex-girlfriend? There was a showdown, right?”
My stomach twists at the memory of Nalini’s calculated grace, how she’d made the whole shop feel small with just a few perfectly aimed words. “She was exactly what you’d expect from someone who probably has ‘Professional Mean Girl’ on her temple guardian resume. All designer scales and backhanded compliments.”
“And Sundar defended you?” Maggie leans forward, eyes sparkling. “Details, girl!”
“I mean, kind of?” I shrug, trying to ignore how warm I feel remembering his flared hood, his barely contained anger at Nalini’s dismissal of me. “But it doesn’t matter. He probably just felt obligated since I’m an employee.”
“Uh huh.” Maggie’s expression turns knowing. “Like he felt ‘obligated’ to create this suspiciously well-paying job just for you?”
“Actually…” I trace the rim of my cup, debating whether to share what’s been eating at me all week. “I found something in his ledgers last Friday. He helps everyone else, Mags. Like, constantly. Waives interest, extends payment terms, even fixes items for free. But with me?” I swallow hard. “He set the harshest possible terms. Then only offered me this job after I broke down crying about my pathetic life.”
“Honey.” Maggie’s voice softens. “Have you considered that maybe—”
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand. “Whatever romance movie scenario you’re cooking up, just don’t. He’s centuries old, probably worth millions, and used to literally guarding sacred temples. I’m just… temporary help he felt sorry for.”
“Right.” Maggie’s eyebrow arches. “Because ancient temple guardians totally hire random crying girls out of pity. Think about it, Bree. Like you said, he’s centuries old, used to slithering around ancient temples or whatever. Maybe he doesn’t know how else to get a girl to spend time with him.”
I practically choke on my coffee. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” She stirs her drink thoughtfully. “It sure sounds like he created a job just to keep you around.”
“Stop,” I say as I gather my purse with deliberate slowness, trying to project a sense of ‘dignified exit’ rather than ‘running away from uncomfortable truths.’ “I need to get to work. Some of us can’t spend all morning matchmaking supernatural couples.”
“Hey, I’m just getting started.” Maggie grins, completely unfazed by my attempt to change the subject. “Maybe I should add naga dating services to my repertoire. I bet there’s a whole untapped market of lonely temple guardians out there…”
“I’m leaving now.”
“Okay. Just think about what I said!” She waves her coffee cup cheerfully.
I wave her off without looking back, but I can hear her laughing as I push through the coffee shop door. The morning heat hits me like a wall, Houston’s infamous humidity already making my carefully styled hair start to curl.
The walk to work usually takes fifteen minutes, but today every step feels weighted with Maggie’s implications. When I reach the shop, I pause outside to collect myself. Through the window, I can see Sundar examining what looks like a Victorian-era dueling pistol, probably checking for enchantments before putting it on display. His movements are methodical as he tests the mechanism, his tail swaying slightly as he works.
A stack of comic books waiting to be priced sits beside him—and I momentarily forget I’m mad at him as I think about how cute it is to see a centuries-old naga appraising everything from cursed weapons to vintage Superman.
I find myself watching how his scaled fingers handle the delicate pieces, remembering how carefully they’d brushed against mine during last week’s lesson. How his tail had…
Professional. Distance.
I square my shoulders and enter, the familiar bell chiming my arrival. Sundar’s head turns immediately, his tongue flicking out to taste the air. For a moment, something flashes in those golden eyes—something that makes my stomach flip—but then his expression smooths into careful neutrality.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice that perfect mix of polite and distant that we’ve maintained all week. “There’s quite a bit requiring attention today.”
He gestures to his current project, and I see the pistol is just the start. The intake table is covered with an eclectic mix of items: a standard collection of baseball cards, a Victorian mourning ring that supposedly grants glimpses of lost loved ones, and what appears to be a perfectly ordinary toaster that, according to its intake form, keeps burning prophetic messages into toast slices.
“I’ll get started on the research,” I say, moving to my workspace and carefully maintaining the proper amount of space between us. As if we haven’t memorized exactly how far apart we need to stay to prevent his tail from accidentally brushing against me.
The morning passes in a strange tension. We work separately but aware of each other, like dancers moving to different rhythms in the same space. I catch him watching me categorize a box of vintage Transformers, his hood flaring slightly when I successfully identify which ones are rare variants. He pretends not to notice when I steal glances at him examining an art deco lamp that supposedly traps shadows.
It works fine until we have to examine a set of divination stones together. They’re beautiful things, smooth river rocks with gilt Sanskrit letters that seem to shift and move when you’re not looking directly at them. The practical part of my brain tries to focus on proper cataloging procedure—noting down weight, dimensions, suspected origin, any obvious magical properties… But it’s hard to concentrate when Sundar keeps making these small hisses of disapproval.
“What?” I finally ask, watching as he quickly rearranges the stones for the third time in as many minutes. “Are they cursed?”
His tail twitches. “Not cursed. Merely… inappropriate.”
“Inappropriate how?” I lean closer despite myself, trying to catch the letters before they shift again. This brings me near enough to catch his scent—that intoxicating mix of exotic spices and old books. “Are they telling dirty fortunes or something?”
“Of course not,” he says, yet he quickly scrambles the stones before I can decipher anything. Not that I can even read Sanskrit, but whatever they’re saying makes Sundar not want to take the risk.
That’s when his tail brushes my ankle—accidentally?—and electricity shoots up my leg.
Maggie’s words from breakfast echo in my head: Maybe he doesn’t know how else to get a girl to spend time with him…
“Two weeks down,” I hear myself say, my voice shakier than I’d like. “Only three more to go, then I’ll be out of your scales and you can get back to your nice, quiet solitude. Must be a relief, huh?”
His golden eyes fix on me. “Why would you assume that’s what I want?”
Something in his voice—a hint of genuine confusion, maybe even hurt—makes me brave. Or stupid. Probably stupid. But I’ve spent a week maintaining this careful distance, pretending I don’t notice how his tail seeks me out, how his tongue flicks more rapidly when I’m near. Pretending I don’t catch him watching me when he thinks I’m absorbed in work.
“Why did you really hire me, Sundar?”
He goes completely still—that uncanny stillness inhuman creatures can achieve. Even his tail freezes mid-coil. Only his tongue moves, flicking out to taste the air between us.
“I saw your ledgers,” I continue, forcing the words out before I lose my nerve. “You help everyone else who’s in need. You waive interest, extend payment terms, fix things for free.” I swallow hard. “But with me? You set the harshest terms possible. Then created this suspiciously well-paying job right after I cried all over your counter about my pathetic life.”
The divination stones start rearranging themselves again, but Sundar doesn’t stop them this time. His hood fully flares, and something dangerous glints in his eyes.
“You believe I hired you out of pity?” His voice has dropped lower, taking on a resonant quality. Behind him, the prophetic toaster pops up a slice of bread with what looks like ‘OH HONEY NO’ burned into it. “You think I created this position out of obligation ?”
I lift my chin. “Didn’t you?”
“No.” His tail lashes once. “When you came back and told me everything—about your struggles, about your ex, about how small he made you feel…”
He moves closer, and I should step back, should maintain that distance we’ve carefully crafted. Instead, I sway toward him, drawn by the raw honesty in his voice.
“Someone with your warmth, your kindness, deserves so much better,” he continues, his tongue flicking out to taste my reaction. “And seeing Nalini only highlighted how different you are—how your presence makes centuries of solitude seem suddenly unbearable.”
The divination stones are desperately spelling out something, but I can’t look away from his eyes. Can’t focus on anything except how close he is and how his tail has started to curl around my ankles.
“Sundar…” My voice comes out in a shaky breath. “I…”
“Aubrey.” My name escapes his mouth in a low hiss as he continues tasting the air. “Your scent changes when I say these things.”
I don’t know what to say. My mind is stuck on that phrase—‘how your presence makes centuries of solitude seem suddenly unbearable.’ But there’s no way to respond, no way to explain that he makes me feel exactly the same way, even despite my comparatively shorter human lifespan.
So I step forward instead, entering his space fully, so close that his tail coils instinctively around my ankles. I tilt my head back to look up at him, my heart pounding.
“Sundar, I…”
But I never finish, because a second later our mouths clash, his forked tongue sliding between my lips, his fangs grazing my skin. It’s fierce and demanding, and I know I should pull away and apologize for crossing this line, but my body has other ideas.
I lean into his touch, my hands finding his chest, feeling the powerful muscles beneath his vest, traveling further down to that sash that hides the transition between torso and tail.
He groans against my mouth, his grip on my hips tightening, pulling me firmly against him. His tail coils around my legs, anchoring me in place. And God help me, but I like it. I like the feel of his thick, heavy muscles wrapping around me. I like the weight of him holding me steady. I’ve never had someone grab me like this. Hold me like they’ll die before they let me go.
“Aubrey,” he whispers, trailing hot, wet kisses down my neck. “Let me worship you the way you deserve. Let me treat you properly, the way a goddess should be treated.”
My mind reels, unable to process his words, unable to do anything but nod and press against him. Because he makes me feel wanted in a way that scares the hell out of me. Makes me wonder why I’ve wasted so many years letting people make me feel small and useless.
“Please,” I manage to whisper, not even sure what I’m asking for, just knowing that I need more of this, of him. Now. Before reality sinks in and reminds me of all the reasons this can’t work.
He hisses sharply, a sound of pure satisfaction. Then he’s lifting me and laying me down on the table. Papers scatter, falling to the floor. The divination stones roll everywhere, probably saying all sorts of terrible things, but I don’t care. Not when his hands are moving over my shirt, tugging at the hem, exposing my stomach and chest to the cool air of the shop. Not when his tongue is teasing the sensitive skin of my breasts, his fangs tracing paths between them, then lower, and lower still.
I arch against him, writhing as his hood flares, his pupils wide as he takes me in. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, before his fingers find their way to the hem of my pants, drawing them down my thighs, along with my panties. My legs tremble, my breath catching as his tail slides between my knees, spreading them wider, exposing me completely to his ravenous gaze.
“Sundar, please,” I whisper, needing him to act on his hunger, in whatever form it takes.
“As you desire,” he says, his tail flexing, opening me further. “My goddess. My treasure. Mine to worship.”
Then his mouth descends, his forked tongue sliding over my pussy, his fangs pressing into my thighs. I cry out, gripping the edge of the table, my hips bucking. But his tail tightens around me, holding me in place, keeping me open and vulnerable to his ravenous attention.
He licks me slowly, reverently, his tongue swirling in patterns that send lightning up my body, that make me shudder and moan in ways that prove what a false display our professional facade has been. Each stroke is deliberate, purposeful, seeking out the places that draw the loudest responses, and he succeeds vigorously.
He then teases at my entrance, probes gently, before slipping deeper, his tongue twisting and thrusting into me. All the while, his eyes remain possessively fixed on mine, his hood spread wide, his tail flexing and squeezing in time with his movements.
“God,” I gasp, my head tilting back, my eyes squeezing shut. “Oh God, oh God, oh God…”
“Not a god,” he corrects, his voice rumbling through me. “Just a humble devotee at the altar of a goddess. A supplicant. An acolyte. One who wishes to dedicate himself to your pleasure and well-being.”
His tongue pushes deeper, and my hips jerk. I can feel the tension building, rising, the pressure threatening to explode. “Yes,” I breathe. “Yes, yes, please, yes…”
“Give in,” he urges, his voice coaxing, commanding, compelling. “Let go and surrender. I will catch you. I’ll always catch you. Always protect you. Always cherish you. Always…”
The word trails off into a guttural growl. And it’s that sound—the sheer animalistic lust of it—that pushes me over the edge. I come around his tongue, my body shaking, my legs thrashing against the unyielding muscles of his tail. He holds me fast, his tongue never slowing as he devours me, prolonging the pleasure until I’m limp and trembling beneath him.
When he finally withdraws, his eyes are wild, his fangs bared. I’m sprawled across the table, naked from the waist down, my shirt and bra pushed up, my hair disheveled.
Slowly, I become aware of my surroundings. The table under me, the papers scattered on the floor, the divination stones gleaming innocently from their various hiding spots. The shop feels too bright, too public, yet my body still hums with the echoes of that incredible, desperate release. It’s hard to focus on anything beyond the lingering sensation of his touch, his tongue, his…
“Aubrey,” he whispers, his voice rough as his eyes soften. “Sorry. If I went too far, if I…”
I shake my head, not trusting my voice. Carefully, I sit up, pulling my top back down. But I’m still exposed to him, still open and vulnerable in a way that makes my heart pound. “You didn’t,” I manage, finally finding the words. “That was… It was perfect. Better than perfect. I just…”
Before either of us can say more, the bell above the front door chimes. Sundar’s head jerks toward the sound, and I see a brief flash of irritation cross his features.
I’m almost mortified to remember this is a place of business, and anyone could have walked in while—
“A customer,” he mutters, his expression settling into its usual neutral mask. He quickly adjusts his clothes and regains control of himself. Only his tail remains coiled around me, anchoring me to him. The same tail that he’s admitted has a mind of its own. The tail that he’s admitted is drawn to me.
Still, he gathers himself with a deep breath. “Take the rest of the day, Aubrey,” he finally says, his tone professional once more. But there’s an undercurrent of something hungrier. Something he’s struggling to control. “We’ll… discuss this later. For now, go home. Rest. And if you come to decide that I abused my station—”
“No,” I say quickly, before he can finish that thought. “It’s fine. More than fine. But… Yeah. We should talk. Later.” I feel the heat in my cheeks, the blush creeping up the back of my neck. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to gather myself.
He looks into my eyes for a moment longer, then, abruptly, he releases me. The sudden absence of his tail around my legs feels like a physical loss. But the sound of the customer browsing the shelves draws him toward the showroom, and I know our moment is gone. For now, at least.
Sundar pulls the office curtain aside and moves through, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. As the fabric settles behind him, I’m left staring at the pile of papers on the floor, the overturned box of divination stones, the tangled mess of my own clothing. Proof that what happened between us was real. Tangible. Not some fever dream of my deepest fantasies, but proof that everything I’ve been feeling toward him has been reciprocated.
Welp, it’s going to be impossible to hide this from Maggie. But Lord knows I’ll try with every fiber of my being.
I dress hastily, pulling my panties and pants back on, then running a hand through my tousled hair. On the shelf nearby, the prophetic toaster has popped up another slice of bread, a message seared clearly on the crust. I reach out, hesitantly touching the warm surface, reading the two words etched there: ‘MORE LATER.’
“Oh, hush,” I mutter, setting the piece of toast aside. “And who keeps putting bread slices in you, anyway?”
But even as I gather my things and slip out the back door, I can’t stop the flutter of excitement in my chest.
More later. I can only hope so.