Page 107 of Waltzing With Witches

She’s a gift.

I park in front of the castle just as Ben swings his doors wide, welcoming us home.

Morgan hops off the bike. “Ben! I can’t believe you were in on this too!” She walks backward, grinning at me. “I do believe you and Ben ganged up on me.”

Heat flares between my thighs as Ben’s stones shimmy in place, his version of a pleased chuckle.

When Morgan turns around, a shocked gasp leaves her lips.

The final surprise.

Rows of string lights crisscross Ben’s front hallway. Streamers in black and red and gold hang from the ceiling trim and wave softly on an invisible breeze.

“Oh my God, Ben,” Morgan whispers, spinning in a circle as she takes in his celebratory decorations. She turns to me. “Was this you?”

“All Ben,” I admit. “He wanted to celebrate your return home as my fiancée, assuming you agreed to spend your life with us.”

She clasps her hands together over her chest, admiring the beautifully festive hallway. “It’s perfect.”

Ben’s carpet runner waves us toward the kitchen. We dutifully follow to find a bottle of whiskey wrapped in a red bow. Two crystal glasses sit next to it. Morgan strokes the black island countertop as she drops onto one of the stools at the bar.

I sit next to her and unwrap the bottle, pouring two fingers into a glass. When I slide it to her, she lifts it. “We’ve got to toast to something.”

I pour myself a glass and grab her still bleeding finger. Directing it into the liquid, I stir as her blood mixes with the whiskey. Her eyes flare when I remove her hand from the whiskey and lick her finger clean.

“Perfect.” I lift the glass and clink it to hers. “A toast to long life. To health and happiness. To second chances.”

“To faith,” she adds on. “And fuckable castles.”

Oh my gods.

The kitchen windows open and shut, another version of Ben’s chuckle.

“I’ll drink to that.” I bring the whiskey to my lips and swallow it in one mouthful. The flavor of Morgan’s blood enhances the alcohol’s natural tannins. She bursts across my senses, filling me with longing.

Her blood thrums through her veins faster as she sips from her glass. My focus drops to the soft swallow of her throat. That neck is begging for my teeth.

“Morgan,” I whisper. “Come here.”

Gray eyes flash as she sets the glass down and climbs into my lap.

“Bare your throat to me,” I command.

“You’re awfully bossy.” She leans forward to nip at my chin.

“And haughty. And wildly imperfect,” I agree. “Now show me that beautiful neck.”

When I reach up to cup her head, she lets it fall back in my hand, exposing her throat. A faint dusting of freckles covers her skin, but they’re fainter here than elsewhere on her body. Reaching up, I scratch gently down her pale skin, goose bumps rising to the surface. Bending forward, I savor her scent freely for the first time, knowing I’ll taste her tonight.

Finally.

Finally.

I drag my lips and fangs down the front of her throat, pulling her tee to the side to repeat the motion along her shoulder.

“Abe,” she whispers. “When was the last time you got to bite someone?”

Her question registers after a moment of shock. I lift my head, guiding her chin back down to meet her questioning gaze. “Morgan, are you asking me when I last took a lover?”

---