Page 87 of De-Witched

Their eyes met. Passion tightened his features, hair disheveled from sweat. Gabriel undone.

She contracted around him and he sucked in a breath.

Holding her gaze, he gradually pulled back before sinking in again. Sweat slicked along her skin as she tried to breathe, pleasure shaking her in its teeth.

She met his next thrust, canting up her hips so he nudged that place inside that made fireworks dance in her core. His hand held her hips up as he reared back and plunged again. Harder, but not faster.

Her breathing was jagged, matching his, but on and on his slow, deliberate thrusts continued. The couch creaked as he rocked his hips, as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He bent, kissed her hard as they climbed, those sparks glittering around them, some landing and sending shock waves across her flesh.

Desperate for more, crazed, she sank her nails into his ass, tried to grind her hips against his, but he resisted on a low groan. He nipped her lip in reprimand.

Her inner muscles squeezed, one step from free fall.

He cursed as he felt it, and finally, finally, his hips pistoned, faster, harder. He let her drop to the couch, followed her. Now he wasn’t holding her hips up, he used his free hand to stroke her.

“Leah,” he demanded, raw. She wasn’t sure what he was demanding but knew he could have whatever he wanted in that moment.

She arched, gasping as he rolled his hips, squeezed, and she shot off the edge, unseeing, unfeeling as she cried out.

He snarled. His hips were almost punishing for the next few strokes but she welcomed it, gloried in it. When he pressed his face into her throat, groaned her name as he shuddered in pleasure, it felt like victory.

Little aftershocks made her tremor as she wrapped her arms around him. His chest moved unevenly against hers. Sweat slicked them both.

She felt used, drained, energized. She felt everything, nothing. As her heart regained a somewhat normal rhythm, she let out a deep, smug sigh. “You’re welcome.”

And then squeaked as he nudged her ticklish spot.

20

Gabriel had reached for her more than once. He’d meant it when he’d said he had a list and if they only had one night, he meant to tick off every item.

He’d tasted her properly, her hands in his hair, her hips rising to his mouth as he drove her to ecstasy. Several times. He could well become addicted to her taste, to the small, sharp pain of his hair being tugged, the sight of her head thrown back, the sound of her voice calling his name.

He’d taken her on the couch, resisting the temptation to have her in his bed. It was bad enough he’d be surrounded by the memories out in the living space; he’d never be able to sleep for the remaining weeks if he had her in his sheets. He’d marked every inch of her skin, unable to help the dark swell of satisfaction every time she cried out his name. She would remember him. He would never forget her.

He hadn’t meant to sleep. He’d had her draped across his lap, skimming a thumb along her thigh, over the tattoo on her hip, listening as she told him about a dance class she wanted to try. She’d made him smile and he’d closed his eyes for a moment, listening to her voice.

Now sunlight was pouring in through his windows. And the night was done.

Regret clamped a fist around his heart but he didn’t show it as he brewed coffee in the kitchen. He’d have conjured her favorite drink from the café across from the shelter, but his use of magic the night before had taken him close to the edge, and he felt drained this morning. All-around lackluster.

She emerged from his bathroom, dressed in one of his shirts and a pair of suit trousers she’d rolled up what had to be ten times. She should’ve looked ridiculous, but with her curls flying everywhere, her cheeks flushed and some fairly embarrassing marks on her neck, she’d never looked more beautiful.

He cleared his throat, set the mug down on the breakfast bar. “I didn’t know if you liked to eat in the morning.” If so, he wasn’t sure what he could make for her. He still hadn’t managed to master the perfect toast.

“I’m easy.” She gave him a smile as she came over, picked up the mug. “Is this—”

“Milk, one sugar.”

“Thanks.” She sipped, gagged. “And hot.”

“Coffee generally is.”

“You got me there.” She blew, took one more careful sip. Then studied him across the curling steam. “So. Last night.”

He kept his face impassive. “Yes.”

Her fingers, the same ones that had trailed his body so many times, curled around her cup. “I had fun.”

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