Page 123 of Beyond the Cottage

“Like skipping ice cream because it’ll freeze your brain. Or refusing to finish a great book because you justknowthe ending will ruin it.”

He winced. “Spending three months writing an essay on magic’s cellular footprint, only to burn it because surely no one would publish a no-name swamp hick.”

“Aw, Anse.” She shifted sideways, arms circling her knees. “Did you really do that?”

“I did.”

“I wish you hadn’t. Once the repellent is out, those academic pinheads will be lining up to publish you.”

“I kept the notes. I could always rewrite it.”

Her arms tightened around her legs, and she picked at a thread on her pants. “Have you given any thought to what happens after the meeting?”

“Not really. Cart before the horse and all that. I’d rather not jinx it by looking too far into the future.” He didn’t believe in jinxes, but still.

She rested her cheek on her knee and stared at his shoulder. It reminded him he was still naked from the waist up, which reminded him he’d passed far too much time in her home. If he stayed any longer, he’d lose the will to leave. If that happened, he’d surely do something stupid.

He sat straighter and scanned the room for his shirt. He found it neatly folded on the couch’s armrest.

As he shook it out, Gretta pulled something from the shopping sack and tossed it to him. “Try that on.”

He held it up. “A new shirt?” The soft flannel felt like butter in his hands, and she’d chosen the exact shade of blue he’d always favored.

“Yeah.” She flushed. “I owed you a new one.”

He was about to protest, to insist the witch’s attack hadn’t been her fault. Then her actual meaning sank in.

Oh, yes—she hadindeeddestroyed his shirt. While against the wall, riding his cock, she’d ripped it open in her haste to touch him.

Glancing away, Ansel adjusted the quilt over his lap.

“It’s getting late.” He pulled on the new shirt. “I should find that hotel.”

“Do you want me to check your stitches again?”

After what had happened last time? His dick was hard enough, thank you. “That’s not necessary, I’ll take the medical supplies with me.”

“Can I at least walk you there?”

“Is it difficult to find?”

She thought a moment then sighed. “No. Take a right in the alley and a left on Trade street.”

“I’ll use the facilities and be on my way.”

He hurried to the bathroom and slammed the door. He hunched over the porcelain sink, gripping its sides.

Was this how it would be now? The slightest provocation, the vaguest mention of their night together, and he shot harder than a teenager who’d seen his first tit? Soon, she’d start noticing. She had earlier, while tending to his arm.

How long before his rampant erections went from mildly awkward to utterly insufferable? How long could she tolerate friendship with a man who tented his trousers every eight minutes he spent in her presence?

When the fuck will I go back to normal?

Ansel roughly repositioned himself and splashed cold water on his face. On his way out, he collected his bag and case and returned to the living room. Gretta had drawn the curtains shut and turned on more lamps, but she was nowhere to be found. Her bedroom door was closed.

He knocked. “Gretta?”

A muffled, “Yeah?”

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