Page 52 of Wooing the Wiccan
“Well, I think you’ve both got this from here,” Eoin announces. “You know where to find me if you need anything, sir.” He beats a hasty retreat into the butler’s suite and closes the door firmly behind him.
Leaving me to face my future… whatever it may be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Jared
I stare,somewhat distrustfully, at the door Eoin disappeared behind. The last couple of weeks might have helped me accept that he was only doing his job, but I still don’t like him that much. Or at all. I haven’t decided yet.
“Is that a broom closet or something?” I ask Raðulfr, only half joking.
He looks blank for a second, then chuckles. “Oh—no. It’s a studio for a housekeeper. It has its own kitchenette and bathroom. My bodyguards use it while they’re on overnight shifts, to give us all a bit more privacy.” He grimaces. “I’m probably not selling this whole situation very well.”
With a start, I realize he’s nervous. Worried, even. Does he think…?
“Raðulfr, I didn’t come here to yell at you or anything.”
He licks his bottom lip, and I try not to watch the movement of his tongue. We need to talk before I can jump him.
“You didn’t?”
I shake my head. “No. I think we have a lot to talk about still, but I’m… I’m not angry. I understand why you had to keep the secrets you kept.”
He takes a shaky breath. “So you’re not planning to end things?”
My mouth drops open. “No!” Is that what he thought? “I swear I’m not. If I’d wanted to end things, I wouldn’t have waited this long. I—” Suddenly, I feel like a monster for not reaching out sooner. There was a lot for me to think about and learn, and I genuinely needed to work out how I could fit into the life of a man who leads a government. I thought it was better if we both had space while I did that, but maybe I was just being cruel. “I’m sorry. You said you’d wait, and I figured you knew that by agreeing to that, I was just taking the time I needed.”
The grin that takes over his face is wide and gorgeous. He closes the distance between us in three fast steps, reaching for me—then lets his arms drop uncertainly, as though he’s not sure if a hug would be welcome.
Screw that bullshit.
I yank him into a hug, burying my face in the side of his neck, and his arms come around me so tight that my breathing is restricted. Doesn’t matter. I’ve got enough air to be able to take in the scent of him, and something inside me unknots. I didn’t know exactly how much I missed him until this moment, having him in my arms again.
“You’re here,” he murmurs, and I nod against his skin.
“I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.” I pull back slightly, ignoring his wordless protest. I need to see his face right now. “If that’s okay with you?”
“If you want to be here, I’m never letting you go,” he promises, and the last of my stress drops away.
“Okay. Good. Is… um, is there somewhere we can sit? I want… Well, I want a lot of things, but I think we need to talk first.”
The wicked smile that curves his mouth sends tingles through my whole body. “We could go up to the den. It opensinto my garden.” He leans in to brush a soft kiss on my lips, and whispers, “And my bedroom is right next door.”
Heat flashes through me. “Perfect,” I croak. I still can’t believe how easy it is for him to turn me on. I’ve always had a healthy sex drive, but this is kind of ridiculous. Amazing, but ridiculous.
I hope it never changes.
Raðulfr leads me across the room and up the stairs, and I take advantage of the moments to look around his condo. Maybe later I’ll ask for a proper tour. It’s nice, but somehow it doesn’t scream “Raðulfr” to me.
At the top of the stairs, we turn left to go through a doorway. He flips a light switch, and as lamps go on around the room and warm floodlights flick to life outside, I see where he actually lives.
“This is lovely.” I mean it. The walls and ceiling are painted a deep, inviting green, and there are plush chairs and a sofa pointed toward a cozy gas fireplace. It doesn’t rival the big wood-burning one downstairs, but somehow, this is nicer. The rug underfoot is soft, and the walls and furniture are crowded with paintings, photos, and assorted bric-a-brac that should make the room feel cluttered, but don’t. Maybe because none of it is there “to decorate.” It all looks like stuff Raðulfr genuinely wants in his personal space.
“This is home now.” There’s an edge of sadness to the words, reminding me that he was forced to leave his homeworld and can never go back.
Through the french doors, the garden beckons, but I resist. It’s a chilly night, and we have too much ground to cover already. Exploring outside can wait for another time.
“Can I get you a drink?” Raðulfr offers. “Or a snack?”
