Page 32 of Spellbound
I kissed his forehead and held him close. I needed to process what he told me, because this changed everything.
That other witch—whoever it had been—had spelled him not to remember. Whoever it was didn’t have the power to kill him, I believed, or else his body would have been found alongside his mother’s. That witch, whoever it had been, had left Asher—anine-year-old child—there to take the blame and stood by saying nothing as the Council called him a warlock and discussed putting him to death for killing his own mother. If it was the last thing I ever did, I would find that motherfucker and kill them for that.
I sat on the couch stewing for a while and thinking violent thoughts until Asher’s phone began to blow up with messages. I shook him gently awake then, so he could answer his phone, in case it was important.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes and checked it, heaving a big sigh.
“It’s my grandmother. She wants us to come for dinner tonight.”
“Do you want to go?”
“Not really, but I guess I need to go back to the cottage.”
“Or you could stay here with me.”
He whipped his head around and stared at me, “That’s a little fast, don’t you think?”
I shrugged. “According to…?”
“People. Everyone! My grandmother. Roslyn…everybody would say so.”
“I don’t think we should let other people define our relationship, do you?”
He laughed. “I almost believe you’re serious.”
“I am,” I said, and bent to kiss him. The heat between us took over and before I knew it, I was stripping his clothes off and rubbing my hands over his body. “I have no resistance when it comes to you.”
He laughed lightly. “Is that a good or a bad thing?”
I shook my head. “I wish I knew. Turn over, baby,” I told him, my voice rough with passion, and he did, getting up on his knees and looking at me with surprise at how quickly we got here. I was surprised too, and shocked at how easily that term ofendearment kept leaking out of me.Baby?This was maybe the second time I’d called him that and since when did I use words like that?
I shook my head to clear it, and he looked back at me over his shoulder as I rose over him. I was incredibly hard, and I was glad because I needed to release some of this tension I felt after hearing that terrible story. I stroked my hands over his hips and thighs and slipped a finger inside him. He was dry, so I told him to hang on and went back to the bedroom to get some lube. When I returned, he was still on his knees for me, and I got even harder, if that was possible. I went back to plundering his sweet hole with my fingers until he moaned and whimpered for mercy. Then I pushed one finger all the way inside and crooked it to find the spongy tissue I was looking for. He moaned and stiffened, but I massaged it relentlessly and he began to come, spurting all over the couch. I pulled him back against me and he swooned on my shoulder as I milked him for every drop, and his head fell back, nestling sweetly next to my neck.
I could feel his warm breath against the side of my throat and smell his delicious scent all around him. I pulled my fingers away and lined up my cock, not willing to end this, easing myself inside him and beginning to thrust, not hard at first, but gently, as if he were made of glass. I was so out of control over him. I wanted to baby him and at the same time, I wanted to ravish him. There didn’t seem to be any in-between.
“Harder,” he begged after a minute or two, and I groaned and complied, stroking into him again and again. He was melting me with the heat of his body. I began to climax, pain and pleasure shaking my body in waves.
Afterward we showered together and lay on the bed to take a quick nap. While he slept, I called Rosalyn and told her we’d be over for dinner if the invitation still stood. She laughed and saidof course, it did, and to be there around six. I rolled over and gathered him in my arms.
We went for a ride in the afternoon, and he told me to take him to find the Transylvania County Historical Society. It was closed for the day and only open Wednesdays through Saturdays, so since this was Sunday, we just looked in the windows and then walked around a little, looking in the shops that were open. He’d told me he wanted to visit to look at old photographs and see if there were any stories about the Home Guard to be found.
That, of course, reminded me I still had to tell him about the paper he’d started, the one that was only nonsense—a line from some poem or play, I thought, though I didn’t recognize it. The words were exceptionally dark, though. Was it supposed to be some kind of message to him? Or had his own mind recalled them and written them over and over again?
I dreaded telling him, because I thought he really was unaware. He hadn’t really gotten too far, and he still had his handwritten notes, but I knew he’d be upset, and I wanted him to relax for a little while longer. At the same time, I hated keeping it from him, because he’d been through enough in his short life so far. I decided I’d tell him after we went to dinner. I didn’t want to spoil his evening. We could pick up his laptop, and I could tell him as soon as we got back.
Because I was planning on bringing him back here to stay with me, regardless of what anybody thought about it being too soon or whatever. He could keep his cottage behind Rosalyn’s and come and go as he pleased. It would be nice for him to have privacy to write. But I really didn’t like the idea of him being out behind Rosalyn’s old house, not after dark. Not so close to the woods. He was better off here with me.
Chapter Eleven
“Hell is empty, and the devils are here.”
~William Shakespeare,The Tempest
Ben
Dinner was as good as it always was—Rosalyn was a great cook, if you liked fried foods and meat and potatoes and gravy, and fortunately I did. I tried not to eat with her more than one or at most two nights a week and opted for lighter fare the rest of the time, or I’d have been probably fifty pounds heavier. She was known for her heavy desserts too, which were delicious, but not exactly meant for anyone who was watching their calorie intake.
Rosalyn didn’t seem the same as she usually did that evening, though. She was distracted and irritable. I had to wonder if a little sundowning wasn’t going on. I caught Janet’s eye once when Rosalyn was banging pots and pans around because the gravy got too thick, and I noticed that she looked concerned. Rosalyn almost never cursed, but she’d let a few cusswords drop already and was working herself up to more, it seemed.
