Page 127 of Which Witch Is Wicked?
Faster too, he gifted her, delving into her at the pace of Magnus, his warhorse, adopted when the scent of blood flared his nostrils.
The first twinges of her orgasm quickened around him. Her muscles fired in random jolts like an electrical grid tasked with unmasking the divine.
His own release raced to meet hers as if summoned like a mate through the darkness.
How gloriously she came apart before him. Her eyes jeweled like the sea at the sun’s rising, her body melting into his, her going liquid as currents of pleasure broke over her in wave after wave.
Nick was lost at the sight of her. Growling her name in a primitive prayer. His seed poured into her as together they broke open the sky, the cosmos spilling out for them alone.
For that moment, the Apocalypse was only the ashes of a word scattered on the wind, and Moira was no more than his lover, and Nick was no Horseman, no assassin.
Because gods help him, he no longer knew if when the time came, he could let his arrow fly.
9
“Hey! I’s wondering where these got to.” Moira was tempted to slingshot the lacy red thong hanging from her index finger at Nick, but wasn’t sure he’d return it if she did. “You want to tell me exactly how in the hell you have a pair of my underpants in your possession?”
Nick sauntered toward her, fresh from the shower, clad in naught but a luxury cotton towel. “The same way I have a pair of your cut-offs and tank top in the bottom drawer there. I took them.”
Moira held her own towel to her chest, her wet hair raining droplets onto the Persian rug beneath Nick’s antique armoire. Sure enough. She recognized her worn cut-offs and her threadbare Hoo-Doo Shack tank top folded neatly among Nick’s boxer briefs.
“I’ll be damned,” she said. “I’d assumed Tierra had thrown them out sometime after I moved in. She isn’t a fan of my sartorial leanings, you might say.”
“The outfit you wore when we first met on the plane,” Nick offered in explanation. “I like souvenirs.” He indicated the lighted trophy cases containing the weapons she had stared at for hours on end earlier.
“I didn’t figure you for the sentimental kind,” Moira teased.
“If by ‘sentimental,’ you mean,considered killing everyone on the airplane so I could fuck you right there in your first class seat, then yeah, I was feeling sentimental as hell.” Nick took a step toward her and brushed her dripping hair from the back of her neck. “When you live as long as I have, you choose the moments worthy of remembering.”
“I get you. Believe me, there are plenty of memories I’d rather not have. Like the time Skeeter Robicheau got caught behind the Piggly Wiggly tryin’ to have his way with a loaf of day-old French bread. I mean, I know it was probably nice and warm from being in the dumpster in August, but—”
Nick held up a hand. “I’d rather not add that visual to my collection, if you don’t mind.”
Moira let her towel drop to the floor and stepped into her panties, a peace offering in lieu of the image she’d just foisted on him. “What I want to know is how you got into the house to raid my drawers. We have wards in place.”
“The only question I am equipped to answer with your body on display like that is whether I want you to sit on my face before or after I take you from behind.” Threads of glowing gold were returning to his eyes as they fixed on her breasts, his arousal beginning to tent his towel.
“Don’t you start that stuff, Mister,” Moira warned. “You yourself said we didn’t have much time on account of that evil bitch wanting to eat my soul and all.”
“But it’s not your soul I’m interested in eating.” Nick hooked a finger in the strap of her panties and tugged downward, but she slapped his hand away.
“It’s cute that you can be all playful and not an asshole after a fuck-a-thon, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to get this over with.” Moira shrugged into her tank top and shimmied into her cut-offs while Nick retreated to his walk-in closet to don his usual attire of slacks and button-up shirt.
“No need to dress up on my account,” she said. “The funeral won’t be for a few days after my body is found.Ifmy body is found. And I’m
pretty sure murder ain’t a tie-wearing kind of occasion.”
“Depends on the murderer.” Nick flashed her his knee-weakening, wicked grin.
Moira had to look away before she took him up on his offer of one last hurrah.
“Where the hell are my sandals?” she asked, going to her hands and knees to search under the bed.
“I think the selfsame consumer of souls might have borrowed them.”
“It’s not enough the bitch wants my soul. She’s got to take my shoes too?” Moira used the bedpost to pull herself to her feet, only to have them swept out from under her.
Nick had scooped her into his arms as if she didn’t weigh any more than a half-empty sack of potatoes.
