Page 74 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
We don’t make it far. The door to the bookstore opens with a soft creak, and we stumble inside, mouths still tangled, laughter catching between kisses as we kick off boots and shrug off scarves.
The apartment upstairs is warm and dark. Cobweb followed and is already curled on the couch.
I tug my sweater over my head, the soft fabric catching for a second before sliding free. I drop it to the floor and stand there in nothing but jeans and a thin bra, the air cool on my skin, my pulse thundering. I should feel exposed. Instead, I feel powerful and wanted.
I back toward the ladder, gripping the rail, climbing one rung at a time. My breathing quickens with every step, my body tingling with the awareness of him right below me. Tate follows without hesitation, his movements steady, his presence so closeit steals the air from my lungs. Each creak of the wood, each scuff of his boot, coils tighter inside me.
At the top I pause, forcing myself to look down. His eyes catch mine from just a few rungs below, and the sight nearly unravels me. His gaze is sharp and unyielding, dark with a hunger that makes my stomach clench and my thighs press together. He looks at me like I’m the only thing that exists.
His hands come up and catch my thighs, big and firm, halting me on the ladder. A gasp slips from my lips. I curl forward instinctively, threading my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer even though there’s still space between us. He doesn’t move except for his hands, rough palms sliding up over the backs of my legs, over the curve of my hips, every inch of me claimed in his touch.
The rasp of his calluses against my skin sends shivers racing up my spine. His thumbs trace just above my waistband, a possessive press, a reverent caress. His gaze dips lower, slow and deliberate, and when it lands on the swell of my breasts straining against lace, his jaw tightens, his throat works like he’s swallowing back a curse.
“God, you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse, almost broken.
The words hit me like a flame to tinder. I tighten my hold in his hair, pulling harder, needing him closer, needing everything. My body is trembling, breath shallow, heat coursing through me. His stare doesn’t waver, and in that moment, I know neither of us is stopping this.
I climb another rung, slow and deliberate, and he follows immediately, his body pressing close, his hands sliding higher, claiming more. The loft looms just above us, shadows waiting to swallow us whole, to keep our secrets.
When we reach the top, he says my name like a prayer. Like a promise.
All I can think about is him, and needing him. I pull him towards me, pulling his sweatshirt over his head, unbuckling his belt. He kisses me, then pauses and unbuttons my pants, and then his hands cup my face as he kisses me urgently.
“Tate, I need you…”
He says nothing, just lowers his mouth to my neck. His lips drag over my skin, soft and wet, before his teeth catch, nibbling in a way that makes my breath stutter. A low growl rumbles from him, vibrating against my throat, and fire licks up my spine. It feels like he can’t get enough of me, like he’s starving, and the thought makes my whole body clench with want.
His fingers slip beneath the straps of my bra, tugging it down until it falls away. The cool air barely has time to kiss my skin before his hands are there, palms hot, covering me. He groans into my mouth as he takes me in his hands, rough and reverent all at once, and I arch into him, desperate for more.
His thumbs stroke over my nipples, slow circles that send a jolt of sensation straight to my core. The calluses on his fingertips scrape against the sensitive peaks, and the contrast of his rough skin against my softness makes me whimper into his kiss. Pleasure coils low in my belly, sharp and insistent, and my thighs squeeze together, rubbing for even a shred of friction. It isn’t enough. I need more. I need him.
He kisses me harder, mouth claiming mine, his tongue stroking deep while his hands keep teasing, kneading, pulling moans from my throat. Every flick of his thumbs has me trembling, every scrape makes me ache worse. His lips leave mine just long enough to trail back down my neck, sucking, nipping, marking me with his hunger.
I’m gasping, rubbing my thighs together, rocking helplessly into his touch while he devours me like I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted.
“Wait, wait,” I say breathlessly. He stops and looks at me, holding my hips and searching my eyes.
“I don’t want to mess this up…”
He nods, breathless. “Okay.”
We stare at each other for a beat, an entire non-verbal conversation passing between us.
I lean up and kiss him again, swiping my tongue across his lip, his soft groan filling the room.
“You want this?” he asks.
I nod, and he says, “No, I need you to say it.”
“I want this. I want you, and I want us.”
He eases me back onto the bed, his weight a steady press that makes me feel caged and claimed. His beard grazes my skin as he trails kisses down my abdomen, each scrape and drag sending little shocks through me. I arch against the mattress, my fingers clutching at the sheets, my breath already breaking apart.
When his lips reach the waistband of my panties, he pauses. His fingertips trace the edge, featherlight, then slide down my thigh. Slowly, reverently, like he’s memorizing every curve, every line. The roughness of his skin against the smoothness of mine makes me shiver. He squeezes, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of my hips, and then he hooks the lace and begins to tug.
It’s unhurried, torturous, even, as he pulls them down, inch by inch. His gaze never leaves me, hot and searing, and the way he looks at me—like I’m his, like I’m everything—makes me feel beautiful. Desired. Wanted in a way that I’ve never felt before.
The fabric slides down my thighs, my calves, until it falls away completely. I’m bare beneath him, only for him, and the power of that realization sends a pulse of confidence through me. He lingers, his hands smoothing back up my legs, palms broad and possessive.
