Page 45 of Whisked Away
“Alex,” he murmurs against my skin, voice husky. “I’ve wanted this… wanted you…” His confession hangs in the air between us, a raw truth.
“I’ve wanted this too,” I whisper. Perhaps since the moment I saw his picture in the magazine. Now Ethan Hart has his mouth everywhere on me. His tongue traces down my stomach, then pauses as he nips at the skin, eliciting another gasp. He kisses me again, deeper and more desperate, as though he knows this is our one chance, and he doesn’t mean to waste it.
He slides his hands down my skin, the rough pads of his fingers gliding over my thighs. I shudder but arch to meet his touch.
He pauses for a heartbeat, his forehead resting against mine as we both catch our breath. “I need you to tell me if it’s too much… if you want me to stop,” he whispers against my cheek.
I shake my head, breathless still. “Don’t stop. Oh god, Ethan, please don’t stop.”
He slides his hand farther up, slow and torturous, as his other arm braces above me. His touch is reverent, as though he’s savoring each moment, each moan he pulls from me, each time I rise to meet his body with mine.
I sense more than see him reaching for the nightstand. The heat between us builds, layer by layer. Ethan takes his time,peeling away clothing, then kissing and exploring each new space. Every touch feels like things he can’t voice, promises he wishes he could make. There are words I want to say as well. Words I can’t.
They don’t seem to matter in the quiet of his cottage, under the light of the moon. It feels like the world has faded, leaving just us, our breaths, our flesh gliding together, and the pull of everything unsaid finding its release differently.
Ethan kisses my shoulder and whispers against it. “Stay tonight?”
“Okay,” I find myself answering.
And when he, half asleep, mumbles that if I’ll still be here for the weekend, he has one more Magnolia Cove experience he’d like to show me, I find myself agreeing. And I’m too drowsy and happy to worry about how I’m going to make that work.
If Ethan Hart asks me to stay forever, I might just say yes.
Ethan
The coffee maker gurgles softly as pre-dawn light creeps through my kitchen windows. I’m standing in pajama pants, bare feet pressed against the cool wood floor, staring out at the ocean.
My internal clock doesn’t care that I’m not opening the Whisk. Though today, waking early feels like a gift. It gives me time to process the impossible: Alexandra Sinclair is asleep in my bed.
I take a sip of coffee and let memories of last night wash over me. Her skin glowing in moonlight. The way she said my name. How desperately I wanted to show her every part of myself—even the parts that terrify others. But mostly, I remember the peace. Despite the nearly full moon hanging heavy in the sky, despite my magic usually running wild during lunar events, everything inside me had been still. Like somehow, she anchored me—held the chaos at bay without even trying.
Setting my mug down, I walk back to the bedroom doorway. She’s curled on her side, my quilt tucked around her waist, her bare shoulder gleaming in the silvery pre-dawn light.Her hair spreads across my pillow like spun gold, and her face... God, her face in sleep. All the sharp edges of the renowned food critic have melted away, leaving something soft and precious.
She looks like she belongs here. Like she’s meant to be tangled in my sheets every morning, sharing coffee and lazy kisses before the rest of the world wakes.
The thought sends an ache through my chest. Because she can’t stay. Dean lives three cottages down, and if word gets back to the Council that I’m getting too close to a non-magical human again... I close my eyes, remembering Sarah’s terror, my magic overwhelming me, the chaos that followed. I won’t risk Alex like that. Won’t risk the entire community’s safety for my own desires.
But standing here, watching her sleep, it’s hard to remember all the reasons this is dangerous. She shifts, and my quilt slips lower, revealing the delicate slope of her shoulder, the smooth line of her collarbone. My fingers itch to trace constellations between the freckles dusting her shoulders. To wake her with gentle kisses and whispered promises.
The coffee maker gives a final sputter in the background, breaking my reverie. I should rouse her soon, get her back to the B&B before the town stirs. Before Dean does his morning check-in. Before?—
“You’re thinking too loud,” Alex mumbles against the pillow.
My heart stutters. She blinks sleepily at me and everything else falls away. The Council, Dean, my own fears—none of it matters when she’s looking at me like that.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “Habit. Baker’s hours and all that.”
She stretches, catlike and graceful, before sitting up. The quilt pools around her waist, and my mouth goes dry. “Tell me you at least made enough coffee for two?”
I smirk. “Stay in bed. I’ll bring yousome.”
I push off the doorframe and head to the kitchen, the scent of fresh brew filling the air. It’s automatic, the way I move through the motions—pouring, placing the mug just the way I like it—except this time, it’s not for me.
When I return, she’s sitting up, the quilt pooled around her. I hand her the cup, and she takes a slow sip, then sighs in appreciation. “You make a strong case for the merits of small-town coastal life.”
“That’s just the Sumatra Mandheling speaking,” I say, but my chest tightens at her words. Because god, do I wish it was true. Wish I could give her mornings like this stretched out endlessly—strong coffee and ocean breezes, lazy kisses and shared silence. Wish I could show her the real magic of small-town life, not just the curated version we present to tourists.
When I glance at the clock, reality sets back in. Dean rises early. Always has. And the way he watches me, especially during lunar events...
