The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(103)

At Cybele’s stricken expression, he cursed himself and changed course. “If any of my father’s kin were able, they would’ve sent Mab to Oblivion. None of them are powerful enough.”

Then again, none of them had possessed Merlin’s staff. He looked toward the closed cupboard. “The staff is my only chance for victory.”

“What about your mother’s touchstone? And your ancestral memories? That all helps, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.” It did, just not as much as Arthur would’ve liked.

“The staff isn’t your only chance, Arthur. You have power. Your own power. Have faith in it.”

He gave a short laugh. “Faith isn’t exactly a Nephilim virtue.”

“Maybe it should be,” she countered. “I have faith in you, Arthur. Your magic’s stronger than Mab’s. It’ll be there when you need it. You’ll defeat her. I know you will.”

The profound sense of gratitude kindled by her words left him feeling curiously fragile. “Thank you.”

She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re welcome.”

He caught her hand and pressed it to his chest. He wanted her touch there, close to his heart, close to everything he couldn’t find the words to say.

“Let’s make love,” he said quietly.

She looked up in surprise. “What? Now?”

“Yes. Now.” He searched her gaze. “Don’t you want to?”

A laugh bubbled up from her throat. “I always want to. You’re the one who said it wasn’t safe.”

“Nothing’s safe,” he said, his grip tightening. “Nothing’s certain. Life is short, and it’s all we have. If I’m going to die soon—”

“You’re not,” she said sharply.

“I need you, Cybele. I know it’s selfish. I know I shouldn’t ask you, but—”

She stopped his words with two fingers against his lips. “Don’t ask. Let me ask you, instead.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Make love to me, Arthur. Please?”

He knew he should resist, but in that moment, resistance just wasn’t in him. Especially not when she was kissing him, her body all but melting in his arms. Her clothes were still damp and clinging to every curve. His cock was hard, his brain was scrambled, and his heart—it was utterly lost.

He glanced toward the stair. They wouldn’t make it past the first landing. Her hands swept down his torso and found the edge of his shirt. She moved her palms back up his bare chest, nails lightly scoring his skin. He groaned and gripped her arse. She wrapped her legs around his hips.

He turned and half-stumbled, half-lurched through the front hall and into the library. How Cybele managed to get his shirt up over his head, he didn’t know. Her hands explored his bare chest. Her mouth covered his nipple. She sucked hard.

Had he thought they could make it all the way to the rug in front of the fireplace? Bollocks to that. He turned and pushed her up against the wall. His fingers tangled with the button and zipper on her jeans. He shoved the jeans down to her knees, taking her scrap of underwear with it. She kicked the lot of it the rest of the way off. His fingers explored between her legs and came away wet.

She turned to liquid fire in his arms, kissing, licking. She nipped at his skin, the tiny bites inflaming him almost past reason. Hands trembling, he yanked down his pants, hissing in relief as his cock sprang free. He circled his hips, nudging the head of his cock into the wet slit between her legs. She not only opened for him, she wrapped her fingers around him and guided him home.

He slid into tight heat and slick moisture. She gasped and sank down on him, impaling her body on his rigid flesh. Her scent, musky with her arousal, enveloped him. He grabbed her thighs, thrust once, and pinned her to the wall.

Pleasure exploded, in every part of his body. His magic responded, surging brightly in his brain. Everything flashed white. He felt himself slip. His head dipped until his forehead pressed against hers. His breathing turned harsh.

She stilled. “Arthur? Is everything ok?”

Was it? He felt as though he were suspended in mid-air, legs pumping frantically, like a cartoon character waiting for gravity to kick in. His body and mind were poised on a precipice. In the abyss was unfathomable, uncontrollable magic. Magic that didn’t care who it hurt. Or who it killed.

He couldn’t—wouldn’t—look over the edge. Instead, he concentrated on Cybele. His love. His touchstone.

The warmth of her in his arms, her smooth skin against his calloused palms. The sound of her breath, moving in and out of her lungs a little too quickly. The smell of her arousal. The faint taste of her sweat as he kissed her temple. He drew back, just far enough to look into her green eyes. And the abyss faded away.

Control. It was his, he realized, as long as Cybele was with him. She didn’t destroy the focus of his magic, she enhanced it. With her at his side, he could do anything. Even, he thought, defeat Mab.

A smile spread on his lips. “It’s fine,” he told her. “Better than fine.”

She kissed him. He moved inside her, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency. The world faded away. Nothing mattered, nothing could harm them. Not as long as they were together.

His orgasm hit almost without warning, spinning him into a place of pure bliss. Cybele ground her hips and bore down on him. Her inner muscles spasmed. He found her mouth and covered it with his own, swallowing her gasp as she came.