Dark Witch (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #1)(75)

“I’ll pay more,” he told her. He slid his hands up her sides, over her breasts as she fought open the last buttons.

“You bet you will, buddy.” She lowered her head, catching his mouth in a crushing kiss before scraping her teeth over his bottom lip, ending with a nip.

He retaliated by flipping her over, doing the same.

They wrestled off clothes, wrestled each other in a rush of give-and-take.

So much the same, she thought, wonderfully the same, but now she knew what they could bring to each other. All heat and demand and speed, like flying through fire—simmers and flashes and bursts.

She reveled in the thrill of skin sliding against skin—his to hers, hers to his—the heady friction of it. His mouth, dark with hunger, his hands, rough with greed, raced over her.

How had she lived without knowing what it was to be wanted so completely, so urgently, so thoroughly?

She needed to give him the same, to show him how the want for him flooded through her.

He couldn’t get enough of her. Whatever he took only sparked a bright hot need for more. When he had her like this, moving, moving in the dark, he couldn’t think, could only feel.

And she made him feel drunk, half-mad with it. Made him feel strong as a god, reckless as a cornered wolf.

The world outside dissolved; time spun away.

Just her body, the shape of her, those sleek muscles under smooth skin. The sound of her—breath and sigh and soft, soft moan. And her taste, so hot and sweet.

She struggled up, fast hands, quick legs, to straddle him, and starlight caught in the crown of her hair like diamonds.

She took him in, fast and deep, her hands pressed to her own breasts as the first wave of ecstasy swamped her.

Then she rode, free and wild, starlight on her skin, dark triumph in her eyes.

He gripped her hips, clinging to her and some last thread of sanity.

And she lifted her arms high, crying out in that same dark triumph.

Flames shimmered at her fingertips, tiny pinpoints of light that flashed, bright and blinding as the sun. Stunned by them, bewitched by her, he held on—and he let go.


*


IN THE DARK, IN THE DREAM, SHE REACHED FOR HIM.

“Do you hear that? Do you hear that?”

“It’s just the wind.”

“No.” The woods were so thick, the night so black. Where was the moon? Why was there no moon, no stars?

And with a shudder, she understood. “It’s in the wind.”

Her name, the seductive pull of the whisper. A stroke of silk on bare skin.

“You need to sleep.”

“But I am. Aren’t I?”

When she shivered again, he rubbed her chilled hands between his. “We should have a fire.”

“It’s so dark. It’s too dark, too cold.”

“I know the way home. Don’t fret now.”

He began to guide her, through the trees, away from the little licks of fog that flicked, sly as the tongue of a snake, along the ground.

“Don’t let go,” she said as the whisper slid and stroked over her skin.

“The way’s blocked, do you see?” He gestured to the thick branches blocking the path. “I’ll need to move them before we can get through.”

“No!” On a spur of panic, she gripped his hand tighter. “It’s what he wants. Just like before, to separate us. We have to stay together. We have to hold on.”

“The way’s blocked, Iona.” He turned her now, looked into her eyes. His were dark gold, intense, unwavering. “We should have a fire.”

“The fog’s closer. Can you hear it?”

The wolf now, just the faintest growl through the black, through the fog.

“I hear it. Fire, Iona. It’s what we need.”

Fire, she thought. Against the dark, against the cold.

Fire. Of course.

She threw her arms out, out, lifted her face up. And called it.

Strong, bright, with a whip-snap that lashed through the creeping fog, made it boil, made it steam and die to thin black ash.

“To the dark I bring the light. Against the black I forge the white. From my blood I call the fire to burn, to flame high and higher. Awake or in dreams, my power runs free. As I will, so mote it be.”

A curl of fog snuck out, slithered close. Boyle lunged in front of Iona, threw out a fist.

He felt a quick pain across his knuckles. Then both fog and ash vanished, and there was only fire and light.

She saw blood well up across Boyle’s hand.

And woke with a jolt.

Morning, she saw now, the pearly promise of it glowing against the window.

A dream, just a dream, and she took a breath to steady herself. When Boyle sat up beside her, she reached for his hand.

And saw the blood.

“Oh God.”

“In the woods, together.” His fingers curled tight over hers. “Is that how it was?”

She nodded. “It’s a kind of astral projection, I think. We’re here, but we were there. I must have pulled you in with me. You . . . You hit out at the fog.”

“It worked, and felt fine as well, though your fire did more.”

“No, yes. I don’t know. You struck out, and it was like you punched a hole, for a moment. I . . . But you’re bleeding.”

“Sure it’s but a scratch.”