Magical Midlife Meeting (Leveling Up #5)(40)

Just the mention of it made me constrict my arms around him. I jerked my hips, grinding against him. I yanked his head back by his hair and harshly dragged my teeth up his throat.

He shuddered. “Hmm, that’s how it’s going to be, is it?” I could hear the excitement in his words.

“So be it.”

He trapped me to him, lifted me a bit, and then hammered into me, over and over, driving the pleasure deep. Inwardly smiling, outwardly grunting with the onslaught, I slipped into the feeling and said goodbye to reality. I’d deal with our situation tomorrow. Tonight I’d think of nothing else but Austin.





FIFTEEN

“WHAT’S OUR STATUS?” I stood in the center of the common area and popped the best truffle in the world into my mouth.

Austin had urged me to keep all the stuff in the gift basket. According to him, I could chalk it up to collecting my dues for all of the mage’s badgering, treat the gifts as participation trophies for bothering to show, or assign no emotion to them at all and immediately forget where I’d gotten them.

Thanks for the goods, what was your name again?

Given that literally no one else had any reservations about keeping their gifts, each having been given one or two things perfectly suited to their interests and taste, I’d decided to compromise. I would pick and choose a few things to keep. The truffles were the first things out of the basket.

Cyra jogged out of the hallway that led to the rooms, dressed in a black pantsuit with a ruby pin on her lapel. Designed to look like a phoenix shedding flames, it was her gift from Elliot Graves: a magical memento that would help her control her fire shedding after rebirths.

His thoughtfulness was starting to get on my nerves.

Brochan emerged from the hallway in a black suit with a red pocket square. As he came closer, he gave me a once-over before minutely nodding—and then immediately tensed.

“I apologize, Miss Ironheart,” he murmured, veering to the side and turning, clasping his hands in front of him and looking straight ahead.

“For what?” I asked.

“Force of habit.”

“What’s a force of habit?”

Edgar lingered in the far corner, ready and waiting. Niamh was back by the fridge, hunting for food or beer. Everyone else was still getting ready for the day, their slow speed indicative of the danger they thought we’d run into.

I belatedly noticed that every single surface contained at least one cream-colored doily, all a little misshapen, none of them symmetrical. Edgar had apparently decorated, and it was clear he still couldn’t create the perfect doily. There was no way I was asking why he’d trucked all these here.

Even though I’d taken Austin’s (many, many) ministrations to heart, and decided not to give in to my fear and worry, I was still on shaky ground with anxiety. I needed to stick with what I was good at— magic—and leave the political maneuverings for the rest of my team. The last thing I needed right now was to fall down the Edgar-weirdness rabbit hole. If anything could derail a person, that surely would.

“I haven’t been to a formal meetup since I was an alpha,” Brochan replied. “We lived in a rural place and didn’t dress up very often, so when we needed to, I had to check everyone to make sure they fit the requirements. I didn’t mean to do it with you.”

I waved his apology away. “I don’t care. Mr. Tom basically dresses me. He has oddly great taste.

Hence this very fashionable pantsuit thing that is both striking and functional if we have to fight.”

“Yes, he does. You fit your part perfectly. If you’d allow me…” He paused, and I checked the time on my new watch, something else I’d plundered from the basket.

“Yes?” I answered when he didn’t continue.

“When you go to dinner tonight, wear expensive jewels. Based on the gift I received, these cats have a bunch of money.”

“What gifts did you receive?”

“A cashmere scarf and a lady’s Rolex. Very lovely.”

“And you’re not wearing them?”

“I might actually wear the scarf. It’s cream, so it’ll go with a formal jacket in the winter. The Rolex looks ridiculous on me. It’s much too small. I tried it.”

“I’ll trade you a man’s Rolex for the one you got, how’s that?”

His brows pinched together and he checked my wrist. “That’s not a Rolex, and it would also be too small for my wrist.” He held up his wrist and pulled back his sleeve. That thing was easily two of mine or more, his forearm lined with muscle and scars.

“I meant I’d buy you one and we’d switch,” I said.

“Oh. Right.” He shook his head. “I’m slow.”

Mr. Tom bustled out, checking all the sparkling surfaces and clucking his tongue at the doilies. A sour expression crossed his face. He’d cleaned last night with gusto, clearly determined to take back his role as provider of food and clean surfaces. Hopefully he didn’t also reprise his role as off-kilter life coach.

“Edgar, why must you clutter the space with these odd things?” Mr. Tom asked, whisking two doilies up.

“I figured we could all use a little taste of home,” Edgar answered. “A little comfort.”

“This is from your home, not ours, and the only thing comfortable about these misshapen things is the thought of throwing them in the fire.” Mr. Tom stacked up two more. Brochan looked on with a furrowed brow. He was new to the weird. It would probably be a bumpy ride as he got accustomed to it.