Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(34)
“Oh, fuck,” he moaned against my mouth, dragging my lower lip sharply through his teeth. A wave of giddiness swept through me like a high, as I felt myself slide against the straining length of him; the taut heat of me, surrounding and engulfing and all-encompassing. His arms locked around my waist, my mouth caught in that snaring, shared-breath kiss, he began to move in long, sure thrusts, each one a bright, explosive sensation of fullness like something I’d never experienced, never even craved this way before.
Pleasure swept back and forth between us in nebulous waves, part mine, part his, until the boundaries melted away, the heat building much faster and harder than it should have. He nipped at me as I moaned against his mouth with each stroke. Every kiss melting into the next, neither of us wanting the intensity of it to end.
I usually had too much self-consciousness, a tendency to overthink even in moments of peak passion, for an orgasm to build with this kind of barreling speed. But now I could barely think at all, much less criticize and overanalyze myself; how I was moving, what expressions I might be making that could be less than flattering.
Now, there was only this, this crashing and spectacular chaos, Morty’s pleasure building until it outpaced even mine, me feeling its every vibrating peak and valley. Every veneer melted away, all barriers between us stripped.
“Nina,” he groaned against my mouth, the whole of him shuddering against me as he fought the tide. “I’m gonna come, I’m sorry, I can’t—”
“No, don’t be sorry,” I whispered, letting my head fall back. “I want you to. I really, really want you to. Right now.”
With a raw, high groan, he bucked against me, all that keen pleasure spilling into me as if it belonged to both of us. It was a high-pitched sensation like the one I had when I came; but still differently contoured somehow, not quite shaped the same as mine. Unfamiliar enough that it drove me wild, tipped me over the edge myself.
I pitched back against the bar, flinging my hands behind me to support myself as my back arched, needling currents of pleasure unfurling in my core, spiraling down my legs all the way to my toes. It came in pulsing waves with almost no space in between, a furious tightening unlike any I’d experienced before. I could hear Morty gasp as the force of it crashed over him, too, shaking us both like some massive seismic event confined to the two of us.
As it faded, with agonizing slowness, I propped myself back up on quivering arms to drop my head on Morty’s shoulder. He drew me gently against him, making no move to separate us, as content as I was to linger in this moment. There would probably be awkwardness later; whole oceans of it, most likely, given that we were essentially two strangers who had just enjoyed life-altering sex in an extremely tacky bar.
But right now we were still too close, too deeply entwined. There wasn’t any space between us yet, for discomfort or second-guessing.
“Well,” Morty finally breathed into my hair with a soft half laugh, reaching up to idly stroke my head. “Guess we consummated the hell out of this witch marriage.”
I sputtered a little laugh into the warm crook of his neck, the smell of his skin drifting up with each inhale. Every person I’d been with had a distinctive skin scent; his was surprisingly sweet, a desserty almond smell like marzipan.
“Ten/ten, five-star consummation, yes. Maybe not the venue I’d have picked, to be fair.”
“Thread count less than optimal, huh? Not enough scattered rose petals for milady?” This time, the salty nickname felt like a true pet name. Genuinely affectionate, without any malice.
“More like, thread count entirely and tragically absent. But turns out, I can be somewhat flexible.” I shifted against him, taking another deep breath. “Also, you smell like cake.”
“Do I?” I could feel his amusement, curling up against mine like a wisp of smoke. “Never heard that one before. Feels like you think that’s a good thing, though.”
“I do,” I assured him, nestling closer. “I love cake.”
He held me like that for another minute, until I started feeling a little too warm and sticky for comfort. As soon as my restiveness reached him, he eased away, slipping free of me. Both of us gasped in tandem, then laughed in sync.
“Fuck, this is so weird,” he said, shaking his head, pretty lips curling. “But, maybe, the brand of weird I’m partial to? Either way, gotta admit, didn’t think this was where tonight was headed.”
“Me neither,” I admitted, shimmying off the bar in pursuit of my abandoned clothes. “I—look, this is not something I normally do. Kind of the opposite of what I normally do, in fact.”
“I very much believe you. Second-date sex doesn’t seem your speed at all.” He flicked me another amused look as he pulled his jeans back on. “Not that this was even supposed to be a date.”
“But I’m . . .” I swallowed a surge of shyness, surprised by how easily it went. “This is so strange to say, but I’m glad this happened.”
He smiled fully at that, bending to scoop up his T-shirt, dark hair falling into his face. “Same. So, what now? I completely get it if you’d like to head out. But my place is just upstairs, if you’d rather stay the night. Or I could make you something first in the kitchen down here, if you’re hungry? I’m not much of a pastry chef, if you’re really fiending for that cake, but I do kind of kill at anything savory.”