Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(36)
How was I going to express any of that to her, or to properly explain that I was still reeling from the best sex I’d ever had? That I’d thought about nothing but Morty, the marzipan scent of his skin, his soft mouth and clever hands, the way he felt inside me—the way his feelings felt inside me, too—for the past two days? Before I left the next morning, we’d agreed to keep the witch bond shut down when we were apart, since we were still so new to each other, so unsure of how we wanted to proceed with any of this.
But I’d missed him since, almost painfully. And I’d be willing to bet much more than snacks and an evening of comfort shows that the missing was mutual.
“I’m not sure myself,” I said slowly, the lie sour in my mouth even as I reached for a way to better describe the situation for her without revealing anything off-limits. “It just feels . . . different, with him. Everything feels different. He’s not what I usually go for, not at all—again, why you picked him for me in the first place. But it was, ugh, so hot, Jessa. I think maybe that’s why it all happened so fast? Like, possibly neither of us was prepared for that kind of out-of-control chemistry? So it’s making us, um, more receptive to each other on other levels, too.”
“That does happen sometimes,” she said, still dubious, but willing to take my word for it—because why wouldn’t she believe her own best friend? She trusted me to tell her my truth, the whole of it. And here I was, hiding in my walled-off, secret magic garden. Keeping most of it concealed from her. “Like with me and Steven. It’s just balls-to-the-wall every time we fuck. And there’s, like, emotions threatening to happen. Entire feeeeeelings, dude. Sometimes, Nina, I swear, we’re actually almost making love.”
I burst out laughing at the revolted face she made at this, as though she could imagine literally nothing worse than an emotionally charged sexual connection.
“You are such a die-hard fuckboi,” I informed her, still chuckling. “I mean, I love you for it, you know that. But you really need to own it.”
“Oh, I own it with pride and dedication,” she said with a shrug, unpausing the show. “Throw me a fuckboi parade any old day. Hence why it’s baffling to me when one of the rotation actually wriggles under my skin like this. Like, I have you and my man Jake to tend to my emotional needs, I’m all set on that.”
“It’s okay to like them, you know,” I said softly, running my fingers over Jake’s warm curls until he gave a contented huff against my leg.
Jessa made an ambiguous sound, eyes fixed on the TV, where Bo and Kenzi sprawled on the floor together, Bo writhing with laughter at some joke Kenzi had just cracked. I always loved the episodes that highlighted how pure their friendship was, the way Kenzi accepted her succubus bestie without any fear or reluctance, no barriers or judgment between them. And I’d never wished more that there was no minefield of secrets between me and Jessa, either. That I could tell her what it had truly been like with Morty; to feel what really lay under someone else’s skin, to crack a door open into their mind and have them do the same to you.
“To let them in a little,” I added. “Sometimes, that can even be really nice.”
“You know my deal with that,” she said, twisting a stray curl around her finger and drawing it taut, before letting it spring back into its corkscrew shape. “I’m not doing Allison all over again. That isn’t how my life plays out.”
I did know. Jessa’s dad had walked out on them when she was only a baby, and her single mother had proceeded to run an entire gauntlet of turbulent relationships, dragging Jessa through all the ensuing emotional carnage. Constantly seeking male validation—or “chasing dick,” as Jessa so delicately put it, even though the turn of phrase made me shudder each time—and doing whatever it took to secure it, stability be damned. In turn, Jessa was hell-bent on overcorrecting by never desperately running after love the way her mother had, especially at the expense of a child.
To be fair, Allison had gotten her act together. In her fifties, she’d married Jessa’s stepfather, Daniel, who by all accounts seemed like a wonderful, decent man—so committed to his new little family he’d actually talked Jessa’s mother into moving to Thistle Grove, too, so they could be closer to her.
“I hear you,” I said, treading as carefully as I could. “You know I just want you to be happy. And it sounds like, just maybe, this guy has the potential to do that for you.”
“Perhaps!” she said, a shade too brightly. “I’m not planning on holding my breath. And it’s not like I’m some kind of commitment-phobe, dude. I came all the way to these here Illinois boonies for you, didn’t I? I know a solid life partner when I meet one—even if I don’t happen to be dating them.”
Another throb of guilt lurched through me at this reminder. Jessa enjoyed her Thistle Grove life so much, fit here so seamlessly, that sometimes I forgot she hadn’t grown up here like I had. We’d met at Columbia Law in New York, and she’d lived in New Jersey before that. We’d become roommates our second year, not that I’d needed one to afford the penthouse I lived in, while almost everyone else in our class shared matchbox apartments with four other people; I’d always refused to let Jessa pay any part of the rent when the money could go to her savings instead. We’d just loved each other’s company, cohabitated with absolute ease and comfort. Been family to each other without ever having been blood.