Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(42)
The last thing I need is more alone time with Tilda—especially when she’s wearing the kind of flowy skirt that hits just above her knees and has me thinking every dirty thought imaginable about what I’d do if she’d only let me slide my hand under the hem and up her thick thighs to tease that clit of hers until she was lost to the pleasure of it, and then I’d dip my head underneath her skirt, spread her thighs wide, and feast on her sweet center until she came all over my face.
The duíl magic has gone rogue. It’s not enough that I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anyone else. Now it’s not a case of wanting to be near her, it’s needing to be near her.
She clips some unopened deep pink flowers off the clove tree, puts them in an enchanted cheesecloth bag for fast drying, and then drops that into the oversized wicker basket I’m carrying around to collect all of the herbs.
“What are we doing gathering herbs for spells?” she asks as I ignore the way the sun turns some strands of her hair golden as if spun by princesses locked in towers. “I thought magic wasn’t going to work in the exhibit.”
Gripping the basket tighter so I won’t reach out and touch her, pull her closer, kiss her again and again, I grind out each word of my answer. “It won’t work inside the museum during the gala, but everywhere else is fair game.”
She stops in front of a bunch of potted snapdragons and starts to expertly clip the blooms, careful not to lose any of the pollen that is crucial for a protection spell, and drops them into another enchanted bag. “So what’s wrong with speaking spells as opposed to the old-fashioned cauldron-brewed spells we’re collecting for?”
“That’s not going to hold up against Council magic.” So little actually did. Our best hope is getting all of this done before they realize I’ve gone rogue, but the chances of that are slim. “We’ll need to go all in if they find us.”
Tilda nods and lets out a shaky breath before looking at me with a determined gleam in her eyes. “So what’s left on the list?”
I glance down at the list we came up with earlier. “Comfrey and catnip.”
“Travel protection and attracting luck,” she says. “We’re gonna need those in bulk. Well, we’re in luck, because my dad is a borderline herb hoarder.”
“Everyone likes to keep a stash.” Witches may test the fates, but they never want to leave anything up to chance.
She throws back her head and laughs. “Oh no, it’s more than— Here, it’ll be easier just to show you my dad’s den.”
We walk out of the garden proper to the moon circle, which is inlaid with light opals that form the shape of a dragon.
A family’s moon circle is always a powerful centering place for their magic, and the Sherwoods’ is no different. Even with almost the entire family being frozen, a shiver works its way through me, raising the hair on the back of my neck as I take my first step onto it. Is it the power of the Sherwoods? The extra burst of magical energy that always comes with being near a spellbinder like Tilda? Either option is possible. Not that it matters. My job here is to follow Tilda, and that’s exactly what I do, making sure to avoid stepping on the milky-white opals. The fragments of color inside each one are catching the light as we cross and making the dragon look like its scales are shimmering in the early-morning sun.
Once on the other side, we stop in front of a small witch’s den. Some people have gone modern with glass walls and stainless steel. The Sherwoods have kept it traditional with witch hazel branches for the shed’s walls and a thatched roof made from long straw. It looks like it belongs in a fairy tale out in a tangle of woods where the trees are so dense you just know the whole place is haunted. There are a pair of dragon’s blood trees bracketing the door, which is intricately carved to look like a dragon with its mouth open. I swear, the closer we get, the more I can feel my skin heating up as if I’m stepping closer to a bonfire.
There’s magic here, and every instinct in my body is yelling at me to step the fuck back and get away from here as fast as I can. It starts to push against me, sharp little points of agony poking against my skin as the Sherwood protection spell tries to edge me back from the den. It knows I don’t belong here, not a nobody from The Beyond like me.
“Gil?” Tilda asks, cocking her head in concern and reaching out for me. “Are you—”
She doesn’t get to okay before her fingers touch my arm and the magic snaps around us, pushing us together and then sending us careening toward the closed door of the witch’s den. I twist so I’m between the door and Tilda to lessen the impact for her of us being smashed against the wood. But right at the last moment, the door whooshes open and we are carried inside, where we land with a thud on the slate floor.
In the next heartbeat, I’m rolling up into a sitting position, holding on to Tilda so that she’s on my lap facing me, her bare legs falling on either side of my hips as I skim my palms over her, checking for damage. “Are you okay?”
“We didn’t land on me.” She cups my face in her hands, stilling me with the softness of her touch. “How are you?”
She inches closer on my lap, the move settling her panty-covered pussy against my cock as it pushes against my jeans. And in the sliver of a moment between one heartbeat and the next, everything changes. My hands are on her ass, pulling her hard against me. She responds by tightening her legs around me and rocking her hips just enough to make me forget who we are, what’s at stake, and why this is a very bad idea.