Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(50)
Then his fingers are on the bare skin of my stomach, sliding upward at the kind of slow pace that thrills as much as it tortures. It’s like a wave of sensations that starts on the slice of skin above my waistband, moves upward to the who-knew-it-was-an-erogenous zone around my belly button, and progresses up to the spot just below my bra, that has me holding my breath in anticipation.
He kisses that spot where my neck meets my shoulder—you know, the one that makes your brain melt into a puddle of all the horny feels—and looks up at me. “We stop whenever you want.”
“Do you want to stop?” Please, please, please say no.
His jaw tightens as he watches me, desire making his eyes dark. “It doesn’t matter.”
He shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but we both know better.
“Actually, it does.” I stroke my fingers featherlight across his squared jaw and the muscle twitches, as he seems to be nearly grinding his molars to dust. “This involves both of us.”
“Tilda, you’re the very last witch I should want, and I’m definitely the worst witch for you to want back.” Tension wafts off of him while he looks at me as if I’m the answer to every question he’s ever had. “But I can’t stop needing to touch you and thinking about you. I wake up in the mornings thinking about you and go to sleep wondering what’s going to happen with you tomorrow.” He pauses, taking in a deep breath before continuing, his voice barely above a resigned whisper. “If I could stop wanting you, I would for your sake—but I can’t. Matilda Grace Sherwood,”—he says my name with such a fierce possessiveness that my heart catches—“I’ll never stop wanting you.”
I have no idea what to say to that. My brain is a total blank and filled to the brim with words at the same time, the contradiction making the absolute most sense to me of anything at this moment. So I answer the only way I can, lifting my sweater up and over my head before letting it drop to the floor and then reaching behind myself to unhook my bra. The lacy dark emerald material joins my sweater as Gil watches, a barely contained wild look in his eyes.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out still.
“Yes?” he asks.
I nod.
He lets out a half groan, half growl and the last thread of his control snaps right along with mine and I fall back against the love seat’s arm, my hands scrambling to undo my jeans as he tears off his clothes—not literally, but whew, he is not messing around. The man is fucking magnificent and I can’t help but take a long, slow look from his broad shoulders to his hard chest to the dick of my dreams that has my mouth watering and a million and six ideas for exactly how I want to touch, suck, and lick it rushing through my head.
Before I can pick just one of them though, he winks at me, mutters a spell I don’t catch, and then we’re naked, intertwined together on the love seat he manages to magic into a bed while kissing me as if we’re meant for each other and always have been.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Gil . . .
I’m fucking cursed and I’m too fucking happy to fucking care, because Tilda Sherwood is mine, at least for tonight.
Tomorrow I’ll tell her everything—how she’s a spellbinder, how I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe, and how my duíl magic doesn’t even begin to explain the connection between us. If I’m lucky, she’ll hear me out. If I’m blessed by the fates, she won’t turn me to ash. I can’t even imagine an end result better than that, not for a guy like me. Double agents like me aren’t made for happily ever afters, we’ve done too much to stay alive; our hands will never be clean. But tonight? Tonight I can pretend that it’s just us and the rest of Witchingdom and its messy problems don’t exist.
I move from her mouth, trailing kisses down her throat, and then take her hard nipple in my mouth, sucking the sensitive peak as she lets out the softest moans of pleasure. I love that sound. The surprised please-yes-more of it. I could spend a lifetime listening to her do that, but what I have is tonight, so I do it again and again and again as she murmurs words that don’t quite make sense and yet do at the same time.
Lying next to her on the bed, I pull back. For a second, I’m mesmerized looking at her, so gorgeous with her red hair and pink lips parted just enough to make my dick harder than I thought possible. The image is burned into my brain forever. Her soft, round hips that are more than enough to grab ahold of. Her full tits are topped off with large, hard, pale-peach-colored nipples that I can’t wait to roll between my fingers. Her long, strong legs that I’m willing to beg to have her wrap around me when I sink balls deep into her. And then there are her glasses—round, thick, and slightly off-kilter as always.
She rolls onto her side so we’re face-to-face on the bed. “You like what you see?”
“Very much.” I trail my fingers over the generous curve of her hip. “This right here might be my favorite.” I move up to her nipple, rolling it between my fingers and tugging it just enough to make her eyes go dark with desire. “Of course, that’s tied with this.” Watching her bite down on her bottom lip as a flush of desire turns her cheeks pink, I kiss my way down her soft stomach to the edge of her reddish-brown curls, pausing as her breath quickens. “I bet I’d really love right here.” I slide my fingers through her swollen wetness. “You’re all slick and wet. I already know you taste fucking fantastic.” Eyes locked on her face, I bring my fingers up to my mouth and suck her off of them. Fuck me. Potent and addictive, she tastes so damn good. “Lie back so I can lick that pussy.”