Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(52)
Her lusty moan and the way she grips my dick sends a jolt of oh-fuck-yeah right through me, and I rock back and forth, in and out of her before sinking all the way in again. Fuck me. The way she feels has me on the edge already and we’ve barely started.
“Oh my.” She undulates her hips, arching her gorgeous back, and looks over her shoulder at me, one side of her glasses a little higher than the other and her red hair coming out of her half bun in the way it should on a woman who’s had two orgasms. “That’s good.”
Forget out of my league, Tilda Sherwood is out of my galaxy.
“Just wait.” And I pull back until all that’s touching her is the head of my cock and stay there for a second as I glide my palm over the curve of Tilda’s fabulous ass. “Are you ready to come again?”
She lifts an eyebrow high enough that I can see it over the top of her round glasses. “Three might be asking a lot.”
“Challenge accepted,” I say, throwing her own line back at her.
Before she can say anything else, I grab her fleshy hips and pull her back against my dick as I thrust, going deep. I withdraw and push forward before reaching around and slipping my fingers between her legs from the front. The second I stroke her clit while I’m inside her, she moans and fists the bedsheets again as hard as she’s holding on to my cock. The color of everything in the room becomes more vibrant, the train speeds up and shudders as it rounds a bend on the tracks, and I swear the stars outside the window glow brighter as I circle her clit and fuck her from behind. Again and again I thrust into her and pull back, keeping the pace steady on her clit until I feel her tighten around me half a second before she comes a third time, and I know I’m only a few seconds behind her. I go one, two, three more times before my balls tighten as the ball of energy at the base of my spine explodes and my orgasm hits me, knocking out everything else but Tilda and me and this moment that is burned into my brain like a brand.
I collapse on the bed feeling like every bone in my body has turned to mushy oatmeal. All the happy hormones blasting my brain are making me so content. Then Tilda takes off her glasses, puts them on the small table next to the bed, and rolls over so she is right next to me, her body fitting against mine as if we were made to go together, and content isn’t the right word, it’s not enough for whatever this sense of absolute rightness is that’s making me all floaty and happy.
“You’re smiling,” Tilda says as her eyes flutter shut. “You should do that more often. Of course, that wouldn’t really be fair since you’re already obnoxiously hot even when you’re glaring.”
I brush a kiss on the top of her head. “So, I’ll only smile for you.”
She chuckles, a happy little snuffle of a sound, but for once doesn’t have anything else to say. Obviously, I’m not the only one defying gravity—or at least feeling like it. And as we lie there on the bed and my brain starts to come back online, I know that Griselda was right. My life has definitely just changed because of the woman I’ve been lying to since day one.
The truth is on my lips, but by the time I’m about to open my mouth and let it all out, get rid of the secrets between us, her breathing has steadied and softened. Tilda lets out a small, contented sigh and snuggles in against my side, already mostly asleep.
Tomorrow.
I’ll tell her everything as soon as we wake up.
Am I being selfish or a giant chicken? Probably a little of both, but you already know what kind of asshole I am, and so do I—the kind who isn’t made for someone like her. A few weeks ago I was fine with that. Now? I’d trade a decade back in The Beyond for twenty-four hours being the kind of man who is worthy of Tilda Sherwood, but there isn’t a spell for that and there’s no magical way that all of this will work out.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Tilda . . .
When I wake up a few hours later, I’m on my side and Gil is big spooning me, his exhales sending the ends of my hair flying so they tickle my nose. That must be what woke me up—well, that and the fact that I’d had three cups of elderberry tea to boost my courage before taking that nerve-racking walk down the train car to Gil’s room armed with only muffins and a smile.
Who in the hell would have thought that would work? Not me, not really.
Why? Because despite everything, I know who I am—an outré in a world where the most important thing about a person is their magical ability.
Still, as I lie here with Gil’s arm curled around me, holding me close enough to him that his chest hair brushes against my back when he inhales and I can feel his semi-hard dick pressed against my ass no matter what he’s doing, all I can think about is the look in his eyes last night, the way he kissed me as if he’d never wanted anyone more in his life, and—yeah—the three orgasms that were their own kind of magic. The contradiction of what Witchingdom has conditioned me to accept as fact—that I’m not wantable—and the possibility that Gil has shown me that the rest of Witchingdom may just have it wrong has my brain buzzing more than a pair of beehives being used as maracas by a troll band.
I have to get out of here and get some answers.
Holding my breath, I slowly lift his arm from around my waist enough that I can do the slide-shimmy thing to get off the mattress. I lay his arm back down as gently as I can. He grumbles in his sleep, something about someone needing to believe him, and flops over onto his back. I grab my glasses off the little table next to the bed and put them on so I can find my clothes.