Chapter 14

CHAPTERFOURTEEN

When they arrived and stepped over her threshold, he paused and gazed around him. Silas’s expression held a poignancy that touched her heart. “No one has ever said what you did, and meant it.”

“What’s that?”

“That I could consider your home mine, as long as you wish to be with me.”

She went to her toes, framing his face with her hands. “When and if whatever this is runs its course, my hope is we’ll still care enough for one another that I can keep that invitation open. Whenever you need a place to call home, it will be here. I will be here.”

He closed his hands on her wrists. “You are overly generous, witch.”

Yet as he dipped his head to put his mouth on hers, she straightened a finger in front of her lips, eying him behind the barrier. “One warning. Even if I’m ninety-nine years old, and sex with me is a long distant memory, you better not darken my door if you’re in some other bitch’s bed.”

A chuckle vibrated against her mouth as he drew her hand out of his way. When he hiked her up to wrap her legs around his hips, the kiss they shared rippled along every other place their bodies touched. The thrill of its newness coupled with the ancient familiarity of a male and female coming together. Desiring the connection, wanting it to build until only the most intimate joining would satisfy.

Her words, humorous though they were, reminded her of the bittersweet finiteness of it. The more it mattered, the deeper the feeling became, the more they’d be left wanting.

“Let’s go to the attic,” she said against his mouth. “I have a bedroom up there, too. I can walk.”

He didn’t let her down. Instead, he made the trip up the two flights a memorable experience, stopping several times to press her against the wall and kiss her even more deeply. One time he sat on a step, having her straddle him, hands cradling her backside as she clasped his neck, kissing him like she wanted to crawl inside. His hands wandered over her, learning her, bringing her body to life in ways she hadn’t ever expected. He rose again, with that effortless strength, kept going. On the second landing, he put her on the railing, himself between her legs.

“The only thing giving me the patience to wait,” he growled, his body urgent against hers, “is the desire to hear you beg, witch.”

She wanted to beg now. But she had her own plans for that as well. He took the last set of stairs two at a time. When he let her feet touch the ground, she pushed back from him unsteadily. Her lips were swollen, body flushed, damp, nipples tight. Her hair had tumbled around her shoulders, and he pushed it back so he could stare at the aroused peaks with avid heat. He was the creator of all the dishevelment, and his pride of ownership made her tremble.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” she said. “I’ll be back.”

“Don’t be long.”

She gave him a female smile as she slipped away. Though any of her bedrooms could be guest bedrooms, she also used them as hers, depending on where she wanted to sleep from night to night. The ample attic space had a third full bath and a walk-in closet, the latter containing why she’d wanted him to bring her here.

When dealing with an immortal male, a woman might wonder if the same things could stir his interest as any other man. Fortunately Ramona’s two closest friends were with immortals, so she had reliable information sources.

“The 24/7 sexual drive of a teen, the experience of a porn star, and as demanding as…well, there is no comparison.” Raina said about Mikhael.

“Ditto for Derek,” Ruby offered, but of course Raina wouldn’t let her leave her there.

“There’s farm equipment that doesn’t have Derek’s plowing abilities,” the bordello owner said.

“Oh, good Goddess. How would you know?” Ruby said.

Raina gave her an arch look. “It’s my job to know these things. A sexually confident male, a Dominant with an immortal sized libido, pretty much broadcasts it without saying a word. I just have to see how he moves, and looks at the woman he wants.”

“It makes the heart skip a beat, even if you know none of the sugar in that bowl is for you,” Ramona had interjected, before Ruby could decide whether or not to grab and pull Raina’s hair.

She’d decided to yank on Ramona’s, too.

Though the two Guardians were committed to their women, any female with eyes could see how much they could demand—and give—if their minds went in that direction.

It was new for her, being able to smile over her friends’ teasing about their lovers while feeling this spike of anticipation, knowing one was waiting for her. Probably not all that patiently. As she finished changing, her stomach somersaulted merely from the thought of that demand about to be unleashed.

Maybe it was insane, but she wanted to increase it. A witch was close to the sensual currents of the elements, so she didn’t doubt her desires, or where they wanted to take her. She wouldn’t let mundane insecurities and self-consciousness inhibit what she could experience with him.

Though her bedroom was quiet, the increasing intensity of the waiting energy told her he’d figured out she might be doing something…interesting. Worth waiting for.

If her stomach flipped once more, her magic would conjure a team of acrobatic circus clowns in her attic. The loosely tied lavender robe she’d donned was high on her thighs, the sheer fabric and strategically placed lace offering an ample hint of what was beneath it. She’d brushed out her hair, and when she took a last glance in the mirror, she started. It was no longer golden-blonde. For him, it was now a vibrant red-gold, the colors of fire. Just the way he’d envisioned it that first day. It swirled around her face and over her shoulders.

As she stepped out, she saw him standing at the west facing wall, which had a triangular-shaped bank of windows. Its divided lights formed triangles instead of the traditional rectangular ones. The window offered a wide view of her property, the vegetable garden, the barn. She could see the night sky, but right now it was the man standing before that view who captured her attention.

He’d removed his shirt and shoes, leaving him in jeans and bare feet, but he had his scythe in hand and was studying the blade. Perhaps a routine daily check, as those who relied on certain tools of their trade did. A way to pass the time and curb his impatience before her return. Which made her smile, and her body tighten.

However, the tension in his back, the pensiveness to his profile, told her she’d maybe left him alone too long. He was thinking about the things that could intrude upon them here. Then he turned, and saw what she was wearing.

Whatever he’d been pondering vanished from his expression. Slowly, she slipped the sash and let the robe fall from her shoulders.

The lavender lace band of the hi-cut panties was just below her navel. When she rotated on the ball of her foot, a graceful, slow twirl, she showed him the tiny satin bow centered between the dimples of her pelvis. An oblong cutout revealed the cleft and upper rise of her buttocks. Then sheer lace took over again.

As she turned to face him again, his gaze rose to the matching bra that lifted her small breasts, enough to give them an attractive quiver when she moved. The areolas were revealed over the low edge, her skin gleaming with the sheen of the powder she’d brushed across the rounded tops, another surprise waiting to be tasted.

His attention moved to her hair. It would likely return to blonde before long. However, she was almost certain one day it would permanently change to the color it was now, merely because he looked at it like that. She saw him remembering that exchange from their first meeting, then he left the scythe leaning in the corner and moved to the bed, taking a seat on the end of it.

“Come here.” His voice was rough, eyes intent as wolf, dragon and anything else that hunted. If she didn’t obey, he’d come and get her. But she wanted to give him something else. Something that would drive away all his worries about that mark, if just for a little while.

But with him wearing only the jeans, his knees splayed and feet braced, she could see the curve of his testicles pressed to straining fabric, the length of his erection. His cock was thickening under her regard, a rewarding response that could surely make a girl lose her resolve.

She tore her attention from it, and looked toward the scythe. “I want to dance for you. Using that.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Come here first. I mean it.”

She came to him, though the way his gaze devoured her made her wonder if he’d let her dance after all. When she reached him, he tangled his hand in her hair, gripping hard enough to pull a little. His other hand slid over her hip and around, covering that oblong opening, thumb teasing the crease between her buttocks, fingers slipping under the lace edge. She swayed on her feet, making his eyes darken.

“You’ll be careful. It’s not a broom, witch.”

“Here I was, planning to use it to clean my floors.” The words took an extraordinary effort to form, with his hands on her conveying such obvious proprietary sexual promise. The answering gleam in his gaze made the labor worth it.

“I’ll be careful,” she whispered. “I want you to touch me, but I want to dance for you.”

He tightened his grip. “All right. But let me know you’ve heard me.”

“I’ve heard you. And I’ll be careful,” she repeated.

He reluctantly released her, and she approached the scythe. She half expected him to transform it into a dense foam, like the swords at her toy store. However, when she closed her hand on the handle, she felt the strength and spirit of the ash tree it had once been a part of.

She lifted it. Because it was far heavier than she’d expected, she overbalanced it. When she grabbed the upper part of the shaft to steady it, it put her close to that blade, but she’d felt the instant heat of his steadying energy. Looking over her shoulder, she saw his hand lifted, controlling the scythe’s movement.

She offered him a mischievous smile. “You make it look so light. But then I forget, you’re a big, strong male.”

He shook his head at her teasing. But when she proved she had control of it, his power eased back. The attic was where she did her indoor ritual work, so it had space for circle casting. She brought the scythe to the center of the open floor area and spoke a quiet enchantment. Nothing that interfered with his use of it, so the weapon didn’t resist her charm. Though that, too, could have been the result of his skills. Sometimes, she couldn’t tell where hers started and his ended.

When she stepped back, the scythe stood upright as if it were anchored, rotating a foot over the floor. The blade changed colors when the small lamp she’d switched on cast light and shadows on it.

“Where did you get what you’re wearing?” His tone had stayed husky, and his eyes glowed in the dim light.

“Raina claims she ordered it in the wrong size. But I think she intended to gift it to me, for a moment like this. I’ve never worn it for anyone.” She lifted the weight of her hair in both hands and then let it fall as she tipped her head back. As she moved her touch down her throat over her breasts, to her hips, she spoke softly, gazing at the ceiling.

“I’ve practiced this here in my room, imagining a lover gazing at me.”

“Not just a lover,” he said. “You don’t have to be shy about it, Ramona. I want to hear your thoughts honestly.”

When it had been fantasy for so long, she had to work up to being brave. But nevertheless, she amended it. “I’ve imagined a Master sitting where you are, looking at me.”

She moved toward the scythe. As she did, she pointed her toe toward the floor, letting the foot curve, brushing the top of it along the boards before she brought it forward, then did it with the other. It gave her a sensual dragging gait. No matter a woman’s size, the movement was designed to draw a man’s eyes to the movement of hips, thighs. Reminding him she was a woman.

“Tell me what you’re doing.” His body looked deceptively relaxed, a dragon’s sprawl.

“Seducing a Reaper. You told me I don’t have to worry about my magic doing harm while I immerse myself in how much I want you.” She arched a brow, teasing him. “Or do you want to walk that back, tell me if I can do something too distracting after all? That will make a powerful Reaper lose control?”

His lips curved, eyes heating. “I am fully capable of losing control and immersing myself in you while keeping your magic from wreaking havoc. Do your worst, witch.”

He’d wanted her to be honest. She would give him honest, even if her voice shook a little. “Ana and Isabella taught me how to do this. When I’d come here and practice, I’d imagine being one of them, coming into the room with a client, facing a male whose eyes are full of me.” She lifted her lashes, met his gaze briefly, then lowered them, this time a deliberate shy tease. “A Master who could take full command of me with only a word, a look that burns away the hold of any other on me, whose look tugs me to him as if he has a tether wrapped around his hand.”

“I like your fantasy life, Ramona. I like seeing it come to actual life. So come here again. Let’s do this right. The way we both want to do it.”

* * *

She gave him that intrigued yet reluctant look again, like she was anticipating him overriding her intentions. He was tempted. Great Lord, the way she looked in that outfit, the cleft of her buttocks framed by lace, her gleaming breasts calling to his mouth. He wanted to take her by the waist, put her on the bed and himself in between her legs. He’d bury himself, hear her cry out as he discovered her slickness, how much of him she could take.

He placed his hand on one of the bed’s wooden posts. The four of them were tall enough to support a canopy, but she’d strung small lights from post to post instead, keeping the bed open to the ceiling, papered with a mural of constellations in a night sky.

When she came to him, he glanced pointedly at the floor. The flush in her cheeks, the high beat of her heart, inflamed everything he wanted. When she followed her desires, she was answering his.

She knelt.

“What will you do to please me?” he asked.

A little noise in her throat, the reaction of a submissive who’d been asked the question she most wanted to hear. Knowing she’d had to go a single day without it, fantasizing in this room about what a Master could give her, believing she’d never have it, fucking made him ache. Even as he was ferociously, selfishly glad he would be the first to offer it.

In the way of a true submissive, giving her even a little of what she desired resulted in her offering her Master even more. She bent forward, brushed her cheek against his thigh, wrapped her fingers around his calf. He gripped her jaw, fingers whispering over her cheek, and guided her face so her mouth hovered over the straining denim, his cock throbbing behind it.

“Put your mouth on me.”

She did it with reverence, a light brush of her lips over the curve of testicles, a moist press against his length, breathing heat and moisture through the fabric. He held her there, with a fistful of her hair, knuckles pressed against the nape of her neck as he leaned over her. He was gazing down the slope of her slim back, over the hooked strap of her bra, back down to the revealing panties.

A sheer, sexy confection hanging in her closet for who knew how long, waiting for a lover she could share it with. He might be the luckiest man alive.

“You dress like you want your Master to take you everywhere. Everywhere he desires.”

She nodded against him, nose brushing his cock. Intentional, the little tease. The demure submissive had a healthy helping of sensual witch, mixed with playful naughty woman-child.

He’d let her know he didn’t mind it, even as it wouldn’t influence him. He put his hand to her mouth, pushed his fingers in there. He didn’t tell her to suck on him, but she tried to do it as he thrust in and out, worked them around her tongue, the inside of her cheeks, using her mouth to get them wet.

When he removed them, he kept a palm between her shoulder blades to hold her in her forward bending position, body pressed in between his thighs. He leaned down over her, slid his wet fingers between her buttocks and found the tight entry there. He was gentle but inexorable, working his fingers around the rim to arouse her further.

“Open up for me. Push out against me.”

When she did, his fingers slid in to the first knuckle, all he needed. He twitched his fingers enough that it intensified the sensations to the rim and all the nerves in that sensitive channel. A whimper caught in her throat, her hands holding his thighs as her own quivered, hips jerking involuntarily. Her forehead pressed to his belly, hot breath against his cock. He stilled his touch, moved his other hand back to her nape, squeezed.

“I don’t mind if you play games with me, witch. As long as you realize you’re in my playground.”

She swallowed noisily. “Yes, my lord.”

“Good.”

He continued to work his fingers in her as she slowly came apart, trembling, pleading noises vibrating in her throat. Then he withdrew his fingers and sat back, moving his other hand to the crown of her head, a light pressure. “Stay in this position.”

He rose, swinging a leg over her, and went into the bathroom. After he washed his hands, he returned to the doorway, studied her a long moment, in that kneeling position, head down. She was quivering even harder. He came back, trailing a hand up her back, brushing her neck, her cheek. She turned to put her mouth against his hand, her eyes closed, head still bowed.

“Look at me.”

Her lavender eyes were huge, lips wet and parted from where he’d played his wet fingers over them when he’d withdrawn them from her mouth. “What will you do to please me?”

“I—I would like to dance for you. May I?”

“Yes.” He touched her cheek, a tap. “If you remember what I told you.”

“Be careful with the blade. I will.”

When she rose, he steadied her. It gave him an extra moment to strengthen the buffer shield around the scythe. As she moved toward it using that distracting, fuck-me-now walk, he knew the shield should keep it from harming her, but since her magic could have a disrupting effect on his powers outside of actual sex, he wanted her taking extra care. He’d take no risks with her.

Though truth, the tool was so much a part of him he suspected it would know her importance and protect her all on its own. The energy humming around the scythe was his energy, responding to her through the shaft, through the deadly edge, so many layers of meaning to that.

She put her hand on it and did a few languid turns, a shimmy down to a squat. She stroked the ash handle as she did it. Not a blatant entendre, but like her mouth on him. Worshipful, reverent. Hungry. Cherishing.

He’d seen pole dancing in a strip club, in a Christmas pageant in a mall. In a fitness class, when it had expanded beyond the realm of strip clubs to be acknowledged as the sensual art form that kind of dancing could be.

She’d taken the lessons the demons had given her, but it was her passion that made it an expression of her fantasies, her needs. Her wishes. Her hesitancy at times, her shy expression as she’d removed the robe, had told him how much of her sex life had come from asking the sex demons questions, and exploring the answers alone when she pleasured herself.

Honora had noted that witches were practical creatures, who would balance darkness with sensuality and sex when it was needed. After the bleakness and intensity of the past couple days, this qualified as when it was needed. He’d fallen into brooding when she’d gone into her bathroom, but now his mind was out of those dark corners, fully in the center of something more natural and hopeful, pleasure beckoning.

She crooked her leg over the handle, the lavender lace stretching and riding up over her cheeks. When her hand slipped up closer to the blade, he gave her a warning look. She sent him back a teasing one, playing with him. The curves of her breasts were revealed more prominently as she brushed her tight nipples over the shaft, shifted to tighten her thigh around it. When she arched back, her lips parted and the flame of her hair caught the light. His hands closed against the edge of the bed. For an instant, the scythe wavered, looking like a broom, a witch riding it in a straight line toward the moon.

She’d brought her cunt against the handle, and was rubbing herself with a mouthwatering dexterity. Arousing herself under his gaze, the teasing intended for him, to show him what she needed. What she wanted to give to him.

“Come here,” he commanded. “Dance is over.”

She twisted around the handle, slid to the ground. While he made sure the scythe shifted into a safe corner, his attention remained on her. He suppressed a groan as she came those several short steps to him on her hands and knees, eyes on him, body moving like a cat’s. When she reached him, he crooked a finger at her.

“Stand on your knees and remove all of it. Bra first.”

She reached back, unhooked it, let the straps slide down her arms. Maybe it was the heat of his gaze that made her move slow, like a cat basking in the sun. Or maybe she just wanted to torture him. He had an answer for that. The panties were a little more challenging on her knees, but he reached out a hand, palm up so she could clasp it for balance. He could be a gentleman.

He could also be a little bit of sadist, because he tightened that grip, made her struggle and wiggle to obey him one-handed. Since that seemed to make her pupils dilate and her breath grow even shorter, she apparently was a little bit of a masochist, too.

When she was done, he slid his hands under her arms and pulled her up and onto his lap. “Open my jeans.”

Her hands were shaking, so he helped, one arm wrapped around her waist as he tugged the garment past his own ass to his upper thighs, letting her sit on the folds as he pulled her fully up against him. Angling her with easy strength, he slid her down his thick length, to the root. Fucking Heaven. What he imagined it to be.

A moan hummed out of her throat. He was savagely pleased to prove to her how she’d affected him. When the friction of his broad head was rubbing against the walls of her slick channel, finding every pleasure point to unravel her, she tipped her head back into the cup of his waiting strong hand.

“There,” he murmured, bringing her glazed attention back to his face.

“What?” Her breathlessness made him harder. A little feminine gasp escaped her.

“‘Everyone needs a place they can go that they can call theirs.’ That’s what you said.” He punctuated the thought with a deeper thrust. “That’s what this is.”

* * *

Ramona gripped his shoulders, dug her nails into his flesh. Another gasp tore from her as he lifted and lowered her again, a decisive movement he kept repeating, long, slow strokes, his biceps flexing, gaze locked upon her face. Wildness bloomed inside her, her lips parted to let in more air, her nails now seeking blood.

Ramona held onto that cliff only because she wanted to keep that suspension going as long as possible before the spiraling free fall. Which would be glorious, too, but she wanted to see just how intense and amazing the feeling of being on the edge could become.

Plus her Master hadn’t yet given her permission to fly.

She was pleading on every stroke, begging as she knew he’d desired. When her head dipped, mouth against his temple, he spoke against her throat, a growl that made her think of his Reaper form, the glowing eyes, the reaching skeletal hand that should have been frightening and it was. But the green glow of his eyes made what he’d said earlier have a different meaning for her.

Death cannot be refused.

“Silas…I need to…”

“Hold for me, witch. You’re not there yet.”

“Think…I…am.”

“No, you’re not. Hold for me. Until it feels like it is supposed to feel. Like the end of everything that doesn’t matter, the beginning of everything that does.”

His voice was hoarse, telling her she wasn’t alone on that road. And it wasn’t a road. It was water, spinning and rushing over rocks, slick and hard, crashing down to spring up and split into a million diamonds of light.

It wasn’t the first time she’d invited the elements into her bedroom. The water splashed and sparkled, pelted, drops splitting, fountains churning and spiraling. It was a sky show, because their energies joined forces, keeping the water from touching down anywhere. The display gave nothing but pleasure, fueled by the magic they were creating together, with their bodies, minds, hearts.

“I rubbed myself against the place on the staff your hand has worn smooth,” she gasped. “I wanted you to…think of me when you gripped it.”

Arms banded around her, he brought her down on him so forcefully she felt the shock of it at depths she hadn’t known she had. His mouth was on her throat, giving her a nip that added to his fiercely approving answer.

“Please…” She was begging for a mercy she wasn’t sure she wanted, but she also knew it was making him more demanding, and she wanted that as well.

Mist settled on them, made damp bodies even slicker. She bit his shoulder. There was no effort to keeping the water playing and dancing. The power in the room could have called another Great Flood.

“Now,” he muttered. She was all his creature, writhing and moaning in his arms, helpless and needing anything he would give her. As she obeyed, the water became as chaotic and roaring as what was within her, arcing, waves meeting in the air, splattering more drops over them.

His hair was wet under her grip as he released, driving her even higher. He worked her on his thrusting cock, and she clutched him with her inner muscles, wanting to pleasure and please him, even as her own tissues spasmed on every stroke.

He thrust his fingers in her own damp hair, pulling her head back as his mouth went back to her throat. He bit her harder this time, marking her flesh as he jetted inside her.

He kept the movement going, until he’d demanded every aftershock from her, every spasm of reaction. The water broke into tiny whorls, dancing like fairies. Spinning galaxies, the size of dinner plates, the translucent currents changing color with the lamplight’s reflection. Slowly, it all became mist, wisps dissolving into the air.

She was limp, dependent on the strength of his arms to hold her. When her head fell forward to lie upon his, he dropped a kiss on her upper breast, a light suckling of her flesh that had her shuddering, holding onto him, even as her lips tipped up in a smile at his next comment.

“SweeTarts,” he noted.

“Sharone makes the dust.” She drew a deep, steadying breath. “The oil that helps the powder stick to the skin is an aphrodisiac.”

Not that they’d needed it. Though he’d left her no doubt the experience had been as intense for him, he had a reserve she didn’t have, because he was able to shift them both, lay her out on her bed. Yet when he would have moved back, she found she did have some strength, because she curled her hand into a kitten’s claw over his shoulder, and managed one weak but determined word.

“No.”

He gently dislodged her, but he put his mouth on her knuckles, teased the creases with his tongue, sending lovely shoots of pleasure through her.

“I’m not going anywhere, witch. I promise.”

Her touch brushed his hip and thigh as he repositioned himself to stretch out beside her. After pulling the covers over them, he gathered her to him. She laid upon his chest, her ear over his heart as he held her as securely as she wanted to hold him.

Even when nothing threatened it, time was precious and limited. Though she wanted nothing to intrude on this moment, an unwelcome thought came to her.

That mark embedded in him was counting down the minutes.