Chapter Eight
Senán
There are few things in the world that turn me on more than turning someone else on.
Yes, the man is a Witchfinder—a government agent whose sole purpose is to make my life difficult and aggravating.
And, yes, he’s unkempt and dresses sloppily and probably knows nothing about art or music or literature.
But he’s also infuriatingly attractive and glowering at me with enough intensity to burn a hole through a bible, and that towel is actually doing very little to hide his enthusiasm, and at the end of the day I am a human with human needs, even if the Witchfinder doesn’t think me so.
So, instead of writing our poolside interaction off as “game, set, match,” I pick up the cotton camp shirt that lies stained and abandoned on the Witchfinder’s deck chair and follow him into the men’s room.
Because passion is passion, heat is heat, and we don’t have to like each other to have a little fun.
I hold the shirt up in one hand, bait for the Witchfinder to take.
“Thanks,” he says gruffly, not getting up from his seat on the bench.
I don’t move. I just keep dangling the shirt in the air like a carrot on a stick. I wouldn’t have thought it possible for the Witchfinder to glare at me any harder, but he manages to pull it off as he shoves his hand out in a demanding gesture.
I smile sweetly. “Is there some reason you don’t want to stand up, love?”
The Witchfinder narrows his eyes—challenge accepted, apparently, and he stands from the bench. The sight of him half-hard in those damned beguiling red swim trunks has me biting my lip to keep from making an embarrassingly approving sound.
He maintains fierce eye contact as he approaches me slowly and, once he’s an arm’s length away, holds out his hand again. I dangle the shirt in front of me. He makes a grab for it—I yank it out of reach.
The Witchfinder gives me an exasperated look. “Cute,” he says in a supremely unimpressed tone.
I keep smiling and offer the shirt again. The Witchfinder tries a second time, I pull it away a second time.
“What are you, twelve?” he demands.
“Three hundred forty-seven, actually,” I reply as I pull the shirt out of reach a third time, “though I do have an excellent skincare routine.”
“I am really losing my fucking patience with you,” the Witchfinder grinds out through a clenched jaw.
“And what, pray tell, happens when you lose your fucking patience?” I grin wider, baring my teeth.
A fourth attempt and, when I pull the shirt out of reach again, the Witchfinder finally snaps. He grabs me at the wrist and pins my arm to the wall behind me, ripping the shirt out of my grasp.
I gasp quietly, delighted. If I weren’t aroused already, a strapping young man practically snarling at me with his face so close that I can feel his hot breath on my skin is enough to get me there.
The Witchfinder looks at where he’s pinned me to the wall with one hand.
Then he looks at my expression. Slowly, he lifts the shirt into the volatile air between us, a challenge.
My blood scintillates under my skin as I make a grab for it with my free hand, and suddenly (expectedly) find my wrists pinned on both sides. I can’t help myself—a hushed moan falls out of me, and the Witchfinder’s eyes light up at the sound.
“You have telekinetic powers,” the Witchfinder says thoughtfully, his voice reaching a timbre that feels positively luxurious in my ears.
I tilt my chin up so I can look down at him as I speak. “Very observant of you.”
“You could throw me across the room if you wanted, couldn’t you?” he asks, his face inches away from mine.
“I certainly could,” I reply.
“But you’re not going to.” It isn’t a question. It doesn’t need to be.
“Only if you ask real nice.”
The Witchfinder laughs softly, eyes fixed on mine, letting the power between us sizzle and burn like meat thrown into a frying pan.
I can feel the tension crackling in the air, and part of me wants to drag out this moment of restraint as long as I can bear it.
Another, much more significant and fulminant part of me is devastatingly relieved when the Witchfinder leans in close, pressing our hips together in a long, slow grind.
I moan unabashedly then, letting my head tip back on my shoulders, mouth wanton and open.
The Witchfinder’s eyes stay locked on mine as he rolls his hips a second time, moving firmly and confidently but still testing the waters between us.
I push my body forward into the movement, seeking, offering, and the Witchfinder grunts carnally, pressing his face into my neck on the next grind.
I can feel absolutely everything through the scant layers of fabric.
We’re both recklessly hard and panting as the Witchfinder continues to move against me, knowing we might be heard, knowing someone could walk in at any second.
I bring my ankle up to hook it around the back of his knee, trying to pull him impossibly closer, and he lets go of one of my wrists to grip my leg instead, fingers digging into my bare thigh as he pulls it higher.
It’s maddening and exhilarating how quickly all of it builds —the pressure, the friction, the panting in my ear.
It’s pushing me to the edge so fast that my mind can’t keep up, and as my moans grow tighter and louder, the Agent’s thrusts grow sharper and less forgiving.
My free hand climbs into his hair, winding my fingers through the thick curls, soft and smelling of cedar and beautifully juxtaposed to the rough, filthy fuck I’m getting from a stranger in a men’s room.
When I feel teeth slide against my neck, that’s what finally does me in. My climax hits me with such intensity that I have to muffle the cry that comes along with it, pressing my open mouth to the Agent’s shoulder as my body shakes against his.
My fist clenches tightly in the Witchfinder’s hair, and I feel more than hear the groan rattling through his lungs as spends himself into his shorts, grinding his orgasm out against me with libidinous sounds grunted against my neck and one hand still pinning me to the wall by the wrist.
He stays pressed against me for a few seconds before he leans back to look me in the eye. I giggle at him, a little wildly. The Witchfinder chuckles and lets his hands slide down to rest on my waist.
“It seems you like my outfit,” I say after a moment.
“Maybe a little,” he replies as his hands gently roam my skin.
“Just a little?” I ask.
“If I say ‘a lot,’ will you wear it again?”
I draw in a breath, thinking for a moment that I ought to drag the Witchfinder straight back to my hotel room and not leave for at least twenty-four hours—thirty-two, if he can handle it.
But then I remember that even the most decadent cake will turn flavorless if eaten all at once, and that absence makes the hungry heart grow even hungrier.
I lean down to pick up the discarded camp shirt from the floor and hand it to the Agent. “Better get some cold water on that,” I tell him, “looks like it might stain.”
The Agent locks his gaze with mine, and in just a few seconds of eye contact, I know that this isn’t over. Not even close. He steps back, still grinning, and I could swear I feel my skin burn from the heat of his eyes on me as I make my exit.