Seven
SEVEN
O nce we left, Lorne drove us home, and it was late, well after midnight, but with the windows down, the air humid and warm, with the radio low and him beside me, it was like the world lifted off my shoulders. I wasn’t worried or scared.
“I had a thought,” he told me.
“What’s that?”
“What if Kathy being killed, and then someone or something prowling around Lynette’s house, means that witches are being hunted?”
“Why would anything be hunting witches?”
“I don’t know, but it’s possible.”
“Yes, but unlikely.”
“Why would you say that?”
I shrugged. “It doesn’t seem reasonable. For what purpose?”
“That’s the mystery, isn’t it?”
“Not to be unsupportive of any other witch,” I began, “but while it’s true that Kathy was practicing passive magic, Lynette doesn’t do anything but wave some sage around once in a while. She’s not working on any portion of her craft.”
“Yes, and maybe the whole point is to weed them out to find you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“But again—why?”
“No idea, but I like to cover all my bases.”
Something occurred to me. “You know, if something is hunting active magic users, then that would put Argos on their list as well.”
“Argos?”
“Yeah. The kind of creature he is, a daemon, anyone not from this plane—as we know whatever came through is not—might realize what he is if it got close enough to sense his power,” I explained. “I mean, he looks like a cat. But if a thing knows magic, then Argos’s outer appearance wouldn’t fool them.”
“Okay, so maybe it tested Kathy, saw she wasn’t a threat, and killed her.”
“I guess that’s possible.”
“But with Lynette, instead of attacking her, it manifested something, put it in her house, then observed her, realized she’s not even using passive magic, and left her alone.”
“That would also follow.”
“I hope it left before we got there, so it didn’t see you.”
“You were the one speaking over cleansing spells,” I reminded him.
“That’s fine. I would certainly rather it attacked me than you.”
“Or how about neither of us?”
“Well, it doesn’t matter either way now,” he assured me as he turned down our familiar cobblestone driveway and parked to the right of the porch, in the spot where he normally kept his Jeep, under the sugar maple. “Because we’re home and safe.”
The front door of the cottage opened, as it was prone to do, welcoming us home, and Argos came sauntering out, giving us a big yawn and then a half yowl of greeting. Whatever had been bothering him earlier in the evening—or yesterday rather, at this point—was no longer a concern. He was his usual chatty self.
“Look who’s fine now ,” Lorne said, watching the cat leap onto the railing and regard us as if we were his servants.
“We are safe,” I agreed with him, taking a deep breath as I walked around the back of the vehicle to reach him.
“You know,” he began, taking my hand and leading me into the cottage, “maybe you should stay here until everything gets sorted out.”
“Let me understand,” I teased, following him up the stairs, reaching to touch the windchimes as we passed by, loving the sound of all the different kinds of shells and ceramic, wood and metal, gently clinking together. “You want me to cower in our home?”
“ Cower is not the word I’d use,” he grumbled, shooting me a scowl before smiling as he walked into our home. “Good evening, my lovely cottage.”
“You’re such a suck-up,” I muttered under my breath once I was through, closing the door behind me.
“Sorry?” He was taunting me. “Speak up.”
I would not because the last time I said anything remotely pissy to him, I had nothing but cold water in my shower for three whole days. Corvus loved me, but the cottage was overly fond of Chief MacBain. And while I understood that my ancestors wanted to keep him—from the Viking and his Native American soulmate, all the way up to my grandparents—still, a little loyalty to me would have been nice.
At that very moment, as Lorne and I took off our shoes, leaving them on the stand near the front door, the cottage was making its feelings known. The hearth made a whoosh , like flames exploding in a fireplace, in welcome. As it was July, no heat was needed, so instead, the newly installed overhead fans began to spin, and the lights in sconces, gas lamps, and candles in holders scattered around the kitchen and living room, all flared to life. The place was cool and beautifully lit in moments.
In the past, there would have been quite a bit of manual work on my part to have long strands of fairy lights twinkling on a warm midsummer night. But things changed when Lorne moved in with me. The biggest one was that whatever the cottage thought he needed, or might possibly want, would appear. And that didn’t mean simply black tea with lavender and vanilla, French roast coffee with sweet cream, and thick, soft towels that were always warm when he got out of the shower, but also, he could bake as well as I could because what he called winging it was his home fixing things around him. Temperatures in the oven were corrected, ingredients appeared out of thin air, ones he’d pulled by accident somehow moved out of reach, and whatever he was looking for in the refrigerator was right there in front. Of course when he came home, the first thing he did was tell our abode how much everyone enjoyed the muffins or the tarts or the homemade granola. So I knew why it helped him, and since I actually knew what I was doing, all that conversation with the cottage wasn’t necessary. I probably needed to put a bit more effort into our relationship, though I did greet it every morning and thanked it for sheltering us. And I knew the reason our home loved Lorne was because of what he brought to my life. I could find no fault in that logic.
Before Lorne came into the picture, I was happy. I loved my friends, my communion with the ebb and flow of the land, teaching, helping, and the stewardship of Corvus that involved my magic and my place as a guardian. What I didn’t have was someone to share my life with, and though that wasn’t necessary, him joining me in my home, now our home, had brought me a level of contentment I never expected. Even more importantly, he showed me that change was not only good for the soul, but also essential for my growth. He expanded my world, my circle, and gave me a new place in the community. I had always considered myself, to a great degree, unwanted, unloved, more of an outcast but for a very few I called friends. But it turned out, for most, I’d been holding on to ancient history. And while there were still many who weren’t crazy about me—Diana Flint came instantly to mind—there were more now for whom I was simply Xander, the fiancé of the chief of police. That new understanding had been a revelation.
I watched him squat down and pet Argos, who did as was his habit and rubbed his face all over both of Lorne’s knees before pressing into his hand.
“Why’re you smiling?” Lorne asked softly, straightening up and smiling back.
“I love seeing you with Argos.”
“That’s true, I can tell,” he agreed, studying me, his eyes narrowing as his lips curled into the mischievous grin I loved. “But something else is going on too.”
“Having you here with me,” I admitted, putting my hand on his chest.
“I’m always here with you.”
“Then it’s good just to look at you.”
“You’ve been staring at me all night.”
“Yes, well, I like doing that. Black hair and blue eyes really do it for me,” I said appreciatively, waggling my eyebrows.
“Is that right?”
I nodded and winked.
He chuckled because he found me charming. He’d told me often enough. “Well, I’m pretty fond of long, blond, messy hair and hazel eyes.”
“Messy?” I gasped.
“It’s wavy and curly and wild,” he said, hooking a hand around the back of my neck and drawing me forward, whispering in my ear, “I love it when it falls in my face.”
He meant when I was riding him. Whenever I leaned over to kiss him when he was buried inside me, my hair fell around him, and he would gather it up and ease me down and take my mouth. I loved being in bed with him, loved it when he touched me, and I wanted that now. I wanted him.
His breath was warm down the side of my neck before he pressed a kiss to my skin. A small, soft, needy moan came from the back of my throat as I slipped my hands around his hips, my fingers above the duty belt, gently tugging on his shirt.
“I’m all sweaty and gross,” he murmured, kissing my forehead.
“You’re neither of those things,” I assured him, leaning in for what I wanted.
When he kissed me, I parted my lips and felt the heat build fast, in me, between us, and when he lifted me off my feet, I wrapped arms and legs around him.
Sometimes we came together slow, the movement sensual, and we tangled together and became one. I loved that.
Other times, like now, were about his dominance, my submission, and being used and taken. I loved that too.
He carried me to the bedroom, and that was a rush. All the power in him, the man’s big, carved body moving me easily, tumbling me down under him before rising quickly to strip.
The gun and duty belt went gently to the floor, but the shirt and undershirt were yanked and pulled. Socks went flying, and when his regular belt was undone, then the button and zipper of his pants, I started shucking clothes as fast as I could, scrambling to the nightstand, but unable not to look back at him, appreciating all the sleek skin stretched over hard, thick muscle, loving how irritated he appeared because his pants were not sliding down his legs and off.
Lube in hand, grabbing a pillow on the way, I was back, my legs on either side of his, hanging off the end of the bed, as I popped the cap and squeezed out just enough to lightly coat his already hard, leaking shaft.
He bent his knees quickly, still trying to get free, but when I took hold of his length, stroking, my grip on him tight, his groan was guttural, up from his chest, and he went still with my ministrations, letting his head fall back as he pushed into my slick fist.
“Yes?” I asked, leaning forward to kiss his sculpted abdomen before licking over the grooves there. My man was a work of art.
“I’m too wound—I was worried about you, and everything was insane tonight, and?—”
“Your pants won’t get off your calves,” I teased him.
“Yeah,” he croaked out, glaring down at me. “Why are they trying to cockblock me and not let me get laid?”
He nearly shouted the last part, and I laughed before gripping his cock again, clenching my fist, loving the sound of his catching breath as he bucked forward. Falling back, bending my knees, I lifted to meet him as he came down between my thighs and took my mouth.
The kiss was grinding, mauling, and I opened for him as he took hold of each of my legs, slipping them over his shoulders, notching his wide head to my entrance. As I curled an arm around his neck, he pressed inside, the stretch a bite of pain for a moment before he took hold of my throat, making sure I couldn’t move.
The possessiveness, the ownership, I’d had no idea how much I craved that manhandling, and it was instinctive for Lorne, to show me I belonged to him.
I moaned out his name as he pushed deeper, not hard or fast, not yet, instead slowly but without stopping, giving me time to get used to the breach.
“You feel so good, Xan,” he husked, his breath hot in my ear as he filled me, moving until he bottomed out, buried in my body. “You’re so hot.”
Always his words, his lips on my skin, his teeth, his hand on my ass, squeezing as he shoved in a bit more and then eased back before he did it again and again.
Riding his movement, I wanted more and begged him.
“What shall I do, honey?” he asked, shoving the pillow under my ass.
“Lorne,” was all I could manage to get out, inhaling his scent, wanting it in my lungs, loving the weight of him against me, on me, the noises he made, and the taste of his kiss.
“Xander,” he whispered, his powerful thrust eliciting a gasp from me, my hands on his shoulders. “Oh, love, you got so tight just then. I think you want me to take you and have you and fuck you as hard as I can.”
“Oh yes,” I pleaded even as my throat tightened up and my mouth went dry.
He never made me plead more than once. He drove to my core.
I yelled his name then.
His laughter was throaty as he pulled back, only to ram back inside, the pounding that I loved starting then, my legs spread wide, held open. I was his to use, and I tried to claw closer, needing him to never slow or stop.
It was mindless, drowning pleasure, and then he used all that hard-muscled strength of his to roll to his back, bringing me with him so I was on top, impaled, so full, lost in the feel of him for a moment, before I bent over, my hair shrouding his face as I rode him.
“Oh fuck, I’m gonna come if you don’t slow—Xan!”
I was not stopping for him. I lifted and sank back over his length quickly, the sensation incredible, loving how thick he was, how wide, and then decided I’d rather push down, hard, try to get him deeper as I clutched his pecs and tried to breathe around the roll of heat tightening my balls, chasing the release I was so close to.
“Xan,” Lorne rasped, arching up off the bed, hands gripping my hips so tight, clutching me to him.
I squirmed, my gasp loud. He was there, rubbing over the spot, and I was gone, all my muscles clamping around him like a vise, feeling him thrusting up and filling me, and then the hot, thick liquid between us as I spurted on those gorgeous abs of his.
Curled over him, I couldn’t move, every sensation churning through me, the orgasm, the hunger, the connection, and the love because only Lorne could stop my heart and make it beat again. Only to him had I ever given this total surrender, the lowering of all my walls.
My magic unfurled from deep within me, rolled out of me, like a wave, flowing into Lorne, pooling in his chest.
“Holy fuck,” he moaned, shuddering, again lifting up off the bed, shoving in as hard as he could as the magic consumed him, demanding the connection of flesh as it sizzled up his spine.
After a moment, I dropped down onto him, feeling the sparking on his skin before it dissipated, leaving only sweat and cum between us.
He was panting into my hair, and when I heard his rumble of laughter, I bit his shoulder. Not hard, just a taste of his skin to tell him he was naughty.
“I can’t help it,” he whispered into the side of my neck, rubbing his stubble over my cheek. “And your skin feels incredible, all smooth and warm.”
I liked hearing that.
“When your magic hits me, it hurts so bad and feels amazing at the exact same time,” he heaved out, nuzzling his face in my hair, his hand tangling in it, pressing it to his nose. “It’s pure adrenaline, and you don’t even— I come so hard, I’m shaking. You can feel it, can’t you?”
I could, especially since he was still buried inside me.
“It doesn’t happen every time, but when it does, Xan, it’s like your whole body wraps me up, every nerve ending is charged, and it’s almost too much.”
Lifting my face from the hollow of his throat, I gazed down into his eyes. “I don’t want to ever hurt?—”
“Listen.” He tapped my forehead with his finger. “Focus on my words. Yeah?”
I nodded.
“I said almost . It’s never more than I can bear, and that’s part of what makes it so fuckin’ good.”
Searching his eyes, I saw only honesty there. “Part of?”
“Yeah. The rest of it is when we’re that connected, your magic lays claim to me. It moves from you to me, and I feel it run into me and fill me like I fill you with?—”
“Stop,” I warned him.
He chuckled as I sat up, surveilling his flushed, sweaty skin, his deep, dark eyes, tousled hair, and puffy, red lips.
“You look like I took advantage of you,” I told him.
“It was definitely the other way around,” he teased me, his voice husky and low, his smile lazy and smug.
I could not have stifled my whimper if I tried.
“We need to get in the shower before we both pass out.”
This was true. It was very late.
“And, you know, my gun should maybe not be sitting in the middle of our bedroom floor.”
I snickered.
“What’s so funny?”
“Your pants are still around your ankles.”
He growled. “Clearly, they are a bit too tight.”
“Yes, but they look really great hugging your ass,” I pointed out, defending the garment.
“You’re very good for my ego,” he assured me, pulling me down for another kiss.
When he rolled me to my back and finally eased gently from my body, I snuggled back in close, enveloped in the warmth and strength of the man, soaking him in.
“We need to change this quilt,” he rumbled.
Begrudgingly, I got up. The only thing that made it not so horrible was seeing Lorne finally get his pants from around his ankles. He seemed quite proud of himself.
Lorne put his gun away, hung the belt, and then got in the shower with me. I enjoyed scrubbing him from head to toe, and hugged him as well. I got lots of appreciative rumbling noises over that.
Once we both dried off, changed, and staggered back to the bed, of course there was a new quilt there, one I hadn’t seen in ages.
“Thank you,” Lorne murmured to the cottage, and I inhaled the lavender and verbena that wafted through the bedroom. To me, he said, “People will need answers about what happened to Kathy. I just got a text from the mayor, and she’s calling an emergency town-hall meeting at noon, so once that’s over, I’ll try and come home.”
“What are you going to tell them?”
“That we’re investigating. That’s all I can say until I get some reports back.”
We were certain we’d be up in a couple of hours, with Lorne having to perhaps drive to see the ME in Jamestown if whatever she found couldn’t be explained over the phone. He had the arson inspector to greet at the crack of dawn as well. I was hoping we could at least get a short nap.