Chapter Thirty-Six
In which there is time for what is desperately needed.
Wallace…
Another day of fire.
Another day of searching for Kholodov, this time filled with a fury that he’d touched my wife.
Another day of hoping my father will wake up.
I come back late that night, and Murder Mittens is waiting for me in the hallway with a disapproving look.
“Dinnae ye judge me, ye wee menace,” I say, stripping off my sooty t-shirt. “I've been busy trying to protect our Scarlett.”
Two more Albanian businesses burnt to the ground tonight. Michael and Roman took care of the guards The Gadfly left as cannon fodder to protect them as I kindled the bonfires. I slump over the bathroom counter, flicking my lighter on and off.
On, and off.
Jesus, I’m tired.
We’re no closer to tracking down Kholodov, though The Gadfly’s UK organization is completely decimated. It’s not enough. Stepping into the shower and watching the soot and ash swirl down the drain, for one moment I allow myself to think what will happen if Dad can’t run the business as he recovers.
He’ll live. There’s no doubt, my father’s too fecking stubborn to die. It could take weeks, though, months maybe before he’s well enough to return to work. Or, maybe not at all. Even though he’s always been a titan of a man, he’s in his mid-60’s now.
Scrubbing my skin viciously, I think about what could be my future. Dressed in a suit every day, going to meetings, doing paperwork, attending galas, and turning into the upstanding businessman they’re all expecting me to be. I scrub until my skin is raw.
The house is full of shadows as I climb the stairs.
Two guards make a pass through the house every thirty minutes when I’m not here.
Morgan the witch is a night owl, no surprise there.
I often find her wandering the halls holding a lit candle like a Victorian apparition, but her room is dark tonight.
Scarlett’s asleep sitting up, holding a book. Her bedside table lamp is on and it’s clear she was waiting for me. She’s wearing a loose little silk slip, the strap’s fallen off her shoulder. Turning off the light, I slide in bed, hovering over her.
The moonlight streaming through the terrace doors is enough to show the curve of her cheeks, mouth open slightly in sleep. The silver light plays over the smooth skin of her breasts and I lean down, taking one in my mouth, circling her nipple with my tongue.
Her fingers slide into my hair, scratching lightly. “Hmm…” she murmurs, half asleep. “Wallace… so good.” Pulling down the other strap of her nightgown, I push her breasts together, lightly sucking and kissing her nipples, slightly harder as she swims back into consciousness.
“Need ye, wife.”
Her legs fall open and feck me, there’s nothing prettier than her pale thighs and the plump lips of her pussy, already glistening.
“So have me.” Her smile is sleepy but she lifts her head to kiss along my neck, searching for my lips.
I canna wait. Cock in hand, I slide it into her, circling her clit when she tenses, waiting until she relaxes to push in another inch or two. Her nipples are dark pink, a flush rising up her chest as her breath comes faster and she finally opens her eyes.
“My incubus,” Scarlett murmurs dreamily, “come to steal my soul?”
“Only your orgasms, wife. They all belong to me.”
Finally, finally I’m seated inside her deep, feeling the flutters along my cock, her satiny walls clenching, squeezing me with every shaky inhale of her breath. “I could stay in ye all night, Little Cinder, ye warming my cock.” Her thighs slide up over mine, heels crossing over my back.
I can feel her heel rubbing against the burn scars at the base of my spine and the sensation is intensely, oddly erotic.
She bites my shoulder, trying to leave a mark like I do on her skin.
I’ve come to love seeing the wee bruises on her neck and shoulders the next day.
She’ll try to cover up with makeup or a scarf. Somedays, though, she flaunts them.
“Wallace?” Lifting her hips in a shy invitation, her clear eyes look up at me.
“Nae.”
This could be the last night like this.
A night that’s unhurried, where time slows down for us.
I pull her hands up over her head, gripping them between my fingers, holding her still.
“So good for me, ye are. Silky sweet.” Her pussy tightens around me, making me groan.
My cock is almost painfully hard, but I stay buried inside her, barely moving, whispering how beautiful she is, that I can feel her heartbeat.
“Please.” Her hips try to push against mine, her thighs tighten. “Please move. Please let me come- oh!”
Lifting her with me, I go back on my knees, arse against my heels and the move sinks me even deeper. “Put your hands behind your back,” I growl. “Cross them. Dinnae move them, do ye understand?”
Breath coming fast and her nipples hard as diamonds, Scarlett nods. Cupping her arse, squeezing the soft globes, I adjust her legs around me. I lift her slightly, slowly, feeling the pull of her pussy trying to keep me inside, before bringing her down again, rotating my hips.
“Slow, my sweet lass. We have all the time in the world,” I whisper. Buried inside my wife, wrapped around her. Nothing can hurt her here. I hold her there until she’s nearly weeping with need.
“I need to come,” she moans. “Please…”
“Did ye know, Little Cinder, that there’s a sweet spot at the top of this tight cunny?
Around your cervix. When I move like this…
” I move my hips slowly, side to side until her eyes open wide and she gasps.
“Ah. There.” I grunt, more like a beast because I can feel it, the frantic fluttering of her channel, the head of my cock sliding slick and deep against the delicate spot.
“Just as sensitive as those nerves down below, aye?”
“Oh, god,” she moans, arching against me. “I thought that was a myth.”
“Does it feel like a myth?” Biting her shoulder, I rotate my cock inside her again.
Feck. It’s too soon, I wanted more time.
It roars over both of us, a tidal wave of need and intensity.
I dinnae want to come yet, but I’m tossed in the waves as she grips my cock inside her.
My vision whites out, every ounce of my energy racing toward where we’re connected.
I’ve never come this hard, painful, explosive. Far past pleasure into something more.
Scarlett’s moaning, broken bits of words but one stands out to me. “...love y…”
Love.
I tighten my arms around her and she clings to me, our sweaty skin sliding against each other, sloppy kisses, and little aftershocks.
And when I think she’s coherent enough to hear me, I smooth her fiery hair off her forehead, smiling down at her bay blue eyes.
“I love ye, too. With everything in me.”
Scarlett…
Wallace is gone again when I wake up.
Swinging my legs over to the side of the bed, I stand up and immediately flop back on the mattress.
I’m still tingling, my leg muscles not getting the message that it’s time to work again.
When they finally decide they’re willing to hold me upright, I take a hot bath.
Pressing my hand against my stomach just under my belly button, I can still feel where he was last night, a tingle, a bit of an ache.
Pulling on my softest leggings and one of Wallace’s sweaters, I limp down to breakfast. James has never gotten over the fact that we don’t dress for meals in the formal dining room.
He had nearly had a stroke when I’d asked if we could eat in the kitchen on our first day here.
He puts the toast rack, the little chafing dishes of herbed scrambled eggs, bacon, and the bowl of fruit on the dining table before hastily absenting himself.
Morgan looks up over her tea cup, eyeing my awkward stroll. “I don’t want to know about it.”
Holding my hand up, “Not a word.” I notice there’s a fire burning in the hearth and my heart twinges. A little message from my husband.
“There’s an irony here,” she says, buttering a slice of toast. “That something terrible like losing your dad and nearly getting burned to death can produce something wonderful,” she nods at me. “Sickeningly, orgasmically wonderful.”
“Is orgasmically a real word?”
“Go with it,” she continues, “I’m not the one getting them, that’s all I know. So: terrible, to wonderful, to terrible again.”
“The spellshop,” I agree sadly. “It took years to curate all those treasures.”
“Yeah.” She stuffs her mouth with the toast, chewing thoughtfully. “I’ll build it again.”
“We’ll build it back up together,” I lean closer. “You know you always wanted to move to Edinburgh, you used to say only the toughest witches can survive Scottish weather.”
“True,” she agrees. “When can we go back to Edinburgh? I can start scouting around for the perfect location.”
“Until Wallace’s father is conscious and recovering, we have to stay here.” I look out the window, the leaves are falling outside the dining room, gathering into crisp piles on the terrace. The sky is an October blue here in London, but it’s not home.
When did Wallace’s stone house in the Tweed Valley become home? It is. It is home with its six fireplaces and the man who lights them all, every day.
“Uh oh. Tell me.” Morgan leans over to take my last bacon strip. “This is the sad, ‘oh shit’ expression you get a lot. It’s easy to recognize.”
“If Alastair doesn’t wake up- if he can’t run the business-” I stare down at my cold eggs. “We’ll have to stay here.”
Morgan frowns. “There’s no way you’re keeping that man in a suit and tie.”
“It will crush Wallace’s soul.” I angrily shove back from the table, looking over to the blazing fireplace that is making the room too hot. So, I open the French doors to let the brisk autumn wind in, a few leaves flying in with it.
“The worst part? He’ll do it. These idiots are all so big on honor and duty, it’s ingrained in them since childhood.”
“Aren’t his father and the other guy-”