Chapter 24
The Wild Magic Mocha wasn’t just humming in Goldie’s veins; it was a full-blown electric storm.
When she turned and saw Lucian standing there, the decade of carefully maintained ice between them didn’t just melt—it evaporated.
He looked solid, grounded, and infuriatingly handsome in the flickering lantern light, his golden-brown eyes wide with a shock that mirrored her own recklessness.
“Lucian,” she breathed, the name tasting like dark chocolate and defiance.
Before her common sense could stage a counterattack, she reached out and snatched his hand.
His palm was calloused and warm, a sensation that sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated lightning up her arm.
She didn’t wait for him to speak. With a strength born of magical impulsivity, she yanked him toward the shadows, weaving through the crowd with the single-minded focus of a predator.
She dragged him behind a brightly striped game booth, ducking through the heavy canvas flap of a storage tent.
The air inside smelled of dry hay, cedar crates, and the primal, intoxicating scent of Lucian.
The moment the flap fell shut, cutting off the golden glow of the festival, she spun him around and slammed him back against a stack of crates.
“Goldie, what are you—” His voice was a low, rough rasp, but she silenced it by rising on her tiptoes and smashing her lips against his.
“Shut up,” she growled. “No talking.”
It dragged his head back down to hers, her lips waiting for his.
It was a desperate, messy collision of teeth and tongue.
The thrill of it was sharpened by the sounds of the festival just inches away—the muffled cheers from the pumpkin roll derby, the rhythmic thumping of music, and the occasional laughter of passersby.
Any second, a volunteer could walk in for more plush prizes, but the danger only fueled the fire that the Mocha had ignited.
Lucian groaned, his hands finding her waist and pulling her flush against him.
His tongue swept into her mouth, and she groaned, the sound swallowed by the deep, demanding kiss.
Her entire world narrowed to the taste of him—earthy, sharp, and overwhelmingly male, a primal blend that made her knees weak.
The reckless magic in her blood surged, sharpening her senses.
She could hear the muffled thumping music and the distant cheers, but all she felt was the heavy, intoxicating reality of Lucian holding her.
His hand reached down and cupped her ass; the warmth of his palm burning through her jeans. He pulled her up onto her tiptoes, a gasp escaping her lips as she felt the hard length of him pressed against her.
She felt like someone who had wandered a desert for too long and finally was drinking from the source that had tortured her with its memory for a decade.
He tasted better than any memory she had, a raw, undeniable reality that shattered every lie she’d told herself over the years.
Her hands slid down and pushed his leather jacket and shirt up; she touched the hard planes of his abs and back.
She clung to the muscle, burying her fingers in the taut skin as it flexed beneath her fingertips.
Her hands, fueled by the Wild Magic Mocha, were greedy, abandoning his back to seek the defined landscape of his stomach.
Her fingers danced across his muscles, feeling them flex with a low, deep tremor that resonated with the primal urgency in her own body.
His tongue was still invading her mouth, a thorough, demanding exploration, as his fingers were digging fiercely into her ass, cupping and lifting her against his hardness while his chest pressed her against the rough crates behind her.
She needed him closer, unencumbered. Goldie tugged on his button-up shirt, the fabric pulling taut, and she felt buttons slide out, a few popping out with sharp, satisfying snaps.
Then, with a sudden, impatient rush, she shoved it open, shoving it and his jacket off his broad shoulders, letting them fall in a heap onto the hay-strewn floor.
Lucian broke the kiss just long enough to drag in a ragged breath, his forehead dropping against hers. “Goldie,” he warned roughly, as if saying her name was physically painful. “We should—”
She grabbed his jaw before he could say something stupid. “I said, no talking.”
Something feral flashed across his face at the command.
She pulled his undershirt over his head; the movement causing his powerful arms to rise, his muscles coiling and flexing with a beautiful, restrained power.
Her eyes traced the lines of his body, the broad chest and hard torso finally revealed in the dim light; the sight of him only intensified the reckless heat surging through her.
She didn’t give him a chance to breathe before her mouth was on his again; the kiss renewed with a desperate, feral hunger that made her head spin.
Her hands, finally free of the barrier of his clothes, roamed greedily over his exposed skin.
The heat radiating from him was a physical force, and she let out a low, needy whimper as she flattened her palms against the broad, hard expanse of his chest. She moved her hands upward, her fingers digging fiercely into the thick, corded muscles of his shoulders, her nails scraping lightly against his skin.
With a sudden, forceful tug, she pulled him even closer, needing to erase every remaining inch of air between them.
Her body hummed with the reckless, unbridled intensity of a decade’s worth of suppressed desire.
Voices passed outside the tent, close enough that Goldie froze for half a heartbeat. She pulled away, trying to battle the magic coursing through her veins and the urge not to get caught.
Lucian’s grip on her tightened instantly. “Scared someone’s going to catch us?” he murmured, breath hot against her mouth. His damp nose pressed softly against hers, a gentle nudge that tickled and sent a shiver down her spine.
The Wild Magic Mocha sparked recklessly through her veins, loosening the words she'd normally keep locked behind her teeth. “Maybe I want them to.”
“This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
“Tell me to stop.”
She opened her mouth. “I can’t.”
That dark, dangerous look in his eyes nearly destroyed her. “You still taste like trouble,” Lucian rasped.
Goldie laughed breathlessly against his mouth. “And you still kiss like you’re trying to win a fight.”
“No,” he said, gripping her waist harder. “Like I’m trying not to lose one.”
The voices faded to a dull roar that blended with the crowd off in the distance as they were left alone again. She went to grab him to drag his head back, but he didn’t let her.
His hand slid up her spine, fingers tangling in her hair before tilting her throat back.
His mouth found the sensitive spot beneath her ear, and Goldie nearly melted against him when he growled softly as he tasted her skin.
Her mind went blank, the last vestiges of her carefully constructed defenses dissolving into a rush of pure sensory input.
The sound of his growl, the warm air of his breath, the subtle pressure of his teeth—it was a devastating combination that obliterated ten years of distance.
Every nerve ending screamed his name. A helpless, needy whimper escaped her, a sound she didn’t know she was capable of making, as she pressed back against the crates, arching her throat to give him better access.
The surge of magic was focused now, turning all her pent-up desire into a blinding need for more.
His lips, warm and soft, traced a path down her throat, pressing a tender kiss to the faint thrum of her pulse, a tiny flutter against his skin. “Still reacts to me,” he muttered against her neck, sounding almost sad about it.
Then his hands found the bottom of her sweater and tugged it up, exposing her delicate lace bra. His mouth came down and nipped the top of her breast before sucking the skin into his mouth.
The chilly air danced across her skin, but the warmth of his mouth heated her skin back up.
His mouth slid lower, sucking her lace-covered nipple into his mouth.
A cord seemed to stretch from her nipple to her core and tightened under the gentle tugging of his mouth.
A low, insistent heat coiled in her stomach.
Her fingers, digging into the firm warmth of his shoulders, tightened her grip, a silent plea to draw him nearer.
She realized she didn’t want gentle; she wanted hard and fast, a pace that matched the reckless storm brewing inside her.
She reached up and her hands tangled in the velvety strands of his hair and tugged his head back.
"Don't be soft, Jackal,” she commanded, the words a low growl of primal need.
He nodded, his golden eyes flashing with sudden, raw intent, and spun her around.
He unzipped her jeans and pushed them and her panties down as he pushed her up against the rough wood of the crates.
A fierce blush spread across her cheeks, not of shame, but of intoxicating exposure; the roughness of the wood digging into her bare skin was a grounding shock against the dizzying chaos of his hands.
His hand found her wetness and slid two fingers inside.
She gasped; the sudden, demanding invasion was a delicious shock that stole her breath.
She pressed hard against his solid chest, her hands clawing for purchase on the crates as his fingers thrust relentlessly in and out.
Pleasure, sharp and immediate, radiated through her, a white-hot current traveling up her spine.
Her ass ground desperately against his hardness, seeking the impossible relief of contact.
He groaned, a deep, primal sound, and pulled back long enough to undo his zipper.
She felt him press up against her, his hard flesh against the soft flesh of her butt.
His hand found her clit, stroking her bundle of nerves as his other hand snaked around and slid two fingers back into her.
The double pressure was electrifying, pulling a long, shuddering cry from her throat.
Every touch was an agonizing precision, pushing her closer to the edge.
Her breathing became heavy, ragged gasps for air, her heart racing a frantic drumbeat against her ribs.
Her core tightened, a coil of desperate, building tension; she wasn’t sure how much longer she could take the ferocious pressure building up inside her.
Then his hands moved like lightning to her hips.
He pressed her harder against the crates, the rough wood digging painfully into her skin as he tilted her hips.
With one smooth, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside her.
She cried out, the gasp a desperate, broken sound as she felt herself stretch around his devastating length.
The feeling was a seismic shock—a fierce, blinding union that erased the years of distance and doubt in a single, all-consuming instant.
Magic exploded through her, centering all her reckless energy on this one, singular, agonizing pleasure. As he thrust in and out, his strong hands grabbed her wrists and held them above her head. She heard voices approaching, but she was so lost in the feelings she barely registered them.
His thrusts quickened, a rhythmic pounding that echoed the frantic thrumming in her chest. A fierce clenching seized her core, muscles coiled tight.
Her legs quivered, a desperate tremor, with the rough grip on her wrist the only anchor in the storm.
His other hand slid back down, finding her clit and stroking it with a relentless, driving pace.
The combination was too much, too fast. She felt a blinding, white-hot heat start deep in her core, a frantic, delicious burn spreading through every limb.
She bucked against his hold, her muscles trembling violently as she was hurled over the edge.
His thrusts got faster, harder, and then she came, a shattering, earth-shaking climax that tore the sound from her throat.
His own release followed immediately, a deep, shuddering groan against her ear.
She sat there, her body slick with sweat, him leaning onto her, the rough wood against one side and the solid rock muscles on the other.
The powerful, untamed magic of the mocha still swirling through her veins, leaving her breathless and utterly spent.