Four
When I blink the haze of the orgasm from my mind, I realize Slate has me in his arms, gathered tight against his chest. The pressure roots me as my edges threaten to fall away at the slightest breeze.
“How are you, little chef?” Slate’s deep rumble vibrates through me, exciting my nerves all over again.
“I want more.” I wrap my hand in his shirt, hating that he’s still clothed as I try to get closer. “But…” Hesitation chokes my words.
I want this man.
But fear exists in my gut. Something to do with his ability to sap my control, and not knowing if I can regain my security when he leaves.
How do I say that?
But Slate understands.
“You need to recover more.” There’s movement between my legs that has me gasping, and in the next moment, Slate holds the two titanium balls in his palm.
With a twist of his wrist, he flattens both to the size of business cards before tucking them into his pocket.
Slate scoops me off the table, and I wrap my arms around his neck, burying my face in blue hair that smells of hot spices and metal. “We’ll sit on your bed.”
Again, this statement comes with a pause, time for me to refute him.
And I do.
“My greenhouse,” I offer my sanctuary, a sign of trust that he may never understand the full magnitude of.
Slate’s feet turn toward my backdoor without further direction. I wonder if he knows the location because outside makes the most sense, or if the metal panes that hold the glass panels call to him.
Maybe he’ll find my place a kind of sanctuary too.
When he steps us into the midday sun, I shiver. An Arizona December tends to remain warm, but I’m used to temperatures that peel paint off cars and burn soles off feet. Besides, I was just encased in a heated forge of lust. Everything other than Slate’s arms feels cold in comparison.
Except for my greenhouse.
A high fence hides us from view as he crosses my pebble yard toward the structure I built only weeks after purchasing this house.
Slate steps us into a humidity my desert home could never achieve naturally.
Greenery surrounds us; vegetable plants, impractical flowers, and a very special cactus in the back corner that prefers humidity to scorching heat.
Slate settles on a padded lounge chair I put here with the idea I’d sit amongst my plants and relax, maybe read a book.
But my life has been in constant movement for what seems like years. Do I even know how to relax anymore?
As my body melts further into Slate’s hold, I think I’m relearning.
“This place feels like you.” He twines a strand of my hair around his finger, and I enjoy the sight of my dark tresses against his calluses.
“Is that a good thing?”
A gentle hand circles my throat but applies no pressure. His thumb guides my chin upward until we’re gazing into each other's eyes.
“I wish the world felt like you,” he whispers. “I’ll take as much as I can get.”
Another shiver wracks my body. This time I can’t blame the cold. Taking advantage of our proximity, I cross the short distance to claim a kiss from him, wanting his taste in my mouth. Slate lets me in, stroking my tongue with his in a movement that both fills me and leaves me achingly empty.
He takes control—or maybe he never lost it—by ending our kiss and pressing his palm flat against my chest, like he’s holding me at bay. Or seeking the rapid rhythm of my heart.
“Tell me how you’re doing.”
With effort, I stifle my panting breaths. “I’m hoping this doesn’t have to end.”
The metal that still encircles my wrists and ankles pulses as if the cuffs are living entities.
“This morning?” His question drags roughly across my psyche.
“For now,” I murmur, my focus on the stud piercing his lip.
My world tilts, but I realize Slate is the one shifting to lean back on the chaise. His powerful hands arrange my naked body until I’m straddling his hips.
“You’re making the plants grow.” The Stoner watches me with a smirk plucking at the corner of his mouth. When I glance around, I find the leaves all pointing their dark glossy surfaces my way as if I’m the sun.
“They respond when I’m happy,” I explain.
Slate laces his fingers through mine, lifting our hands to hover between us. “The same for me.”
That’s when I realize the titanium has twirled itself into an intricate braid that makes them appear more like jewelry than manacles. I lean in and press a kiss to the circlet. Then I let a slow lick drag over the twisted metal.
Slate groans, and I feel the hard length of him pulse between my thighs.
“Take my clothes off,” Slate demands, his breath ragged.
Eagerly, I slip buttons from holes, baring his chest to find more piercings.
They gleam in his nipples.
I can’t help myself from diving in to suck on one. The man beneath me jerks, growling my name in a low warning tone. “Do as I told you, little chef. If you want to ride my cock, then it better be in your hand before I take my next breath.”
Needing the sensation of him stretching me wide, I fumble with his belt. When I unlatch the buckle, I whip the leather free, toss it aside, and tear at his fly.
The moment I pull Slate’s zipper down, the length of him pops free. No cacti this time. The Stoner is going commando.
His velvet flesh sits warm against my palm, slick at the tip where I press my thumb.
“Gods, yes.” Neck muscles straining, Slate’s eyes turn molten as he watches my exploration.
He’s beautiful like this. I want him painted and the portrait hung above my bed. I want him in my bed.
Right now, more than anything, I want him in me.
And naked would be good too. Reluctantly, I release my grip, moving to pull his pants off, which ends up as a standing chore.
Wanting him as bare as I am, I slip off his shoes and socks, laying them carefully beside the seat.
Then I tug off the denim, fold that neatly too, and watch as the man, wearing a cocky grin, shrugs off his open shirt.
Slate drapes himself over the lounge chair, wanton in his nakedness. One arm, laced with lean muscle, rests on the cushion above his blue head. With the other hand, he palms himself.
“Do I meet your requirements, little chef?” Slate reaches out.
“Every single one.” Carefully, I sling my leg over his, settling just south of his hips. The burn of his steel rests against my mound.
Slate’s lids drop halfway. “Do you have the spell?”
The spell—brought up in this situation—can only mean one thing.
Magical contraception.
“Yes.” I lift my body and turn enough so he should be able to see the spot on my skin. Despite getting a thorough view of every inmate part of my body, I guess Slate never had a moment to inspect my bare ass.
“White ink?” He sits up for a better look, stroking the tattoo where a witch worked her magic on my body.
“If I’m going to get a tattoo people can see, I want it to be a design I chose. Not witchy birth control.”
Slate chuckles, brushing a kiss across my nipple before reclining again, then turns his head and lifts his hair to show a similar mark sketched in black ink at the base of his skull.
I wonder if he also had to drive to Denver to find a witch with the skill to cast the spell to keep away STDs and unwanted pregnancies.
I thought the drive was worth it. Some of my kind worry about reversing the spell in the future.
It can be done. The problem is making sure the witch is in the same place you originally found them. Lose the witch, lose the reversal.
But the peace of mind that comes with this one-hundred percent reliable method is all that matters to me. And now I don’t have to go scurrying through my house, trying to find a condom.
“We’re covered.” Slate grips his cock, stroking in slow, hypnotizing movements. “Do you want this, little chef?”
“Yes.” My internal muscles clench at the idea of him entering me.
Slate drags his eyes over my bare form. “Good.”
He sits up fast, fingers digging into my hips, positioning my pussy at his swollen head, then drives into me. We sit fused together breathing strained. Inside, I’m taut around him, getting to know the shape of his body.
Slate pumps his hips in a steady rhythm, not too fast, but not slow either. He’s working us both up, drawing my pleasure out of me with skill.
But something has me off balance.
The drag of him over my sensitive nerves threatens my control.
With every bolt of pleasure my mind reels, the second sensation threatening to distract me from the first. I need something holding me steady, like the cuffs did before.
Without that security, I’m not sure my pleasure will maintain higher ground over my anxious thoughts.
Slate slows as he reads the worry on my face.
Then his eyes track to my shoulder. Following his gaze, I watch as the creeping tendril of a vine twines over my collar.
English Ivy. They are normally a bad idea to have in a greenhouse because of their invasive nature.
But my powers keep them contained. And now they work to restrict me because I need their embrace.
As Slate holds my hips against his with a strong arm around my waist, my plants encircle me in nature’s bondage.
Soon my arms stay pinned against my sides, wrists crossed between my breasts, hands fisted, all bound tightly. The plants will release me if I ask, but they know I want this.
Slate traces fingers over the living ropes, a secretive smile on his mouth. “You trussed yourself up for me.”
“I did.” With the last control I have of my body, I give an encouraging rock of my hips.
He hisses a breath, hitting me with a wild grin. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.” Sneaking his fingers through a few leaves, Slate strokes my clit in time with his quickening thrusts. “And you’re gonna come hard for me now. Give me what I want, little chef.”
There’s no choice in the matter, not when I have everything I want—a tight hold on my body, a generous man gazing at me with adoration, his firm fingers caressing that bundle of nerves, his thick cock delving deep over and over again.
Just when the orgasm approaches, my gaze locks on my wrists, where plant and metal intertwine—a contrast that pairs perfectly.
“Gods,” he rasps. “Terra, I need you to come. I—” Slate’s groan cuts off his sentence. I’m already there, ecstasy a riot of blooms throughout my body.