Fifteen
MORGAN
If someone told me a month ago I'd spend my Friday night in my own bed, naked, with Zach Werner, I'd have said they were fucking delusional. I'd probably have wanted to punch them just for suggesting I would ever let him touch me.
Yet here I am, nearly midnight on a Friday, cuddled naked in my bed next to an equally naked Zach.
After our intense fuck on my couch, I debated telling him to leave. Precisely so this wouldn't happen. Instead, he picked me up—actually fucking carried me—and told me to direct him to my bedroom. He made it up one flight of stairs, but I had to walk up the second, to my third-floor bedroom.
He sat me down on my window seat, spread my legs, and feasted on my pussy. And I do mean feasted. I came three times before he carried me to the bed and fucked me again.
Now we're laying side by side, not quite touching, but close, staring at the ceiling. A million thoughts race through my head, most of them questions I want to ask him. But nothing will solidify into a coherent enough sentence for me to voice it.
"How come you don't, like, work for the police or something, if you can talk to dead people?" There's a surprising lack of challenge or disdain in his tone when he says this. "Can't you help them solve murders and stuff?"
I roll onto my side, prop my head on my hand, and look at him. For one delicious moment, I take in the whole of him. Long limbs peppered with dark hair, a smooth chest sprinkled with the same hair. His twice-fucked cock also nests in that dark hair. And his long hair is fanned out around him on my dark teal sheets.
He's stunningly beautiful.
I've been asked this question hundreds of times, usually by curious nullas—people who don’t have magical powers—occasionally by detectives themselves. They'll call our offices to request help, and usually aren't very satisfied with our answer.
"Do you really want me to answer that? I thought you didn't believe in spirits and magic."
He rolls his head to look at me. "Maybe I want to know what excuse you give the cops." He doesn't sound convinced of his answer.
"Or maybe you're spending enough time with real witches that you're starting to realize it's not a hoax, that we truly do have magic."
He raises his eyebrows and purses his lips but says nothing.
"If I levitate that chair over there"—I point to the antique chair in the corner—"would you believe me then?"
"Sleight of hand and other gimmicks can be very elaborate."
Irritation bubbles up in me. "Fine," I snap. "The reason I don't solve murders is because the deities don't allow spirits to know how they died. Spirits' memories cut off at least fifteen minutes before their death. Sometimes longer if the deities deem it necessary. So Maria, the ghost who hangs around a lot, remembers going to the kitchen to make dinner, lighting a cigarette, and that's it. We searched death records and found out she had a heart attack shortly after, and when her husband found her, she was already dead. But she doesn't remember that."
"Convenient." His tone is mild enough to startle me. Is he truly starting to come around?
Something inside me stirs. If he eventually believes in magic, why couldn't we be together?
Except no. I don't want to be with him. Or anyone, really. I feel a certain obligation to try to fall in love with someone so we can break the fucking curse, so Bronwen can finally have a shot at love. But I definitely don't want Zach as the one who breaks the curse with me.
"I've talked to many spirits of people who were murdered. They have no memory of it, and only a handful have someone they think did it. So it would be pointless to work with the cops."
He nods subtly, then we lapse into silence. He's still turned to face me, and I'm still facing him, but we don't meet each other's gazes. I can feel his combing over my body, inspecting my nakedness.
By the time I'm ready to squirm from how horny his inspection makes me, he says, "I know this can't ever really be something. But I think I could spend the entire weekend fucking you and not get tired of it." He drags his eyes over my face and finally meets mine. "I could eat your pussy for days."
The pussy in question throbs, moisture seeping out, practically begging for him to do just that.
"I mean, there are worse ways to spend a Saturday," I hear myself say .
What is wrong with me? This was supposed to be a me weekend. Take care of Morgan.
Then again, getting my pussy eaten over and over is kind of taking care of Morgan. The downside being it also entails spending the weekend with Zach.
But what if this is the deities giving me an opportunity to convert him? To show him the truth about magic so he finally stops his frustrating insistence that we're con artists. I can't talk to them with him here, but maybe I could go to the bathroom and try to contact a deity in there.
"I know I'm inviting myself over, but... Shit, Morgan, one night just wasn't enough. And I don’t think two is either."
He's being baldly honest, and deserves the same from me. "Agreed."
In an unfortunate moment, I think of his mom. Of how desperately she wants to talk to him. What if I can use this attraction as a way to turn him around on magic, help Vanessa connect with him, and I get oodles of orgasms out of it?
"What if..." I'm not entirely sure how to word this. And I'm feeling uncomfortably vulnerable. I want to squirm, but I force myself to hold still and finish my thought. "What if we have a shot-term fling. This attraction is bound to burn itself out after not too long, and in the meantime, orgasms."
The corners of his mouth twitch. "There are worse things."
His almost-smile makes me actually smile. "I can think of several."
"I think this is an idea I can go along with." He still doesn't smile, but his brown eyes are twinkling with humor.
"I, uh, it would be best if we don't tell anyone, though. With the wedding..." I wave my hand in the air in a vague motion.
"And your nosy sisters."
My first instinct is to take offense, but he's not wrong. Especially Bronwen. "Bronwen can't know under any circumstances."
"So we're having a secret fling while planning our parents' wedding. This practically sounds like a soap opera."
ZACH
I spend most of Saturday at Morgan's, and the only time she puts on clothes is when she has to go to the end of her driveway to get her mail. I go an entire thirty-six hours bare-ass naked. I lose count of how many times she comes on my face, but we try it in nearly every room in her house. My favorite is when she sits on her dining room table, legs spread for me to go down on her, and as soon as she comes, I shove inside her and fuck her on the table.
No idea why that time stands out from the blur of sex that is our weekend, but it does. I came so hard I thought I might pass out. Instead I collapsed on her, burying my face in her tits. Not a horrible alternative.
It's late Saturday night, and we're sitting on her living room couch, naked and cuddled under a blanket, watching a show about cake decorating. I'm not paying the TV any attention, I'm just marveling at where my weekend has gone. How I got here.
And how content I feel.
Cuddling with Morgan, of all people. Fucking is one thing, but cuddling in front of the TV seems like more than a fling. It definitely feels like more than hate fucking.
But I'm too sleep deprived to give it deeper thought. It feels nice in this moment, and I'll go with that. Her skin is soft under my hand, where it rests on her shoulder. Her hair keeps catching in the stubble that's sprouted on my face since I haven't shaved in almost two days. And I must be lust- addled too, because I like her hair getting stuck to my face, teasing my nose and getting in my mouth.
I can't help myself and press a kiss to the crown of her head. A kiss that feels distinctly affectionate, not sexual.
Shit.
"It's hard to lose a parent when you're really young, isn't it?"
Shit again. Where did that come from? She wants to talk about our parents?
"Uh, yeah. It is. It sucks," I say honestly.
"I don't even remember my dad." Her voice is heavy, full of a sadness I'm all too familiar with. "He didn't like pictures, so there are only even two of them with me and him."
She sighs heavily, my hand rising and falling with her shoulder. "I've tried to reach him. I've summoned him so many times. Every new moon since I was in middle school." Her voice cracks. "And it never works. I could summon Abraham fucking Lincoln right now, but I can't summon my own dad. And it's not because of my skill. I know that. He just doesn't want to talk to me."
I wrap myself more tightly around her and kiss her head again. The pain in her voice makes my chest feel too tight. It's a pain I recognize all too well.
"I'm sorry," I say softly.
She scoffs. "You don't even think spirits are real, but thanks."
"Why do you talk to me about things involving magic when you know I don't believe in it?"
She turns her head to look over her shoulder at me for a moment, then looks away again. "Because I know you're wrong."
Her confidence is unwavering. Am I really the one who's in the wrong?
But how can magic really, truly, be real? It breaks so many universal laws we've proven in science. Doesn't it ?
Or am I just trying to justify sleeping with her?
If magic is real, then there really isn't anything wrong with my dad marrying Angela. I don't need to keep digging for proof, because she wouldn't be a con artist.
I scrub my hand over my face and scratch my beard. This is all too much right now. I need to get out of my head and make myself focus on the people competing to make a cake that looks like Napoleon.
"I'm sorry your dad doesn't talk to you. That's gotta suck."
"Thanks." There's a long silence, then she says, "Do you ever think about trying to talk to your mom?"
Her words feel like a punch to the chest and I flinch. "Given that I don't believe in ghosts?—"
"Spirits."
"—no, I don't think about talking to her." My voice is snappish, but honestly, she has no business bringing up my mom. She knows nothing about her.
"Well, eventually when you come around, I'd be happy to talk to her with you."
She sounds so sincere, I almost believe she could. Believe she would.
"How did she die?" She turns again to look at me over her shoulder for a moment.
My throat closes off as the memories rush in. I don't want to talk about this. I don't talk about this. Yet the open, almost vulnerable look on Morgan's face compels me. Especially since I know she doesn't let people see her vulnerability.
"I was eight. I was being a total pain in the ass, and she yelled at me and I yelled back." Sometimes I hate that kid I used to be for being so awful to his parents. "She grabbed her keys and said she needed to get out of the house for a little bit to cool off. Except she never came home. She got hit by a drunk driver, spent almost a month in a coma, and was eventually declared brain dead. "
If Morgan offers the same "at least she didn't suffer" bullshit platitude I've heard so many times, I will be leaving.
Instead she turns in my arms and faces me. "I'm so sorry. That sucks."
I pull in a deep breath to tell her the next part. I don't know why I'm even doing this, but I can't stop the words from coming out. Maybe it's what I've needed for a long time.
"My dad hired someone from Goode Witches to come in and try to help her. But that didn't do any good. All it did was take money from my dad."
Her eyes go wide and her mouth opens. "And that's why you think magic is a hoax."
I close my eyes, unable to face her scrutiny. "I suppose, in part."
Her palm touches my face, turning me toward her. But I still don't open my eyes.
"So you blame yourself for your mom going out that night and you blame witchcraft for not saving her." Her tone is gentle, with no judgment. Which is so unlike her, I finally open my eyes to meet hers.
"I hate that you see through me so easily." I feel so naked, in ways that have nothing to do with my state of undress.
She sighs and gives me a sad smile. "Maybe we're more alike than we want to think. Carrying all these scars from our parents."
I don't have a response to that, so I simply drink in her pretty face. Which is somehow a million times more beautiful in this moment.
"You're so beautiful, you know that?"
She drops her gaze and her hand. "You don't need to flatter me. I'm kind of a sure thing."
Now it's my turn to cup her cheek. "You really don't think I find you attractive?"
"Chemistry is a weird thing. Doesn't have to be based on looks. "
"That's true." I'll let it slide that I could interpret what she's saying as her not finding me attractive. "But in this case, it's not. You are a beautiful woman."
She shakes her head. "No. Sirona's the beautiful one, all ethereal and pretty. And Bronwen's the sexy one. I'm the... middle one."
"You are a million times sexier than your sister. Otherwise I'd have shown up at her door in the rain last night." I soften my expression, trying to get her to smile at my somewhat pathetic attempt at humor.
She rolls her eyes. "Like I said, chemistry's weird. It makes you wanna bang people who aren't that sexy."
Now I can't let it slide. "Are you saying you don't think I'm sexy?"
Her cheeks turn an adorable shade of pink that makes her even more beautiful and sexier. "I didn't say that."
"So you do think I'm sexy?"
By now she's bright red and I'm grinning.
"In the sense that I want to have sex with you, yes, I find you sexy. That's not a news flash."
"You think I'm sexy."
"I thought we were having an actual conversation, about who we are as people. How did we end up here?" Despite her annoyed tone, she's smiling back at me.
I shrug, then I wrap my arms around her and kiss her. It's not long before the kiss turns to groping, and groping turns to me sliding inside her and staying there until we both have explosive orgasms.
Again.