Chapter 18 #2
I let out a long breath and reached for the graver, the small tool with its slightly ominous name.
Held at just the right angle and pushed with steady pressure, it carved a clean, bright-cut edge along the inside of the bezel wall that held the ruby, right where metal met stone—the finishing touch that made the piece come alive.
After a few careful passes, I nodded, satisfied.
All that remained was to heat the Thermolock and free the ring before the final polish.
Its surface would stay matte, more reminiscent of an Etruscan relic than the high mirror shine favored by modern jewelry.
No zombies clawed their way from the floor. No mysterious babies appeared in baskets. Just a gentle warmth spreading outward from my chest, like an embrace from the universe itself—well done.
“That's it,” I said. “Stone's set. No undead surprises.” I pulled off the visor and looked up at Baird, still sitting here, watching me.
Baird's mouth curved slowly. “Pity.” He said lightly. “I was enjoying standing guard.”
“Oh?” I arched a brow. “You look disappointed.” I walked over to where he sat and pushed his shoulders back to straddle his legs. His big hands skimmed my thighs suggestively and ended up on either side of my waist. “Sorry it was so anticlimactic.”
The sound he made was a low, pleased rumble, a promise of where this was headed.
“Watching ye work like that,” he murmured, his voice a rough-edged caress.
“Steady hands. Total focus. It does things to a man.” His hand slid beneath my sweatshirt, unhurried, certain, his touch a brand against my skin.
“Oh yeah?” I purred, arching into his touch. “I think—with a little help from you—we can make this climactic.” I offered him an innocent look, a transparent challenge I knew he'd never resist.
His gaze, brilliant green and hungry, devoured my face. “Oh, lass,” he breathed, tracing my lip with his thumb. “I love it when ye tease me like this. An angel…” I caught the digit between my teeth, biting down gently. A wicked grin split his lips. “…who likes to be very, very bad.”
His other hand found the lace edge of my bralette, tugging it down just enough to grant him access.
I gasped at the sensation, still humming with the residual warmth of magic from setting the ruby, and realized—suddenly, keenly—how badly my body was aching for his attention.
Like a child praised once and greedy for more, every nerve seemed to lean toward him, wanting—expecting—that same approval again.
Whether I was tapping into some universal source of magic or losing myself with Baird, the effect on my body was the same: warmth, certainty, and the sense that I was exactly where I was meant to be.
I tugged my sweatshirt higher and slid the other side of my bralette down, craving more—more skin on skin, more contact, less empty space between us.
Baird understood the assignment without a word, leaving my breasts only long enough to hook his fingers into the waistband of my leggings and draw them lower, unhurried and sure, as if he'd been waiting for permission all along.
I stood impatiently and kicked off my sneakers to help him tug them down the rest of the way.
He stood and spun me around, pushing me down into the chair he'd just been occupying, big hands pulling my hips across rough fabric on the chair, until I was perilously hanging off the front of the seat, bare feet flat on the floor.
He kneeled in front of me, pushing my thighs wide apart with his, and grinned when he took in the view: me, spread eagle.
“What do you have in mind, Baird Campbell?” I asked, a playful smirk touching my lips even as my body began to hum with anticipation.
“Just realized I haven't given this proper attention lately.”
“This?” I asked, tilting my head, coy enough to dare him.
“This,” he replied, his tone darkening, every ounce of teasing burned away by want.
A finger pushed between my legs, not teasing, but seeking, delving into the soaking wetness and dragging the slick arousal up to my aching clit.
His eyes bored into mine, dark with hunger, as he slipped one long finger deep inside my tight channel, curling it just right before pulling out to force a second in alongside it.
I cried out, my spine bowing off the chair as my pussy clenched greedily around the intrusion.
Thoughts of the ruby ring disappeared instantly.
“Yes,” I panted, grinding my hips down to take him deeper, completely unable to hold still as his fingers fucked me with a relentless, expert rhythm.
Baird licked his lips, still holding my gaze as he lowered his mouth to my clit, his tongue darting in and out, letting me know this was about me.
Then he slowed his rhythm, his attention narrowing entirely to that sensitive, textured spot on the upper wall of my vagina.
He pressed his index finger firmly against it, knowing exactly what he was doing, curling it in a beckoning motion, demanding my body follow.
With just the right, deliberate pressure on that spot, that square inch of my body he'd taken full and complete ownership over, he coaxed me toward the inevitable—a messy, uncontrollable flood he treated like manna from heaven.
I cried out, bucking my hips upward to grind against his face—my little tell—the unmistakable signal he'd mastered over the last year.
He didn't hesitate, sealing his lips around my swollen, throbbing clit and sucking greedily, all while relentlessly stroking that spot inside me.
It was too much, and I shattered, the pleasure cresting until I couldn't hold back another second.
Wetness gushed from me in a sudden, relentless surge, and he was right there to catch every drop, his mouth lapping and swallowing until his chin and cheeks were drenched in my essence.
A deep, guttural moan vibrated against my core, the taste and feel of me driving him wild.
Even now, after all this time, the way he reveled in burying his face in my messy, squirting pussy never ceased to shock me, his sheer ecstasy evident as he drowned in my release.
I dragged myself upright, leaning forward to crush my mouth against his. The rasp of his stubble grazed my skin as I devoured him, tasting my own sweetness on his lips and tongue, sharing the intimacy of every drop he'd just claimed.
He pulled back with a wicked grin, his eyes glinting with that brilliant green fire. “Are ye planning on working late tonight?” he asked, breathless as his gaze swept over my studio, though hope and unspoken desire to carry this right into our cottage was written plainly on his face.
“Um,” I breathed, my body still liquid and boneless from the aftershocks.
“I'd planned to set the yellow diamond next, but…” My pussy was still fluttering, echoing with spasms that teased a promise of more to come once we were behind closed doors.
I met his hungry look and shook my head.
“Fuck it.” I giggled. “I'll do that one tomorrow.”
Morning dawned crisp and bright, a canopy of cloudless blue waiting beyond the windows. Baird was already gone, off with Bunny to check the herd. Cup of coffee in hand, I headed out to the studio to finish the yellow diamond engagement ring.
As I passed the cane chair near the back door, I noticed the leggings and panties I'd discarded on the studio floor the evening before, now washed and folded neatly on the seat, sneakers side by side underneath. I smiled despite myself.
Baird's quiet acts of service still had a way of tugging at my heartstrings.
I'd seen my fair share of vampire movies in my thirty years, but none of them featured immortals who were quite so relentlessly neat.
He was a baffling contradiction—homebody, trad-wife energy, fiercely feminist to his core—all encased in a body made of sin and certainty.
Tender with me. Merciless to anyone who threatened what was his.
I opened the under-counter safe, and pulled the yellow diamond and the cast ring out, the ring still secured in yesterday's thermoplastic cocoon, the very top left open so I could drop in the stone and maneuver it into place.
As far as order of operations went, this one was lather, rinse, repeat—familiar, comforting.
Just like the ruby—only without the same, bone-deep dread.
Like the bright, impossible day outside, the yellow diamond—more shard of sunlight than stone—felt as though it were begging to be finished.
Even imagining it in its final state made me nearly giddy.
The design was simple: more eighteen-carat yellow gold, bezel-set like the ruby rather than the more common prongs.
The underside of the bezel was pierced to invite light in, to let an expert cut do what it was meant to do—catch, scatter, and return brilliance.
My heart felt light as I laid out my tools, and if I focused, I could still feel the lingering effects of the night before—spent breathless and undone in Baird's arms. I should have been exhausted; Baird needed far less sleep than I did.
Instead, I was walking on sunshine. Hammer in one hand, bezel pusher in the other, I turned the swivel vise and made my first strike.
My skin flushed, my heart kicking faster—not from fear, but recognition—stepping into a rhythm I already knew.
Unlock the vise. Rotate the ring. Lock it again.
Strike. Each step familiar, each one newly weighted.
With every measured tap, the metal yielded—subtly, stubbornly—reshaping itself under pressure and intent. I felt it echo inside me. I had spent a lifetime learning when to give, when to resist, when to soften without breaking. This was no different at all.