Chapter 20
Rowan gave up trying to fight it. It was already too late anyway, and he was sliding into her. She was soft and wet and warm around him and the air swirled with their history together.
He remembered how she liked to be touched—he’d never forgotten.
He knew what it was to press her body to his, to move until he couldn’t tell they were two separate people.
He remembered this, all of it, her small moans encouraging him to build them to a crescendo.
The feeling of being swept away by a tide bigger than him.
He hadn’t been able to fight it as a teenager, and here he was now, driving into her, losing his damn mind.
He wasn’t able to fight it as a grown man, either.
The air around them was electric, as if they were their own kind of magic.
Her fingernails dug into his back until it hurt.
He’d forgotten that, too: how much he loved that sharp pain.
That it meant her pleasure. He let her pull him in, suck him under, cast her spell on him. As she screamed his name, he let go.
His body took over, moving into hers, with hers, until at last he came in a flood of need and want and everything he’d kept buried for fifteen years.
He came, his body releasing, pouring out the hope that this could be a new beginning for them.
Whispering her name against her skin, he tried to come back to earth, back to reality, back to something better than he’d had before.
None of this was planned. But she’d looked so disheveled—much the way she had as a teenager in the mornings after they’d found a place to be together.
She’d looked up at him with those big, blue eyes in a way that said she knew him like no one else ever would.
And there had been no desk between them, no formalities this time.
The almost-kiss of last time had passed and this one hadn’t. Only, the moment he’d kissed her, he’d lost all control and now he was still inside her, breathing heavily, hoping that when he looked her in the eyes he’d see the same.
Her hands pushed at his shoulders, asking him to move back. So he wished for more, but he did it. Only her eyes didn’t ask him to love her. Instead, they asked, what the hell did we just do?
He stepped back, stunned. Hands fumbling, he attempted to put himself together. His shirt was on the floor in one direction. Hers in the other, pink buttons scattered across the dark wood.
He didn't really remember doing that.
Annelise still sat on the desk, legs wide, though the short black skirt dipped down, covering her.
He knew her underwear was on the floor, too, somewhere on the other side.
Her bra looped around one hand where she leaned back, still looking wanton as she caught her breath.
But her expression wasn’t the same one of need.
It was one of confusion, of anger—at herself.
That hurt more than he was willing to admit. Shaking his head and not sure if he was ashamed of himself, too, Rowan reached down for his shirt and began to shrug it back on.
Annelise didn't move from where she sat.
Instead, she shuffled a little, pulling her knees together, sitting up straight though there was nothing she could do about her missing clothing.
Rowan couldn't think with her half-naked like that, so he reached down and handed the pink top to her, even though it wouldn't close again.
As their fingers touched over the soft fabric, he felt the jolt fly through him—a memory of other times like this.
Other times when he'd performed like this, like a horny teenager with no self-control.
If she hadn't gasped and cried his name—if he wasn't concerned that there might be little spots of blood on the back of his shirt when he went into work today—he would have been afraid he'd done it wrong.
The Rowan Velasco of today made love like a man—controlled, slow, and always carefully choreographed. He'd never been like this with anyone, except with her.
He was pretty sure she'd cast a spell on him so that—in the years since he'd walked away—he’d never run into her.
Not once. The town wasn't large enough for that to happen naturally.
Now he was concerned. He buttoned the shirt up, admitting he was going to have to turn around and go back home to Belle Hollow and change.
He'd have to get past his mother and not let her figure out what had happened.
Even he didn't know what had happened.
"What did you do?" It was harsher and meaner than he intended, but he'd been under spells before, and being with her felt like that.
"I didn't do anything," she snapped back as she shrugged her arms back into the shirt, holding it closed with a fist. Her stance had changed from relaxed and dreamy—the face of a woman who'd been thoroughly made love to—to angry and guarded.
"Then how did—" He couldn't even say it. He waved his hand around the room, indicating the pieces still on the floor.
"I don't know," she replied.
He believed her. Or he wanted to. "Well, who the hell else—"
Rowan cut himself off mid-sentence. This time not because he couldn't say it, but because he could answer it. Didn’t want to believe it.
Story could have done this. Anyone who'd watched the two of them see each other for the first time during the storm could have decided that Belle Hollow needed to throw Romeo and Juliet back together.
There were enough witches in that tiny town that it could have been anyone.
Hell, given what he'd seen recently, it could even be his own mother, trying to fix something for him.
Back in the day, they'd believed they'd hidden their romance, but as an adult now, he realized there was no way that could have happened. The town simply wasn't large enough to hold secrets. And whoever was trying to fix this had fucked up royally. Annelise’s expression made sure he knew that.
Taking a deep breath, he tried to steady his still-racing heart. The scent of them lingered in the air. He inhaled regret with it, wishing he had kissed her and held her the way he had dreamed of instead of opening the door and barging in like a damn madman.
He was considering turning around, apologizing to her, and asking if they could start over.
Because now that he'd had her again—even if it was in a wild frenzy brought on by witchcraft—he knew the days of him lying to himself were over.
She was the only one he'd ever really want.
He hoped he could build them something, find a way forward.
But he didn't quite know how to ask, and he swallowed. Maybe they could make up for fifteen years lost. "Annalise—”
“This can't ever happen again." She was still clutching the shirt together, scooting down off the desk and turning around, walking away from him. Showing her back, she kept her shoulders stiff, her anger radiating off the walls of the small room.
He froze. Stupid of him to think there was a road back. For fifteen years, she'd hated him for something he hadn't done.
He hoped that, as an adult, she could see that her rage had been misplaced, admit the error.
They could move on together, as they had always been meant to be.
But no—just like that, she was freezing him out again.
Only maybe now it was worse, because he could still feel her fingers on his skin.
How they'd wrapped around him and stroked him.
How her mouth had fused to his and begged for more.
Damn her.
He wished the Velascos hadn't given away their magic. He would be the one casting the spell now, making sure they never had to see each other ever again. But if he knew one thing from the last fifteen years, he’d still see her in his dreams. This morning was fresh fuel for his imagination, that was for sure.
"Why did you even come here this morning?" she asked, her tone low and almost accusatory, as if he'd walked in here intending to make love to her.
He steeled himself, finding the cold face he occasionally used in the courtroom. If she could turn off the heat and need between them like it was a light switch, so could he. "I found something. Your grandmother has a case."