Chapter Thirty-Four #2
The cottage is, impossibly, too huge now and there’s an appalling amount of space between us. I tug him closer. A growl rumbles low in his throat. I know the sound of hunger more than anyone.
I pull back to look in his face, and shove aside my worries about tomorrow, about the Widow Witch and curses and cures and… Enough.
“We can start there, can’t we? Go ahead. Ask me.”
I’ve never seen the hazel of his irises so bright, green cocooning rich, buttery yellow. He almost looks like he’s not dying. “Ms. Frost, may I kiss you?”
“Yes, but do you remember how? I mean how long exactly is ages—”
“Careful, Witch,” he rasps, but there’s no threat in his voice. Only need. He gives the smallest bite to the skin over my pulse at my neck. Then he kisses the exact spot he bit.
I think I combust. Yes. Please.
I definitely make some kind of truly embarrassing sound. That’s all it takes. His mouth lands on mine and then he’s everywhere.
One of his hands roams my lower back, holding me against him, while the other cups my cheek, my neck, his calloused thumb deliciously scratchy on the skin of my throat.
My fists are so tight in his shirtfront, those wrinkles will be permanent.
Our lips move, but we barely take more than a second at a time to breathe.
When he at last needs real air, he pauses long enough for me to suck on his lower lip, hard.
He gets the message and palms my backside, dragging me to the edge of the table so I fit right up against him, chest to chest, my thighs, core, all of it, pressed to him.
Much better.
His lips find mine again, and good Lord, this man kisses like he’s been starved for years.
My hands and instinct take over. I claw my fingers through his thick hair, something I’ve wanted to do for ages, and he rewards me with a sound I’ve never heard him make before, a clipped release of breath that’s suspiciously like a purr.
I give a soft, playful tug to the dark strands, which makes him lean back just enough to give me the most piercing, devilish grin.
When his mouth touches me again, he’s found my collarbone this time, teeth grazing the dip and swell of the bone, separated only by a thin layer of my increasingly buzzing skin.
Not buzzing—electrified. When his tongue finds the hollow at my throat, a vicious shiver racks me from my ears to my toes.
I definitely combust.
His lips cover my racing pulse point, like he’d swallow my whole heart if he could.
I can’t help it—a quiet whimper slips out of me.
“Jesus, Honey,” he gasps into my neck, breathing hard.
My arms blanket his shoulders, my legs wrap around his hips, and I squeeze, needing to feel him against me, seeking some kind of relief to the pressure building in my chest, my gut, everywhere.
But there are still too many layers between us. I need to feel his skin on mine.
His hands slip under my apron strings, under the hem of my shirt, his fingers leaving kisses on my spine.
Glad we’re on the same page. I let go of him long enough to fiddle with the apron’s knot—this thing needs to come off.
Now. But my fingers are shaking—hell, all of me is.
My heart rate is spiking so hard, I wonder how in the world I waited so long to kiss this man.
He grabs my hands battling the tie and throws them right back around his shoulders. “Just leave the apron on.” His mouth claims the next whimper that slips out of me.
Never mind what I said before. This is better than any farmers’ market.
And I’m right—he tastes like thyme, even without his magic. The crisp herb bites my tongue, and soon I’m wondering if the rest of him will taste like thyme—
“Thyme?” he pants, pulling back to gulp down air.
Whoops. Said that part aloud.
Somehow, his hands are already back under the hem of my shirt. With each frantic inhale, his hard chest brushes mine and I’m savoring every second of the friction. I can tell he is, too. Or, I can feel he is. A hot blush fills my face, and it’s not from the fireplace.
Instead of putting him on the spot, I nuzzle my face into the crook of his neck, leaving sharp kisses as I go. “You know, if you’d gotten your wish and started over, you’d be younger than me now.”
“Maybe then I could keep up with you.”
I find his earlobe and take it between two of my canines. He swears, the sound more prayer than curse.
“Farewitches can bite, too. Sir,” I taunt in his ear, loving how he shivers on the last word.
“Honey,” he rasps, voice half gone. “I don’t have much left in me.”
“That’s okay, I’m the better driver anyway.”
His deep, heady chuckle rumbles in my veins. To my disappointment, he untangles my arms from around him and pulls back to look at me. His irises are alight, but his brows pull together over sunken eye sockets. “I’m afraid I’m not going to survive you.”
A splinter of guilt pricks me. He’d abandon any remaining restraint if I asked him to. But I need him strong, strong enough to survive tomorrow. Or else there is no after.
When I lower my gaze to our hands, clasped together against his heaving chest, I scream.
“Your fingers!”
Only then does he take his eyes off me long enough to look down, too. “That is new.”
His fingers, the skin, bone—gone. Or nearly gone. I can still feel him. But just like with Lazlo’s hands, I’m looking at the vague shape of a palm, a ghostly outline of knuckles and digits. Just like Lazlo, full stop.
“You’re fading now, too.” This time, it’s a whisper. I shouldn’t be this shocked, honestly. Even the Warlock thought this might happen. My legs drop from around him as I fight for the logical part of my brain, which flew away the moment he started in with his tongue.