23. An Ending Rewritten #2
“Still holding,” he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through my bones.
“It likes you now,” I reply, my own voice softer than I intend.
“The ward?” He glances at his fingers, then back at the glowing carving.
“Possibly the door. Hard to tell. My house has naive boundaries.” I offer a small, wry smile.
“So does its owner,” he murmurs, and the words land differently this time. Not as an observation, but as an intimacy.
“Rude.” I turn, ready with a witty defense, but he is already there.
Close.
Too close for cleverness.
The space between us vanishes, and the scent of rain and clean, masculine skin fills my lungs.
My mind, usually a frantic, humming hive of thoughts and possibilities, goes utterly blank.
His hand comes to rest on my waist, and the rest of the world narrows down to the solid warmth of his palm through my thin coat, the rain-dark scent of him, the steady, thrumming pulse of the purple thread that connects us, a silent, vibrant song in the quiet evening.
The danger has eased. Not vanished, not solved, not neatly wrapped in a coroner’s report and a satisfying arrest. But eased enough that when Dorian lowers his head, I do not think of walls listening or curses feeding or death wearing pretty stage makeup. I think of him. Only him.
His mouth touches mine. Soft at first. A question.
A testing of waters we’ve both been avoiding for far too long.
Then not. The kiss deepens, slow and sure, and I melt against him with a helpless little sound I would deny under oath in any court.
His arm tightens around my back, pulling me flush against the hard, warm lines of his body.
My hands slide under his coat, seeking the heat of him through the thin fabric of his shirt, and suddenly the porch is very public, my neighbors are very nosy, and I remember I have a perfectly good house.
“Inside,” I whisper against his lips, the word a breathy plea.
“Wise,” he rumbles back, his mouth brushing mine with every syllable.
“Do not sound surprised,” I manage, a flicker of my usual spark returning.
“I am appreciating the rarity.” I can hear the smile in his voice.
I nip his lower lip, a sharp, playful bite.
He makes a low, guttural sound that turns my knees into poor infrastructure.
We stumble through the door with the grace of two people who have survived murder, curses, fake death, and emotional repression, and therefore have earned the right to be slightly ridiculous.
Dorian kicks the door shut behind us, the thud echoing in the quiet hall. I fumble with the lock, clicking it into place. He checks the lock, his detective’s instincts never fully offline. I check his buttons, my fingers working the top one of his shirt open. We are both thorough in our own ways.
By the time we reach the stairs, I am laughing against his mouth, and he is smiling in a way that makes something inside me ache, a sweet, poignant pang.
Not stolen. Not desperate. Not theoretical.
Chosen. That is the difference. Before, wanting him always felt like standing at the edge of a cliff while pretending the view was purely professional.
Now his hands are on me and mine are on him, and neither of us is pretending the fall is anything but ours.
In my bedroom, the curtains glow faintly with the pearlescent light of the evening fog filtering through the window.
The quilt on my bed is still rumpled from the morning, a testament to my restless sleep.
On the nightstand, the pink Love Notes notebook sits, scandalized and proud. Dorian’s gaze flickers to it.
“No field logs,” I say, my voice firm but warm.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he promises, his eyes finding mine again.
“No checking the crown molding for ears.” His eyes flick briefly upward. “Dorian.”
“One glance,” he murmurs, a half-smile playing on his lips.
“No.” I reach up, framing his face, pulling his attention back to me.
“Right now. I am the most dangerous thing in this room.”
He exhales. “I have no doubt.” And then his mouth finds my throat, and my laughter dissolves into something softer, a sigh of pure contentment.
We undress slowly this time. No forest urgency.
No curse-defying desperation. Just hands, breath, and trust. The ease of people who know the ending written for them and have defiantly, joyfully, chosen another.
His shirt first, then mine. His hands trace the curve of my spine, my fingers map the solid muscle of his chest.
When he lays me down on the cool, soft sheets, the purple thread glows between us, a gentle, pulsing luminescence. Not a warning. A blessing. I reach for him, my hands tangling in his hair. He comes willingly, his body covering mine, his weight a perfect, grounding pressure.
He kisses me again, deep and filthy, his tongue claiming my mouth as his hand slides down my body, over my hip, between my thighs. I gasp as his fingers find my clit, circling the sensitive nub with a practiced, maddening slowness. “Dorian,” I moan, my hips arching into his touch. “Please.”
“Tell me,” he growls against my jaw, his teeth scraping the skin there. “Tell me what you want.”
“You. I want you inside me. Fill me with your warlock magic.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He shifts, his knees parting my legs wider.
I feel the blunt, hot head of his dick press against my slick, aching entrance.
He pushes in slowly, inch by torturous inch, the stretch exquisite, a perfect, burning pleasure.
My pussy clenches around him, pulling him deeper, and we both groan.
He starts to move, a slow, deep rhythm that builds a fire in my core. The purple thread flares, its light pulsing in time with our thrusts, a wild, magical heartbeat. His name is a litany on my lips as he fucks me, his strokes growing harder, faster, driving us both toward the edge.
I feel my orgasm coiling, tight and hot, and then it breaks, a wave of pure, blinding ecstasy that washes over me. My cunt spasms around his dick, and with a hoarse cry, he follows, his body tensing as he cums, filling me with his heat.
Afterward, the room is quiet in the way only a room can be after it has witnessed something tender and decided, wisely, not to gossip. This is impressive because my bedroom is usually terrible at discretion.
The curtains stir faintly in the evening breeze. The quilt is tangled around our legs. Dorian lies beside me, one arm beneath my head, the other draped across my waist with the warm, immovable confidence of a man who has decided I am not leaving the bed without filing a formal request.
I am very comfortable.
I am also unwilling to admit this too quickly.
“You’re heavy,” I murmur.
His hand flexes against my hip. “You’re alive.”
Well.
That is unfair.
One cannot argue elegantly with that.
I turn my face into his chest and breathe him in. Rain, cedar, wolf, skin, and the faintest trace of hospital antiseptic he will probably insist does not count as part of his personal scent profile.
He presses a kiss to my hair.
So soft. So ordinary. So devastating.
For several minutes, we do not speak.
The purple thread between us glows lazily, curled through the room like a contented ribbon. Not flaring. Not warning. Not trying to rewrite destiny with theatrical lighting.
Just there. Ours.
Dorian shifts.
I feel his body tense before he moves.
I roll over to find him staring at me with something akin to awe.
“Are we all right?” he asks quietly.
The question is careful.
Not about the case. Not about the town.
About us.
I look down at the purple thread. It glows between us, strong and unknotted. A bond that has been tested by fear, silence, near-death, and Kelly Hart with a fire extinguisher.
“I think we are,” I say.
His breath changes.
“Think or know?”
I pause. It is a dramatic pause to be sure.
“I know we are good.” I look up at him. “But I think we’re unstoppable.”
His hand moves slowly over my back. “I can work with that.”
“Good. Because I am not doing tragic endings. I tried one on. The lighting was bad.”
His mouth curves, but his eyes stay serious, scolding. “Never again.”
“No. Never again.”
I touch his face, tracing the line of his jaw, the tension still living there like a guard that has not been dismissed.
“For what it’s worth, I think we improved Shakespeare’s play,” I whisper.
His eyes darken.
“Indeed.”
I smile.
For one breath, it is true.
The curse did not win. The stage did not keep me. Love did not kill us.
In fact, love conquered all.
Romeo and Juliet beat death and got their happy ending after all.
Dorian kisses me again, slow and careful, and the purple thread warms around us like a promise.
For this moment, we have outrun the tragedy.
For this moment, Everwilde has let us.