Dylan's Witch: 10 (Supernatural Bonds)

by Jory Strong

  She opened her eyes and met his, a flutter going through her heart. Serious, he was attractive; but smiling, laughing, he was devastating to any woman’s defenses and hers were already lowered.

  Question answered. Hot, spontaneous sex was definitely the right way to handle things.

  “That was just round one,” he said.

  “Then I need to fortify myself with chocolate.”

  “Chocolate?” Said in tones that suggested Dylan didn’t understand the miracle substance it was.

  “Chocolate and sex. Probably the finest two things ever discovered by humankind.”

  “Not in that order,” he said, lips going to her ear, capturing her lobe for a sensuous suck that had her nipples tightening. It was followed by the dip of his tongue in her ear to send a streak of need straight to her cunt.

  She clamped down on his cock, her channel rippling against it in a demand to harden fully again. “Maybe,” she conceded.

  His mouth returned to hers for a slow plundering, a hot claiming. The heartmate bracelet burned against her skin, the one on his finger left heated streaks down her back as his hands roamed, though she didn’t need either sign to know she wanted this man.

  He felt right against her senses, her magic. She met the thrust of his tongue with hers, inner muscles clenching and unclenching on his cock with the plunge and slide and tangle of tongues.

  He hardened again. Came again, less violently but more deeply felt, his seed filling her, planting the image of children with their father’s looks and her gifts.

  He mumbled a curse and apology for not giving her an orgasm first. The weight of his upper body rested more heavily on her, leaving the impression that only the door held them upright.

  “You can remedy that, after the chocolate.”

  “Christ, I’m going to lose my boys club card.”

  She laughed and forced her legs off his waist, hating the loss of his cock when it slid from her channel before her feet touched the floor, but loving the way his hips jerked, his body’s protest at not being inside her. A shiver of pleasure went through her at the reaction, at having his penis pressed semirigid and hot against her stomach.

  Reality tried to intrude, because as much as she wanted his showing up to be the direct result of the encounter at Inner Magick and because he could no longer deny the attraction, she knew it had to be more than that. It had to be important, something more urgent than the need for sex.

  She deferred asking in favor of his company, satisfied for the moment that he’d sought her out and he seemed relaxed. “Kitchen,” she said.

  He lingered a moment, caging her against the door, kissing her neck until he pushed himself upright. He tucked his cock into his jeans and zipped up as she retrieved the short nightgown and slipped it on.

  “Damn.” Said with a wealth of masculine disgruntlement.

  She laughed and took his hand. Within steps of leading him deeper into the house, Dylan’s attention was captured by the tribal masks adorning the wall. “I didn’t notice these the last time I was here.”

  Talk about a fucking understatement. She’d opened her door to Trace and him and everything had pretty much been lost in the roar of lust. He’d been in a battle not to disgrace himself by coming in his pants.

  “Interesting choice of decoration.” And a hell of a lot better than pentacles, charms or anything else that screamed witchcraft.

  “Most of them were gifts from tribal elders or host families.”

  It was so out there he couldn’t leave it. “How’d that come about?”

  “Fieldwork. I’ve got an anthropology degree, though most of my time is spent teaching these days.”

  “At the university?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know Storm’s husband?”

  “Yes. We’re in the same department.” Seraphine reached out, straightened a mask. “Khemirra is fascinated by them. She’s made them one of her freelance projects.”

  An ache spasmed through his heart at the picture Seraphine’s words painted. He could see her at Inner Magick, as well as connected to the soon-to-be wives. He could imagine Seraphine and him as a couple, part of the transition sweeping through the Homicide department, drinking buddies moving on from single to committed, to one day soon talking about kids.

  Christ. He should turn around and leave right now. He wasn’t marriage material. He knew this could only end one way, in a world of hurt for her—and for him.

  He jammed his free hand in his pocket, felt the charm there. His heartbeat sped up with fear. Screw that—with concern.

  But except for the spinning sound of his own thoughts, his head was blissfully free of noise. No whispers. No screams. No insanity.

  Sweat broke out on his skin. What the fuck was he going to do? He couldn’t fucking hold on to the charm all day long.

  They entered the kitchen. He sat at the table and distracted himself by watching Seraphine as she gathered supplies then set about making hot chocolate—no microwave or stuff in a package for her.

  Worry about the weird shit later. His cock hardened. He owed her an orgasm.

  A smile came. Jesus, he couldn’t manage a straight face with that excuse.

  But the truth was he felt relaxed. It felt good to be with a woman who didn’t give off badge bunny vibes.

  That’s the sex talking. It’d been awhile, since…

  Not going there.

  She put a mug in front of him, setting her own down before leaving for a trip to the refrigerator. She returned with a can of whipped cream, capping her hot chocolate with it.

  “No cherries?” he asked after squirting some whipped cream on his drink.

  “All out. Chesna polished them off while we were making cookies.” She glanced away. Not before he saw the sadness and pain in her expression.

  Leave it.

  His lips ignored him.

  “Chesna?”

  “My niece.”

  “She in trouble of some kind?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Yeah. Family always is.”

  He knew all about that. Over a decade later, he could remember the phone call that had him rushing home, foot heavy on the gas pedal, an internal voice screaming denial. His mother couldn’t be dead.

  To this day he couldn’t understand why his mother hadn’t kicked his father out of their lives and gone on with hers, instead of letting his affairs whittle away her ability to be happy…until she’d felt as if she had nothing to live for.

  I didn’t know that she’d sunk that low. An old argument he quashed because it would only open the door wider to a shitload of other stuff he didn’t want to think about, not when he was with Seraphine. Not later either.

  “I guess you see the worst of it doing your job,” Seraphine said.

  He shook the past off. “Sad but true.”

  He drank the hot chocolate as they shared the safe parts of their day with each other, though his thoughts veered to the carnal each time she licked a whipped cream or hot chocolate mustache away. She had lips made for giving a man a blowjob. It was one of the favorites of all the forbidden fantasies she starred in, creeping in whenever he let his guard down or it fell away in sleep.

  His dick got ready for round three in a pounding rush of blood. And damn if she didn’t know the effect she had on him. It was there in her expression, in the way she repeated the action, practically begging him to pull her off the chair and onto her knees. The trouble was, he owed her, and he was a man who paid his debts.

  Chapter Seven

  The instant Seraphine finished her drink, he grabbed her wrist, tugged as he turned his chair and brought her to him so she straddled his lap. He was momentarily mesmerized by the sight of her thighs against his jeans and the way her short little nightgown had ridden up. Another inch and he’d see her pussy.

  He jerked his gaze upward. “Christ you’re beautiful.”

  One hundred percent truth. Not a line meant to get her to put out.

&n
bsp; “You’re pretty stunning yourself.”

  She smiled and his dick screamed at him to get on with it.

  In a minute, buddy. He couldn’t stop himself from claiming her lips with his, chocolate and whipped cream combining as one kiss merged into another, eradicating all sense of time and every care except the driving urge to get closer, and closer still, to touch and taste every inch of her.

  He ate the soft sounds of her pleasure but they only left him hungrier, needing more. He broke contact with her lips, breathing hard.

  Masculine ego soared at seeing the heave of her chest and what it did to her breasts, at noting flushed features, lust-dilated eyes and passion-swollen lips. He took two fistfuls of gown, rid her of it in a quick upward movement.

  His cock turned into a battering ram at the front of his jeans. His testicles grew more swollen, promising a world-class case of blue balls just from having a naked Seraphine this close to his body and not making the hot, wet, tight plunge into it.

  In a minute. But first…

  He swiped his fingers along the inside of his mug, capturing the residue from his drink then circling an areola, leaving the traces there before leaning in. “I could become a fan of this stuff.”

  He licked, drinking in her moan and the way she arched her back, along with the hot chocolate and whipped cream. He latched onto the nipple, sucked, one hand on her back while the other was at her breast.

  Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him against her. Not that he had any intention of leaving.

  Each catch of her breath, each moan, each shiver of pleasure he pulled from her was a satisfying victory. Every whisper and cry labeled with his name fed the hunger inside him, created a demand to give her more until it was no longer enough to feast on her breasts.

  He rose, moved, just enough to avoid tumbling their mugs to the floor as he put her on the table then kissed downward to her pussy. Her moans turned to near-screams as he swirled his tongue around her clit, rasped over the naked tip, took the engorged nub between his lips and sucked her hard, as if he could take her to the back of his throat and swallow on the bare head the way he wanted her to do his cock.

  He was vaguely aware of the way his hips jerked. Of the pre-cum leaking to coat his cock head.

  He couldn’t care.

  All he cared about was the erotic taste of a woman he’d already made his. The way she cried, begged him for more with the grind of her cunt against his face.

  He gave her more. Fucked her with his tongue. Alternating its thrust with licks and the capture of her clit, with sucks that had her thrashing then cresting in orgasm.

  Satisfaction was a roar in his head when she went boneless, as done in by the pleasure he’d given her as he’d been that last time against the door.

  He moved up her body, halting to suck each nipple for long moments before returning to her lips, using the excuse of a kiss to rest his forearms against the table and give her some of his weight. His parted shirt allowed for the exquisite sensation of her breasts against his bare chest. It muted the demands of a cock promising to explode the next time she wrapped long, feminine legs around his waist and trapped him in hot, wet depths.

  She was soft and welcoming beneath him, stirring a different kind of fantasy to life, of having her wrists bound in a show of trust he’d never, ever, allowed any woman to give him—not since college, not since Heather.

  He slammed the door on that desire and those memories by deepening the kiss. Losing himself in Seraphine was made easier by the feel of her fingernails scraping his back.

  “Turnabout is fair play,” she said when he let her breathe again.

  His cock throbbed in time to his heartbeat, saying, Yes! Yes! Yes!

  He levered away from her and she slid off the table, taking the can of whipped cream with her.

  His hands beat hers to the front of his jeans. His cock was freed by the time her lips arrived.

  “I’ll take it from here,” she said, husky voice accompanying the chase of his hand away from his cock as she replaced it with hers.

  He gripped the table edge. It was that or drop to his knees.

  A full-body shudder went through him when cold hit his dick first, then heat—incredible heat as her tongue lapped away the whipped cream, her mouth following, sucking to make sure she got it all.

  He couldn’t look away from the sight of his dick disappearing between red, luscious lips. The image of it was burned into his mind so he knew there’d be no denying himself this fantasy from now on.

  He moaned with the loss of her mouth. Moaned again when she swirled her tongue around his cock head.

  Waves of ecstasy racked his body. Eradicating any possibility of thought as she took him deeper, worked him. Her hand on his ball sac adding to the pleasure. Her grip there and on his penis making it impossible for him to control when he came, though it didn’t stop him from trying, from thrusting, driving toward the back of her throat.

  “Jesus, Seraphine. Jesus.”

  It was as close to begging as he got.

  White noise filled his head. Sweat coated his skin.

  His chest heaved as his lungs struggled for breath.

  Nothing could compare to this. Nothing could ever feel so good.

  And then her grip loosened. Letting him go deeper.

  She swallowed on him.

  Once. And it was like shooting off a rocket.

  He came. Shuddering and jerking. Nearly passing out with the pleasure.

  It made him docile as a lamb.

  A thought that energized him enough to snort after having recovered enough from the mind-blowing orgasm to step into the bathroom with Seraphine, though it didn’t cause him to protest when she peeled his shirt off, then knelt in front of him, ridding him of the rest of his clothes.

  The position put her mouth in close proximity to his cock again. It started to fill.

  Impossible.

  Maybe this was some kind of sex magic. Now there was a witchcraft he could get behind.

  Seraphine stood and pulled her hair back, anchoring it in a knot so it wouldn’t get wet. She smiled at reading the heat in his eyes, even as she understood hope had invaded and she’d foolishly allowed it to fully bloom.

  They got into the shower together. He claimed her mouth, took it with a series of deep, drugging kisses before moving to her neck, her shoulder.

  “This is nice,” she said, hands on his chest then traveling down his arms, covering his as they moved to her breasts.

  Her thumb rubbed against the heartmate stone in his ring. She felt the flare of tension in his body, her heart catching on a squeeze of pain when he used reaching for the soap to subtly break the contact.

  What did you expect? That something happened to make him accept the existence of the supernatural? That he came here believing a relationship between us was favored by fate?

  Coward. Because instead of calling him on the retreat she accepted it, in this moment anyway, allowing the escape from intimacy by taking the soap from him and applying it to her skin rather than his.

  “Stay a little longer?” she asked, hand capturing a cock hardened again, sliding up and down on it in a signal that they could ignore everything in favor of pleasure, at least for a little while.

  “Once more.”

  They left the shower, dried off and entered the bedroom. She pushed him onto his back, straddled him and guided his cock to her opening.

  She controlled the pace, savored the stretch and burn, the heated connection. Where he’d thrilled her with fast and hard upon his arrival, she tormented him with slow, with lifting until only his cock head remained inside her. Drawing the connection out until there was only one escape, and they found it in the rush and burst of orgasm.

  Despite what he’d said, Dylan knew once more wasn’t really enough to fortify himself against the day ahead. Hell, he felt the loss when she slid off him to lie on her side.

  The urge to roll her onto her back and cover her became nearly impossible to
resist when she trailed her fingers over his chest, detouring to circle a nipple and sending a hot surge of lust straight to his cock. The nipple hardened, mimicking what was happening to his dick.

  Impossible, he thought for a second time, only this time he didn’t feel so sanguine about thoughts of useful witchcraft. Yeah, he was good, but he’d never been able to get it up this many times in such a short period of time.

  There was a reasonable explanation. Use it or lose it. That covered it, and he’d been doing without.

  What guy in his right mind was going to complain about getting frequent erections?

  “We never got to the part where you told me why you showed up at my door.”

  “Insanity.” Only right now, the insanity was fighting this. Jesus, he was just about ready for another round.

  Feminine fingers walked down his arm, unerringly going to the cut on his palm. “How’d you get this?”

  The question was almost enough to wither his dick. Almost. And that was because as much as he’d like to pretend otherwise, in her house, with her, his head was totally clear of everything but the need to give himself over to pleasure.

  Mental placebo effect. Only he heard himself saying, “I got it handling the blade at the Harper crime scene.” Fuck if he’d name it.

  He felt her jerk, heard the soft catch of her breath as her heart raced against him. “Did the cut heal?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did it open again?”

  “A couple of nights ago.”

  “It bled?”

  “For a little while.”

  “And last night?”

  Why did women always want to talk after sex?

  He thought about covering her mouth with his to stop the questions. But the mental image of his bloody bed was a mood killer, and as much as he wanted to shut this conversation down—really, really wanted to—he’d shown up on her doorstep for more than sex.

  Call it survival instinct. He hated it, but there it was. It’d saved his life a couple of times when he was wearing the uniform before making detective.

  She rose onto an elbow so she could look at his face. “Why did you come here, Dylan?”

  Urgent demand rather than pissed-off woman. He could roll away from her, but there was enough body contact that he’d sure as hell offend her if he did.