When she pulled a lemon sauce from the fridge and whisked it for a moment.
She wanted to believe that he was just so in love with her that he couldn’t look away. But it seemed more like he was watching for poison. More like he was waiting to catch her at something than like he was making puppy love eyes.
He turned off the TV and came to the table. He ate everything she set before him, including the leftover fruit tart she cut into wedges for dessert, as though it were his last meal. He praised her for each thing until she thought he’d gone a little overboard.
“You act like you’ve never eaten good food before.”
He practically shoveled another bite of his rapidly disappearing dessert into his mouth. “I swear I had a microwave dinner last night.”
Delilah made a face and shivered through a round of the willies while Brandon laughed.
She smiled at him. “You could eat here.”
“Not all the time.”
There it was: the perfect opening to say ‘you can have a key, then you can come eat whatever you find in the fridge.’
There was a small pause as they waited, while Delilah couldn’t quite get her mouth to form the words. Then it was Brandon who filled in the space. “Besides, if I ate here all the time I’d get fat.”
“No, you wouldn’t. The preservatives in those frozen dinners will make you fat long before anything I serve you will.” There it was again. Another perfect opening to offer him a key. But still she couldn’t seem to get the words out.
“It wasn’t frozen,” he insisted, “it was from a box. I added water.”
“Eww. You should switch over to frozen. I don’t even want to think about the chemicals in food you don’t have to chill.”
Brandon, still laughing at her—though Delilah was convinced it was no laughing matter—stood with his plate, insisting that he clean up since she made everything. He practically forced her to sit at the table while he loaded the dishwasher and hand-scrubbed a few of her precious pots even though she’d volunteered to do it. They talked about nothing and everything and still he watched her.
Finally, he hit the start button on the dishwasher, filling the room with the subtle swishing sounds. Turning, he braced his hands on her countertop behind him, his eyes painfully serious for the first time all evening. Something in his stance made her heart go uh-oh. She’d seen him building to this all evening.
“I don’t know how to ask it, so I’m just going to say it flat out. Please don’t be offended.”
Here it comes. Although she had no idea what it was, she was nervous right down to her bones.
“Do I get to stay tonight?” Immediately he began backpedaling. “Look, that’s not why I came. I wanted to see you. And if the answer is ‘no’ I still want to see you. I want to stay for a while at least.”
She wanted to stop him in his frantic explanation. Then again, she wanted to hear it, too. Wanted to know if he had a solution or even just a reason for all this craziness.
“I thought we could settle in, watch TV, whatever.” He took a deep breath. Just when she was ready to jump in and save him, he started prattling again. “It isn’t just about the sex. It was. But it isn’t anymore. I just . . .”
He ran out of words or steam or something. His eyes looked away then and his hands searched for something to do before grabbing a hand towel and wiping at his fingers. After a moment passed in almost complete silence, he looked back at her. “Say something. Anything.”
Delilah was just ecstatic that he wanted to stay. She wondered for a while if maybe she’d placated him with food too much and now all he wanted from her was the occasional good meal. It also made her heart lift to finally find out what made him watch her so closely all evening.
When she opened her mouth to push the words out it felt like she stumbled over her own tongue. But she managed. “Yes. You should stay.”
His head popped up, his green eyes bright. “I should?”
She nodded. “Please.”
As charged as the moment was, they did what he’d suggested and sat down side by side on the couch. He automatically picked up the remote control and began looking for some kind of programming. What he was looking for, Delilah had no clue. Apparently, neither did he, because he changed the channel every few minutes. It wasn’t quite fast enough to be called surfing, but he couldn’t seem to settle on any one thing. Delilah couldn’t bring herself to complain, though. She was exactly where she wanted to be, curled into his side, with his arm around her holding her against him. She couldn’t have cared less what they were watching.
After half an hour, he turned to her.
“I know I said we should watch TV, but TV really isn’t holding my interest with you all pressed up beside me.”
Delilah smiled. “Me either.”
His return grin was all but lost as his mouth found hers. Heat from him flooded into her as his lips moved across her mouth. His tongue tasted her and tested the borders until she opened for him.
Delilah’s arms twined around his torso, using him as an anchor to tug herself up flush against him. Every breath, in her lungs and his, rocked them just a little closer together. His hands roamed over her, as though they were restless and didn’t know where to settle. Eventually they wound their way into her hair, tugging at the elastic and tossing it aside. His fingers found the back of her head and turned her so he could kiss her more deeply.
It was her hands that started undressing them, working their way under the edge of his shirt. Smooth skin and crisp hair passed under her touch as she slid the cotton higher. Brandon worked with her, pulling his arms out then finally giving her the shivers when he growled just a little because he had to break the kiss to get the shirt completely off.
He tossed it to the side, his hands and mouth already occupied with getting her out of her own shirt. Delilah felt her head fall back, as first his fingers, then his lips, made a path ever lower as he opened each button exposing just a little more skin. Somehow he managed to not touch her breasts, no matter how much she wanted him to, until he had the top entirely off her and flung to the floor to join his. Only then did he look her in the eyes as she felt his hand climb higher against the bare skin of her ribcage, until his thumb brushed the underside of her breast through the thin layer of her bra and she was unable to breathe at all.
Slowly and in maddening degrees, he stripped her of every piece of clothing, leaving her as bare and vulnerable as she could be. His skin was feverish to the touch and driving her crazy. Crazy to the point that she didn’t pay attention to the tiny flashes of pictures appearing in her head at random intervals.
He was thinking things before he did them—wanting and acting on it. When he first laced his fingers with hers, she was given the picture—the want—for her to touch him, to open the zipper on his jeans and ease the pressure he was feeling there. As he dragged her hand down, Delilah acted on his need. Pulling her mouth away from his, she kissed her way across his chest, using both her hands to set him free.
She reveled in the feel of him, unable to see beyond him or this exact moment.
Following the cues she was unaware she was even getting, Delilah pushed her fingers into his back pocket, finding the condom he’d been thinking about and pulling it out in her fist. Quickly she stripped him as bare as she was, all the while Brandon was lifting her, moving her, positioning her over the wide roll arm of the couch.
He watched as he draped her there before snagging the foil packet from her grip and rapidly sheathing himself. His voice came out on a breath, only her name, only part of it, and she heard the question there. “Lilah?”
She responded with her own desperate please, and was rewarded as he entered her.
They moved together, Delilah’s world shrinking with every touch. She existed only where his skin contacted hers, only in the scent of him, the taste of him. His name fell from her lips repeatedly, and his eyes made contact with hers where she could see the need shining there that mirrored her own.
Sh
e was hot and oversensitized by the time she gave a last gasp and fell, headlong into the contractions that seized her. Even in the abyss where she was, she could feel him tensing against her, his own release only seconds behind hers.
It took forever for the world to stop spinning around them, for her breathing to even out or her brain to be able to grab a single thought and hang onto it for more than a passing second. Brandon was a heavy weight, sweetly pinning her to the couch. She could feel every deep breath in his chest pressed against hers. Her hands felt the slick skin on his back, traced his spine while they lay there and recouped.
Eons later, he lifted his head. A small, sated smile wound its way across his mouth. Still it took him a moment to find his voice. “You look satisfied.”
Her own smile claimed her lips, and for a moment she managed a small stretch, even pinned as she was underneath him. “I needed that.”
Brandon’s green eyes blinked, his expression becoming more serious, even though she couldn’t say how it had changed. He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers. “I needed you.”
Chapter 21
Brandon heard the door click closed behind Dan hoping the lie didn’t show on his face. After all he wasn’t really lying about having more work to do, it was just different work. He was just hiding things.
Delilah wrung him out last night. Both physically and emotionally. They’d made love three times, as though to make up for the dry spell. He didn’t know if it was Delilah who demanded so much from him, or if he simply couldn’t help but give it. But each time they came together, he handed over another piece of himself.
In itself, that wouldn’t be bad. He’d been dating all those interchangeable women thinking that one day one would come along and be unique. Be one he couldn’t live without. But in his imagination, in the path he’d always been certain love would take, it had been both of them there—giving and learning together.
With Delilah, he was unsure.
Oh, she contributed, she was there, in a way his previous lovers hadn’t been. But he wasn’t sure she was handing her soul over, piece by piece, the way he seemed to be.
And only later, right after she’d fallen asleep, had his brain actually begun to work and a few things had clicked into place. There had been moments all evening, where he’d been ready to ask for something, say something, and she’d nodded or tilted her head and done it. Without him asking. He’d not gotten the words out. But she’d answered.
The second time, after he’d carried her into the bedroom, she’d peeled herself off the covers and wandered into the kitchen. She’d come in carrying two slices of watermelon that he’d seen in the fridge earlier, and a glass of ice water. And, though she shared the water with him, she’d said she wasn’t hungry for the watermelon.
There had been no comment, like I just thought you might be hungry or I saw these there and really wanted one. She’d seemed quite solid in her knowledge that this was what he’d wanted.
At one point, she’d rolled over to set the alarm for him, exposing a luscious view of her backside. She couldn’t have seen him, it couldn’t have been the look on his face. But he’d touched her shoulder and she’d popped back up, her mouth open and a wide-eyed look on her face. She asked him, really? Did he really want to do that?
Again he’d been so caught up in the moment that he hadn’t realized he hadn’t voiced his thoughts. Now, he was feeling stupid. Like he hadn’t seen it because he’d been naked, and there’d been a gorgeous naked female within his touch. He was beginning to have serious reservations that he was being led around by his dick. It bothered him that he was only capable of having these thoughts when he was nowhere near her.
He considered the possibility that she was psychic. But it didn’t seem likely. The skill seemed to come and go. Not that he was any expert, but that seemed odd. Now there were two random strangers who told him to beware. That strange little Indian man said there were spells and hexes on him. And Brandon was unable to shake off the vague unease caused by the fact that he still didn’t have any answers to the memory loss of the first night they’d shared.
Sure, he had most of it back now, but it had been completely gone for a while. He’d hoped she’d volunteer the information sooner or later. But it looked at this point like even ‘later’ wasn’t going to happen.
Though it made him sick in his heart to do it, and he desperately hoped that he wouldn’t find anything, he had to look.
As Dan’s car pulled out of the parking lot, Brandon smiled and waved through the glass window as though not a thing in the world was wrong. Then he immediately turned back to his keyboard. He’d specifically waited until the office was empty before he did the search. He had no idea how long he’d be here or what he’d find, and he had no desire whatsoever to explain what he was looking up.
He pulled up a search engine and typed in ‘spells candles.’ In seconds, a slew of links appeared on his screen.
He sighed. Of course it wasn’t going to be that easy.
Wading through the flotsam that a search like this always produced, he thought about what he’d seen at Lilah’s the night before. Candles, everywhere. All women, or at least most that he knew, loved candles, but he’d never before seen a collection like Delilah owned. She had a set of tall thin ones in primary colors: blue, yellow, green and red. There was a tall fat white one. A tall fat black one.
The black candle seemed odd to him. It wasn’t a homey, I-sure-love-the-light-of-a-flame kind of candle. And there were a handful of others. All in wooden candle holders, most of which looked like they’d been carved from knots of wood. They were pretty. But combined with the rest of it, they were suspicious, too.
There were little glass bowls, one had white stuff in it. Maybe sugar, he hadn’t been able to get close enough to see. There was a wall rack with ceremonial knives. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed it before.
The thing was, before he’d been too caught up in looking at Delilah. And, truth be told, they looked like decoration. They were pretty and artfully arranged. Just the kind of thing Delilah would have a collection of. She sure didn’t have teacups or those little crying figurines. But the knives were now suspect.
He’d been thumbing through the list. Pulling up a website and closing it down again when it didn’t provide any help. Then a picture popped up on one of the links and grabbed his attention.
His heart stopped cold.
The photo was captioned “witch’s altar.” Witches had altars?
But it was the things in the photo that made him sit back, that slowed his breathing. There were two dishes. A sun and a moon carving. A wicked sharp ceremonial knife. A wine glass of blood. A big black candle.
Oh shit.
Knowing he wasn’t going to like what he found, Brandon forced himself to read the accompanying article.
It explained something called casting a circle, which was generally done with a circle of salt and four candles . . . in red, yellow, and blue with the fourth being green or brown depending on the various branch of Wicca being practiced. The piece went on to describe the items in the photo and that the altar could be changed or rearranged depending on the witch or the spell. It said ‘practitioners’ often preferred to choose a sun god and moon goddess that represented themselves rather than the standard in the picture. The sugar in the bowl was actually salt. And, to his great relief, the blood was merely red wine.
While the information made him feel marginally better, the very fact that all the items for a witch’s workshop were on Delilah’s bookshelf or wall only made him feel worse.
For an hour, he ran other searches, looking up ‘casting spells’ and ‘modern day witches.’ He thumbed through one article after another, a lot of them having to do with ritual sacrifice, the need to kill with the athame—the ceremonial knife—as a way to empower it for magick. There was an entire section devoted to creating spell energy from living sources, either by bloodletting or killing. It said witches could spill their own blood for a sp
ell, but in many cases the blood of another was required.
His stomach turned.
Eventually he learned far more than he needed.
The stupid school-fair psychic and the creepy man on the street had been right about one thing—he was in trouble. Big, big trouble.
He knew the greatest danger was—even seeing all this—he still wanted her. He didn’t want to want her. But, God, he did.
Oh crap.
His head dropped into his hands. That first night. She’d burned something and tried to hand it to him.
With renewed energy and renewed dread, he typed in ‘forgetting spells.’ Again a whole list popped up, but he didn’t even need to click through to any of the links. Just in the short bit of information that accompanied each title, he could glean ‘lavender sticks’ ‘burning’ and ‘candle.’ As he scrolled down one said ‘works best if victim holds burning sprig.’
Rage swam through him.
She’d clearly cast one of these ‘forgetting’ spells on him. Maybe she hadn’t actually lied when she said she hadn’t drugged him. But she sure as hell hadn’t told the truth either.
He still didn’t have that whole night back. And he, who always had to get to the bottom of everything, somehow just let it slide. Who knew what she’d done to him in the time he’d forgotten?
Obviously, she’d cast some kind of spell on him to make him acquiescent. And a love spell, too. A love spell sure explained how he felt about her. That craving that he didn’t know where it came from. The sex that was beyond excellent. The need to see her all the time. That she was constantly on his mind.
Again, knowing didn’t change the fact that he still wanted her. Part of him wanted to find a way for everything to be okay. The other part of him was just insanely angry.
Quickly, he searched for love spells, almost blinking when the computer couldn’t spit them out fast enough. Most looked like recipes—lists of herbs and items with an accompanying explanation of how to walk the right pattern or when in the spell to say or do what. A few contained warnings. Some had guarantees.
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