Page 25 of Beyond the Cottage (After the Fairytale #1)

Chapter 25

T ransfixed, Gretta stared at the silvery braid. Black hairs threaded the gray, and frayed kitchen twine tied off each end. She brushed a finger over it, as enthralled as she was repulsed.

It had been her first trophy. She’d taken it after stabbing the Eater in the gullet with a paring knife when the witch dragged Ansel from their cage to the kitchen. While bleeding out, the Eater had appeared stunned and fascinated that Gretta had it in her. Afterward, they stuffed her frail corpse in the oven. Gretta had given the braid to Ansel so he’d always remember the cunt was dead.

“You still have it,” she breathed.

“I thought about burning it many times but ended up carrying it around with me, instead. I don’t know why.”

“You’ll let me have this if I give you another hug?”

“I’d consider it a bargain.”

Gretta gnawed the inside of her cheek. Same as their previous deal, his terms wildly favored her, but this time it felt riskier, like diving off a cliff without knowing the water depth below. Just looking at him while he waited for her answer made her stomach flutter with anxiety.

Which was so absurdly stupid, it wasn’t worth examining. She’d traipse naked through Antrelle for one strand of that hair. And hell, maybe a quick cuddle would serve her cause. If she made the hug friendly enough, he might change his mind about the capital that night.

It wasn’t a big deal, either way.

Gretta clipped the braid to the ring on her belt and slid to the floor. “Okay, but this is the last time I hug you.”

He flattened his hands on his thighs and dug his fingers into them. Shadows concealed his face, which improved the nerves Gretta absolutely didn’t have.

She sat on her folded legs, facing him. “Um. Neck or waist?”

“Neck.” His gravelly voice lit her non-existent nerves on fire. Reminding herself it was no big deal, she inched closer and put her hands on his shoulders.

His shirt was soft from over-washing. It contrasted the hard bone and muscle underneath, and she experimentally squeezed. The places where he used to be fragile, he’d become solid.

Curious and emboldened by the dark, she slid her palms up his neck. Dense, silky hair met her fingertips, and she rubbed a piece between her thumb and forefinger.

He needed a trim. In the cottage, he’d hated how long it grew. He’d loudly complain while Gretta worked the snarls out, and she’d promised to cut it for him when they escaped. Now it was much thicker and healthier. She sifted through the strands, extending them until they touched his collar.

His throat rolled as he swallowed, and Gretta dropped his hair.

She was stalling.

Why was she stalling? Best to get this over with.

Returning her palms to his shoulders, she took a deep breath. She plunged forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. Several inches remained between their chests. The clock across the room ticked off the seconds. Soon, Gretta’s muscles strained from the uncomfortable position.

It was…awkward. Forced. She almost laughed in relief. Then his arms circled her waist, expertly nestling her in his lap as if he’d been doing it every day for fourteen years.

The flutter in Gretta’s stomach became a tornado. Half her brain screamed to crawl away, to rebuke him for over-stepping, while the other half whispered words like safety , shelter , protection .

Her body had its own ideas. It curled into him, nestling harder, and the line between the past and present blurred.

Being in his lap again was so damn comfortable. And familiar. He was broader now, his arms were heavier, but their weight settled around her so naturally, her eyes stung from missing him. She hid them in his shirt.

Whatever issues remained between them, holding him again felt good . Would it be so awful to ignore everything else, just for a few minutes?

As she sank deeper in his lap, he shakily exhaled, and it unraveled something in her. She pet the back of his head, drawing his different-yet-familiar scent into her lungs, blurring the lines more.

She didn’t question why her hands slid along his nape, down his neck, up to lift his face. She didn’t care why she nudged her nose against his and held it there. All that mattered was she felt like it.

Her head spun like she was drunk, making her reckless enough to wonder what it would be like to kiss him again. Just a quick peck to see. If they only had these minutes, she wanted everything they’d taken for granted as kids.

She tipped his face down, and her mouth landed on his perfectly. His body tensed, and for a horrible moment, she thought he’d push her away. Then he cupped the back of her head. They stayed like that, mouths pressed together, for seconds or hours, she wasn’t sure how long.

Time stopped existing.

Because it felt so incredibly good.

But it wasn’t the same as their childhood kisses. They had different bodies now. She had different needs. Her mouth gripped his top lip, gently pulling.

His tugged back. They both parted their lips…

And waited.

The waiting was unbearable, and tense, and electric . Then his tongue lightly brushed hers, and Gretta’s very grown up body ignited.

She thrust her tongue against his, deeply, aggressively. He exhaled through his nose desperately, but she felt restraint in his movements, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch her. It made her want to see the rational scientist lose control.

Giving up on lines altogether, she whispered, “Kiss me like a villain would.”

His breath paused. He slid his hand from her scalp to her jaw, firmly tilting her head back, thumb coaxing her lips open.

When their mouths reconnected, he dragged his tongue against hers in a long, plunging stroke. She shoved her hands in his hair and did it back.

Their kiss became frantic, clumsy with urgency. There was no confusing it with adolescent affection, the energy between them had nothing to do with comfort. They weren’t kids anymore, and she didn’t want comfort.

Gretta swung a leg to straddle him. He hissed into her mouth as their groins met. He was rock hard, and it sparked kindling that had been building for longer than she wanted to admit. She ground on him, finding a rhythm.

Soon, it wasn’t enough.

Ansel was hallucinating. Nothing else explained Gretta’s legs wrapped around his waist or why she was pulling him on top of her. When he followed her to the floor, she wrapped her legs tighter and resumed grinding.

It left the wires in his brain crossed, his neurons misfiring. He wanted to unleash his desire for her as badly as he wanted to protect her from it.

For days, he’d reminded himself they used to be friends, that he shouldn’t notice what lay under her flimsy camisole or how splendidly her trousers clung to her hips. But he could no longer deny reality. She wasn’t a girl anymore, and he wanted her in every way a man could.

He seized all she gave, taking her mouth like he was starved for it. He’d thought himself indifferent to kissing, had always found it a strange and unnecessary convention. Now he didn’t know how he’d make it through a day without tasting her.

She clawed at his shirt, and he whipped it off. Her hands roamed his bare chest, easing the sting from her previous reaction to it.

Did she want him to touch her, too?

“Touch me,” she exhaled. “I’m already close.”

Her words made his cock jerk. They also brought clarity. She wanted release, nothing more. While he couldn’t fathom why she’d turn to him for it, he’d gladly indulge her in any way she wanted.

He pushed his hand up her ribcage, and his thumb brushed the underside of her breast. “Here?”

She arched into him. “Yes.”

“Like a villain would?”

“ Yes. ”

He palmed her breast firmly and sucked the nipple through her silk top. She moaned, grinding on him. He thrust back once, twice, a third time, a fourth. Panting, he stopped. He was already spinning out of control. As her tempo sped up, he grabbed her ass, holding it in place.

“Slow down, Gret,” he rasped.

Her teeth latched on his neck. Her throat made sexy, indecipherable noises, and he closed his eyes, trying to tune them out.

Picture Libretti’s formula. Think about chemistry.

But this was chemistry—two unstable elements colliding toward a detonation. He was hydrogen, and she was a goddamn bonfire.

How would he survive it?

When she resumed thrusting, all care for survival evaporated. He’d give her what she wanted, even if it killed him. Pressing his forehead to hers, he grabbed her hips, dragging his cock between her legs, tip to base, in a long, slow stroke.

“Again,” she gasped.

He continued sliding himself along her pants, wincing in pleasure. The tip was too sensitive, so he ground the base where she’d feel it most.

“Don’t stop,” she said.

He went harder, simulating intercourse, fucking her without fucking her.

He was going to explode .

“Tell me when you’re there,” he grated.

“Almost!” She lifted her thighs to his waist. Fabric rasped as he rode her. “Almost… there. ” Her body stiffened, and her lips parted on a soundless moan.

Ansel wasn’t nearly so quiet.

“ Fuck! ” he cried against her neck. His lower body jerked, still thrusting, as he released in agonized pulses. It was every culmination he’d ever experienced, combined into one, multiplied by ten.

When it finally abated, he fell on her, raggedly breathing into her hair. He shifted to take his weight off without letting her go. She didn’t try to move.

Ansel’s thoughts fired chaotically before condensing into a single idea he hardly recognized as truth: Gretta had let him make her come.

Instead of awkwardness or confusion, it filled him with primitive satisfaction. For the rest of his nights, whenever he took himself in hand, he’d hear her throaty little moans and feel her legs clamped around him. And it would be terrible because it wouldn’t come close to the real thing.

She’d ruined him for coming without her.

A bleaker thought intruded—what if she regretted it? He had no idea why she’d let him slake her, and she probably didn’t either. Would she now face him with shame in addition to contempt?

Gretta shoved his shoulder, and he rolled to his back. When she stood in the moonlight and looked at him, he had his answer. His half-hard cock deflated.

“This was a mistake,” she said. “We’re going to pretend it didn’t happen.”

Ansel propped on his elbows. “How exactly do you expect me to pretend that?”

“I’m sure you’ll manage.” She lit a lantern and looked down at herself with a gasp.

Two wet spots stained the fabric between her legs. An absurdly larger one soaked him.

“God damm it,” she muttered.

He jerked his shirt on. “What did you think would happen? And by the way, those fluids aren’t all mine.”

She blushed.

Jaw rigid, he got up to dampen one of Isobel’s dishtowels in their wash bucket. After they both cleaned up, he tossed the towel in the compost bin and resettled on the floor.

Gretta clicked off the lamp before returning to the couch.

He listened to her fidget, replaying every moment of what ‘didn’t happen’. Despite her reaction after, he didn’t share her regret.

Should he, though?

Though they’d spent years apart, he struggled to separate the girl he’d adored from the woman who fascinated him. And hated him. It had been easier in the throes of the moment, of course. But now that reason had traveled from his dick to his brain, understanding what they’d just done felt like putting together a puzzle with a different picture on each side.

Still… Approaching it with logic and sense was in its own way senseless. They’d both changed, and his feelings for her had shifted. Undoing that would be as futile as turning lead into silver.

And Ansel would forget his name before he forgot that night.

Giving up on thought altogether, he closed his eyes, memorizing her taste on his lips.