Page 19 of Head Witch in Charge (The Sherwood Witches #2)
Erik…
I’d spent most of the night with a hard dick trying not to imagine what LeLe looked like on the other side of that ridiculous pillow wall. Sure, one easy iustus velox vultus spell could have given me a peek, but I’m an asshole, not a creep.
So instead I contemplated a cerebri torpet spell just so I’d numb my brain enough to stop remembering how she looked when she slept, when she came, when she danced around the room in only my white button-down shirt singing the wrong song lyrics that she’d argued with complete conviction were the right ones.
No, she hadn’t been on key.
No, she hadn’t been even close to getting the words right.
No, I had not spent the last year singing the song with her lyrics whenever it came on. I might have thought them though. Don’t fucking judge. Sometimes things are so wrong they’re right.
That’s not the point though. What is? That last night was the longest fucking seven hours of pretending to sleep of my life and this morning is beginning to feel even longer. Why? Oh, I’ll tell you exactly why—because some asshole invented the shower.
You see, I’d thought I’d made it through the worst of it when LeLe disappeared into the bathroom.
But then she’d turned on the water and all I could picture was her standing naked under the spray as the air from her four-million-degree shower grew thick with steam.
I didn’t have to cast a spell to see the droplets cascading down her body, traveling over her shoulders, gliding over her full tits, and dripping off of her hard nipples.
My imagination and memory, the shitbirds that they are, teamed up to make that happen.
Her red hair is probably piled on top of her head, thick with shampoo bubbles that smell like sugar cookies fresh out of the oven.
She’s got that closed-eye dreamy look she gets whenever she is surrounded by heat.
I swear the woman has to have Hyperion in her ancestral line somewhere.
Only someone related to the Titan god and personification of the sun could stand the boiling-hot showers she takes.
It’s like she finally unwinds and lets herself go whenever she’s surrounded by steam and heat—man, does she let herself go.
Her hotel room in Vegas had a massive walk-in shower with heads on each wall and a rain shower up above and two well-placed teak benches.
We’d had some good times in that shower, some really fucking good times—my favorite being when I was eating her out and she came hard enough to almost crack my skull between her thick thighs.
Yeah, that had been worth the not-quite burn on my back from the water she’d set to lava temperature.
And that’s why, for the past ten minutes, I’ve been all but trying to suffocate myself with this damn feather pillow, getting scratched on the cheek by what was left of some golden goose in the process.
At this point, I’m not even sure death would change the state of my cock.
It’s just tenting up the sheets like a giant fuck-you to my dumb ass for thinking I could be this close to LeLe and not want to keep her naked and orgasmic for the rest of eternity—or at least until she discovers what I’m really up to and turns me into a slimy, log-sitting vodyanoy complete with algae hair and a smoking pipe.
That image alone should have killed my hard-on. That it didn’t makes me reconsider that brain-numbing spell.