Page 25 of Head Witch in Charge (The Sherwood Witches #2)

“This doesn’t change anything,” I say as I straddle him, leaving an inch of space between our bodies.

Am I talking to myself or him? A little of both?

“It’s just scratching an itch.” I lower my face until my mouth is a hairsbreadth from his.

“As soon as we get The Liber Umbrarum safely tucked away, we do the divorce spell.”

He tenses underneath me for a fraction of a second—a moment so short I almost think I’ve made it up in my head—and then relaxes before planting his hands on my hips and pulling me down so that I’m pressed right up against him.

Pleasure shoots through me at the contact, and it takes everything I have not to rub myself against him.

Even with layers of clothing between us, there’s no mistaking how much he wants me too.

“Erik,” I say, his name coming out like a plea.

He answers—but not with words. He lifts his head and closes the distance between our mouths, kissing me like a man making a promise that he intends to keep.

It starts with a brush of our lips that sets off a cascade of sensations like a waterfall of want sweeping through me.

Then he parts his lips, inviting me for more.

It’s not an invitation I’m going to pass up.

I deepen the kiss, teasing his tongue with mine as I cup the sides of his face.

His day-old scruff tickles my palms and the phantom feel of that prickle against the inside of my thighs as he eats me out makes my core clench.

The man is so fucking talented with that tongue.

Even now, he’s working it to take the kiss from just-scratching-an-itch to guaranteeing so much more.

This is dangerous because it is oh-so-tempting.

We both know exactly what could—would—happen next.

It’s in the way he knows the precise right moment to slip his hand under the bottom of my lightweight green sweater and settle on the small of my back.

He spreads his fingers and holds me not with pressure but with that unspoken knowledge that when we’re like this, everything just works.

Like, works really, really well. My nipples are hard and aching for Erik’s fingers or mouth.

My breasts are full and heavy as I press them against his chest, and I have the urge to stretch so my tits, accessible by the V-neck cut of my sweater, hang in his face, and the only thing stopping me from doing just that is the fact that I’d have to break this kiss.

I’m not ready to do that. I’m not sure I ever will be.

Seriously. The man is simply kissing me, letting me take the lead, and I’m ready to go sexy whirlwind on his ass.

My skin is electrified, every nerve is tuned in to him, and time is slowing down even as it speeds up while I try to hang on to every sensation and reach for the next oh-fuck-yes at the same time.

I rock against his hard cock as I keep kissing him, trying to ease the lust burning through me.

If I had the brainpower for words right now, a get-us-both-naked-stat spell would be in the works.

As it is, it’s all I can do to remember to breathe.

Hey, maybe there are women out there who wouldn’t just melt into a kiss like this.

That’s not me. I cannot get enough and it’s too fucking good for me to pretend otherwise.

“Hey! This is private property.” A man’s voice cuts through the lust enough to make me raise my head.

A farmer in denim overalls with a head of hair that looks more like a chestnut mane is rushing toward us. He waves the pitchfork he’s carrying in the air and fire sparks off of the tines.

“That doesn’t look good,” Erik says.

The farmer tosses his head back and lets out a loud neigh that sets off a cacophony of responses from the hippocamps, yanking my attention over to the lake to see them racing toward the shore near us.

Yeah, they’d have to cross the sliver of beach and climb up the slope to our illegal picnic area, but stranger things have happened in Witchingdom.

“Can the hippocamps run on land?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Erik says, jerking his chin at the farmer, “but he sure can.”

The other man is gaining ground, and flames are shooting out of the pitchfork. The mental image of getting toasted shoves out all thoughts of the hippocamps and pretty much everything else but white noise and panic. This is not how I expected to go out.

Erik clamps his hand on mine, jerking my attention to his face and the sexy smirk of his that makes it seem like we’re having a normal one when the reality is we’re about to be turned into roasted marshmallows.

“Effugium,” he says.

I barely have time to translate the word into “escape” before we’re flying through the air just above the trees, which are using their branches to try to snatch us out of the sky.

A skinny, gnarled limb wraps around my ankle, the rough wood scratching my skin, but it can’t hold me, and we fly onward, dropping down into Bessie’s welcoming leather seats with a soft thud.

Erik turns the key in the ignition as he grins at me like a kid who got away with snagging the last snickerdoodle in the cookie jar. “Still not having fun?”

I don’t say anything, because what’s the point when he can see the truth on my unable-to-stop-grinning face?

He laughs and sends a cloud of dust into the air as he does a fast reverse and spins Bessie around before shifting into drive.

The wind is whipping through my hair and the giggles are back as I throw my arms up as we speed down the road and turn onto the highway with a squeal of Bessie’s tires, leaving the scent of burnt rubber in our wake.

It’s like being back in Vegas with that feeling of exhilaration and absolutely fucking joyful freedom rushing through me, making the blood rush through my ears.

Erik must feel it too, because his dimples practically have dimples, he’s smiling so hard as Bessie eats up the miles.

I close my eyes and take in a deep breath, doing my best to cement this core memory in my heart so I can access it later when all of this seems like a dream or a nightmare or just unreal enough that I’m not sure it happened at all.

“Shit,” Erik says.

That exclamation is my only warning before he slams on the brakes, flinging an arm out to block me from flying forward as if I’m not already wearing a seat belt.

That’s when I look up and see the snaggletoothed grin of a ten-foot-tall bridge troll standing smack-dab in the middle of the highway in front of an interstate overpass.

“Walter!” The troll rubs her hands together with glee. “Don’t worry about ordering from Broom Dash. It looks like dinner has arrived.”