Page 33 of Head Witch in Charge (The Sherwood Witches #2)
“No need,” one of the bellhops says, his voice thick and sweet like warm honey. “No one can or would ever violate your boundaries at the inn.”
Then he closes the doors with a firm click. Still holding Erik’s hand (I’ll let go eventually), I turn around to take in what Sil described as the suite’s lounge room to recuperate. My breath catches.
I’ve seen a lot of things in my life. Witchingdom is as deep as it is wide when it comes to creatures, people, and tastes. However, I’ve never seen anything like the Barberini suite.
The same interior decorator who designed the foyer worked their magic in this suite too.
The color scheme is all dark greens and blues with touches of gold and dark walnut giving it a luxurious vibe.
There are a trio of low backless couches with cushiony, rounded armrests at each end that form a spacious triangle around the room.
Piles of oversized jewel-colored pillows are artfully scattered about the floor.
In the middle of the room is a life-sized marble statue of a man—no, a faun—with thick, curly hair and beefy muscles.
He’s lounging on a chair with his eyes closed, an arm bent behind his head, and one hand wrapped around the thick girth of his cock, the muscles of his forearm straining with activity.
His bare legs are splayed open, one leg draped over the chair’s arm and a foot next to a floor cushion that still has divots in it from where someone had been kneeling.
It is immediately apparent that the artist had been very devoted to their craft—and the model for this statue.
Letting go of Erik’s hand, I take a few steps forward to get a better look at the faun and realize it’s not the only statue in the room.
The rest are displayed on shelves or in decorative nooks.
Like the faun, they are highly detailed with loving devotion paid to what they’re packing between their legs.
I’ll have to tell Effie all about the decor next time we talk.
She’s going to want to book this room for sure.
In addition to the solitary statues, there are paintings depicting fauns and humans and witches and shifters and vampires and gnomes and pixies and trolls and even hippocamps in every sort of combination engaged in any sexual practice you could imagine and a few I never had and really want to think about in depth next time I am alone with twenty minutes to spare.
“They’re satyrs,” Erik says, his voice low and rough as he comes up behind me and rests one hand on my hip. “The Nysa Inn? I should have realized.”
I’m trying to think about that revelation while I’m being bombarded with a million sensations from Erik.
The light yet possessive feel of his fingers on my hip.
The way he almost but doesn’t quite brush up against my ass.
The wisp of his words brushing against my neck.
The fact that my clothes don’t feel right being on my body anymore.
The tension in my scalp from having my hair pulled back into a too-tight ponytail.
All of it is almost more than I can or want to stand.
“I thought they only acted as matchmakers for profit,” I say, knowing I should put some distance between us even as I don’t move an inch. “Did you slip Sil money?”
“We are already married, wife.” Erik chuckles as he glides his hand from my hip across my stomach, his fingers spread wide across the thin cotton. “There’s nothing to matchmake between us.”
When did him calling me “wife” start sounding so good?
I don’t know, and I can’t think about that right now.
I really can’t think about much. Not when the air is so thick with want and need and gotta have that it’s nearly impossible to breathe.
I don’t plan to step back, but I do. His hard cock presses against the top of my ass and a shiver of anticipation goes through me.
Erik lets out a harsh hiss of breath and his body tenses behind mine. “I need to go to my room.”
“You’ve got to be tired after everything,” I say as I take his free arm and wrap it around me too because the urge to be totally surrounded by him isn’t a want, it’s a need.
He groans, and it’s the sound of someone trying—maybe for the first time—to do the right thing even though it’s wrong.
“Not in the least. I feel fucking fantastic, that’s the problem.” He tightens his hold on me, locking me in place as he dips his head so his lips are only millimeters from my ear and says, “You’re right that the satyrs matchmake for money, but what do they do for fun?”
I bite down on my lip and give in to the urge to relax against his hard chest. “Orgies.”
“And?” He kisses the spot behind my earlobe.
It’s not fair that he knows just what to do to make me feel this good, to make me forget everything else but him. I am the Sherwood heir. I don’t get to have who I want. I—
“Oh shit,” I gasp as my heart races. “The inn is covered by Nullam Inhibitionis.”
“That’s right.” Erik nods, the day-old scruff on his chin grazing my neck and making my breath catch. “The spell guarantees nothing you don’t want and everything you do without fear of consequences or judgment or others’ expectations. It’s just you and what you really want deep in your heart.”
Tempting doesn’t even begin to cover the possibilities.
Under every satyr’s roof, the Nullam Inhibitionis spell is sacred in Witchingdom, protecting everyone and granting them their lusty desires.
It’s not that it makes you do anything—it definitely doesn’t.
It’s just that it gives you permission to allow yourself to have what you want.
It’s freedom. It’s safety. It’s letting go of everything outside the front doors.
In a lot of ways, it’s beyond my comprehension and an opportunity that is completely overwhelming. So I retreat back to what I know, my role as the heir only concerned with my family.
“What I want doesn’t matter,” I mean to sound firm, but it comes out as a wavering whisper.
“It does here,” Erik says, letting me go and putting a sliver of space between us. “It does with me. So tell me, LeLe, do you want me to say good night now and then disappear alone behind that bedroom door, or do you want me to stay?”