Page 40 of Head Witch in Charge (The Sherwood Witches #2)

LeLe…

This is the longest road trip I’ve ever taken in my life.

Fine, I know that’s actually not saying much, considering I usually just magic myself whenever a trip is within a few hundred miles.

For trips longer than that, it’s usually via magic carpet or spelled train.

Either one of those options will allow you to have breakfast in New York and dinner in Sydney on the same day.

But three nights out on the road going from point A to point B? That’s an absolutely unheard-of length of time just for magical travel—and it’s still not long enough.

I’m not saying I’m sitting here asking the fates to give Bessie a flat tire or punch a hole in the tank so she runs out of gas or anything, but I’m not saying the thought hasn’t crossed my mind.

The land grows flatter with every mile we travel farther west, and it’s nothing but cornfields and the occasional farm dragon who swoops down from the clouds and lets loose with a blast of fire to clear the fields of anything left over after harvest so the farmers can start fresh in the spring.

“So you think we’ll get to the secured facility today?” I ask. “Barring any more sentient houses, trolls yearning for company, or satyrs?”

Yeah, I’m going for a joke here, but it comes out flat, and I sink back into Bessie’s warm leather seats.

Erik takes the exit for a highway going south. “Yeah,” he says, sounding about as enthusiastic as I feel. “We’re about three hours away.”

“Good. That means we’ll have this all taken care of and be able to go our separate ways by nightfall.”

It is exactly what I want.

Or what I did want.

What I still should want.

But I don’t, and I’m tired of lying to myself about it.

I am an awful liar anyway. The only member of our family who can lie well is my sister Juniper.

She can get anyone to believe whatever song and dance she’s selling.

Thank the fates, though, she only uses her powers for good.

Well, mostly. There was the time she talked Beatrice into believing that her perfect familiar was the irate rooster at the county fair—and that’s how we ended up with Barkley, the bane of my existence.

Until I met Erik.

But he’s not my nemesis anymore, is he?

Fuck. How did all of this become so damn confusing?

How about the moment he magicked matching “Mr.” and “Mrs.” luggage out of thin air and we took off in Bessie on what I thought was going to be a quick trip to the secured facility?

Sometimes I really hate it when I answer my own questions.

Even worse, I am beginning not to hate the fact that I’m hoping we never get to the secured facility because being with Erik is exactly where I want to be for the rest of my life.

I know, I know. He’s a lying jerk and I really should still loathe him.

But fates help me, I don’t.

Honestly, I’m not sure I ever did.

That little factoid, however, is not something I can deal with right now.

Not that it matters. It’s not like we can stay married.

He’s a Svensen and I’m a Sherwood. Our families are true enemies.

My mother has a whole list of appropriate husbands I need to pick from and it’s my duty as the heir to my family’s magic to do so.

That’s just the way it is. The way it’s always been.

There’s no point in trying to change it—especially not when the Council is looking to exploit any crack in the Sherwood family sense of unity.

“So what kind of spells do you think are in The Liber Umbrarum?” Erik asks, yanking me back to the here and now.

Jaw in my lap from shock, I pivot in my seat. “You didn’t even flip through it?”

“No time,” he says with a shrug. “First I had to steal it, then there was a rush to put it on display for a few hundred of Witchingdom’s most influential people so the word would get around to the Svensen creditors that we were not to be messed with, and then your sister and her friends stole it.

And now here we are, shutting it away so the Council doesn’t steal it back and cause Witchingdom’s downfall. ”

Yeah, nothing like putting my problems back into perspective. “Did you even have a plan to keep the Council from stealing it back before Tilda lifted it?”

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel as if he has to get his annoyance out somehow. “My dad planned to sell it on the black market while letting everyone think we still had it.”

“That is not the best plan.” Really. It is a horrible plan.

“And yet, here we are.” The lines around his mouth tighten as he glares at the straight stretch of highway ahead of us. “You and I are heirs, not the power holders. We don’t get a choice.”

I pop open the glove box and pull out The Liber Umbrarum. “Maybe there’s a spell in here for that.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” he scoffs.

I flip through the spell book, and while I don’t see a way to magic out of the blessing and curse of being an heir, what I do find is wild. Some spells are ridiculously specific, some are overwhelmingly complicated, and some call for ingredients that have been impossible to find for centuries.

While Erik drives, I tell him about the wackier ones, such as the one that ensures your enemy has a permanent itch on that one spot between their shoulder blades that they can’t reach.

Then there’s the one about how to banish a whifflesnirt—neither of us has any clue what a whifflesnirt is, so the spell must have worked.

We’re laughing about a spell to summon fungi (really, why would you ever need that) when I look over at Erik and something inside me shifts.

It’s like a curtain has been pulled back and I can see—finally see—who he really is and not just the asshole everyone in Witchingdom thinks he is.

Oh, he’s not perfect by any means, but he’s not as bad as he seems to think he is.

He’s the kind of guy who does whatever he must to protect the people he loves.

He tries to hide it, to pretend he really is the witch everyone assumes a Svensen is born being, but he gives himself away every time he talks about his brother and sister.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Erik asks suspiciously before he starts patting the top of his head. “I don’t have mushrooms growing out of my head, do I?”

There’s no way I can answer. I don’t even know how to put what I’m thinking into words that I’d actually allow to come out of my mouth. Erik Svensen, you’re a real sweetheart. Yeah, there is no way I can say that. As a Sherwood, I probably shouldn’t even be thinking it.

But I am.

And it’s true.

So I do the only thing I can at that moment.

I shimmy across Bessie’s leather bench seat, cup his face in my hands, and kiss him like our marriage isn’t on a countdown clock, like we really like each other, like we’re just two regular witches without families depending on us and therefore can do whatever we want whenever we want.

For a second it’s just me putting everything I’ve got into that kiss, but then Erik’s hands are on my hips, pulling me closer, and then he’s kissing me back.

My skin goes electric everywhere he touches as he skims his hands over my hips and under the hem of my sweater.

His fingers brush along my sensitive skin above my waistband, teasing me with little sparks that promise more.

I’m getting lost in him; the only thing tethering me to the here and now is the feel of Bessie’s steering wheel jammed against my side.

I’m ready to ask, beg, demand he pull over when the bench seat slides back, stopping with a solid thump in its farthest-back position.

It all happens so fast that I’m jolted back enough to break contact with Erik’s mouth, and that’s when I realize we’re still speeding down the highway.

Erik’s tall, but he’s not so tall that he could have his foot smashed down on the gas pedal.

“I’ve got you,” Erik says, pulling me back to him. “Always.”

I have half a second to realize that he must have spelled Bessie into auto drive before my lips are on his once again and thinking about anything else becomes utterly unimportant.

Straddling him with my knees on either side of his strong thighs, I rock against him as we kiss.

No, that’s the wrong word for it. It’s like we’re each staking our claim, daring the other one to deny it.

A more clearheaded me would be backing away.

Last night at the inn had been one thing.

But now? Here? With him? Only danger lies ahead.

But I can’t stop. Not with the way he’s making me feel as if I am the center of the world—or more precisely, as if the rest of the world doesn’t even exist anymore. Every part of me is tuned in to him as the scent of coffee curls around me.

I have no idea how he’s doing it, but even though we’re both still totally dressed, I swear to the fates that I can feel his fingers on my slick pussy, rubbing back and forth before plunging in deep over and over and over again before pulling back and circling my clit with infinite—and torturous—care.

It’s so good and so mean at the same time, that slow path he takes around me, adding pressure here and there, building a rhythm that my body clings to, every nerve awash in anticipation as my breath catches and my core tightens.

It’s too much and not enough and the best all at the same time, but part of my brain can’t stop wondering, “How are you…”

He increases the intensity and the words fade before I can get the rest of the sentence out.

“Does it matter?” he asks, his own voice ragged as if he is feeling the pressure build right along with me.