Page 25 of His Whispered Witch (Witches and Shifters: Scott Pack #6)

P enn shrieked with laughter as they almost tipped off the seat again, feeling the giddy pleasure of surprise pleasure.

“Here, let me?—”

“If you would just?—”

They both fumbled at the snap of her jeans until she batted his hand away, and he levitated off of her with the hand wedged by her head. She shoved her jeans down, but couldn’t get them past her knees, and laughed again as he crashed onto her.

“Oh wait, one second?—”

“I have to?—”

He tipped to the side, ending up sitting in the foot well. He reached into the front seat and dug between the cushions to grab a foil packet.

She curled up to push the rest of her clothes off and froze when she saw it, her mouth falling open.

“When the hell did you stash that there?”

She was teasing, but he didn’t smile. “In hopier days.”

“Don’t you mean happier?”

He shook his head, smiled, and levered himself back onto the seat.

First, he slid alongside her, impossibly close.

Then he dug a hand under her hip and scooped her up until she was on top.

She wasn’t a small woman. She’d hit a growth spurt early, shooting up like a weed above all the boys in class in middle school, so this was probably the first time in her life she felt this vulnerable.

He manhandled her like she was a doll. Why was that such a turn-on?

She leaned down and kissed him as he ran his hands up her back and over her head.

Nerve endings lit up all over her scalp, sending a zinging sensation down her spine.

She shook her head and tried to catch her breath.

She’d cut her hair off in a fit of pique, destroying the main selling point for the asshole in the other coven, but she didn’t think she was ever going to let it grow again.

He seemed equally enchanted, keeping his hands moving from the nape of her neck to her forehead in an arrhythmic dance as he kissed her. She marveled at the sensations. He’d touched nothing more than her head and her lips, and she was already more turned on than she’d been in her life.

In the back of her mind, she knew at least some of that was adrenaline and panic.

The first time had been simple attraction, tucked in his bed and safe from the world.

She’d been breaking every taboo she’d learned by being in the same room with him—let alone anything more—so it felt like an illicit, one-time thrill.

Now they were on the run together, contemplating unspeakably huge life decisions.

Everything was up in the air, and it was making her a little manic.

It turned out that giddy, unsettled terror was a real aphrodisiac as they crashed together by the side of the road with all their worldly possessions tucked haphazardly around them.

She could feel the richness of his fingertips against her skin, and every degree they warmed as they touched her. The ridges of his teeth were sharp against her tongue; he tasted of all her favorite foods at once.

When he finally moved his hand from her scalp to her breast, she gasped at the hot, firm pressure that seemed to stoke every fire higher.

She was panting with desire, already near the edge from a few strokes of his thumb.

If they ever got to the main event, she wasn’t going to be sane at the end of it, but she also desperately needed to last. Last time, he’d lavished attention on her, and it was over before she could reciprocate.

As good as this felt, she wanted him to have this, too.

Where was this driving need coming from? Was this the magic between them? It didn’t feel like magic. This felt primal, even cellular.

“Just let me—” he said, and both hands went to her hips to push her away.

She cried out in protest until she felt his knuckles against her belly button undoing his jeans.

Oh god, he was still dressed. She was about to explode, and he wasn’t even out of his clothes.

She heard the whip of his zipper as he finally got them open.

He rocked beneath her as he pushed his pants down just far enough to free himself.

She could feel him put on the condom as she rocked above him, unable to keep herself up like he could with a push-up.

She kept falling against his chest and bursting into giggles as he grabbed her hips.

She couldn’t stop giggling as they tried to line up.

His legs were tangled in his jeans, and she was sprawled above him without purchase.

She nudged his hip a little so she could slide her leg along the seat next to him and finally felt them connect.

He surged up, and she screamed into an immediate orgasm.

She had no purchase anywhere and no way to adjust or slow down or back away from the intensity, especially not with his hot hands pushing her closer.

He’d been so attentive and careful their first time, but this time he didn’t seem to care at all what he was doing, except more and faster.

It was perfect.

She’d always try to give herself time to adjust and titrate sensation, telling guys to slow down as she maneuvered positions so she wasn’t so vulnerable. She had good sex, but it wasn’t like this, where every half-formed thought shattered with every thrust. He wasn’t slowing down or being careful.

He speared her open relentlessly until she catapulted into a second orgasm, and every nerve ending seemed to white out. All she could do was hang on to his shirt as her brain went quiet.

She didn’t know when he finished, or how many more orgasms he’d rocked her into. She didn’t know when he pulled out or shifted their positions.

She came back to herself when he swept his hand over her scalp again, and she groaned in protest as battered nerve endings fired.

He shushed her and tipped her head back. She realized they were upright on the tiny shelf with her curled in his lap, her head on his shoulder. Her hands still clutched his shirt. They were sweaty and cramped, and she finally let go.

They were sitting in a truck with the engine off in summer on the prairie. The cottonwoods provided a bit of shade, but not enough. She was hot, sticky, and thirsty. She pushed away from his chest as her brain tried to normalize.

“I need a shower,” she said, looking down at herself. She was still wearing a shirt, too, and it was wrecked.

He chuckled, and she felt it against her hip.

“Grab your pants, and we can make that happen.”

She glanced out the windshield at the trees and the endless nothing behind them.

“Don’t tell me there’s a magic shower in the horse trailer.”

“Human habitat does exist out here. Somebody somewhere has a shower.” He cleared his throat. “And failing that, there’s always home.”

She paused as she was forcing jeans up over sweaty skin and wishing she’d brought a skirt.

Home .

She’d been so sure driving this road toward Colorado that she was heading for home.

She’d found a coven of misfits deep in the mountains where no one would bother her, and she could build her life and her business.

Now, less than a year later, she was driving back down the mountain, having blown up every single commitment she made.

She glanced at Asher. He looked like some ancient Viking with his long white-gray hair slicked back with sweat. He looked younger, more peaceful, as if there wasn’t an epic internal battle being waged within him.

She hadn’t realized until they were gone how pronounced the lines of stress on his forehead and around his eyes were. She was immeasurably grateful that she could do that for him, even for a moment, to quiet that epic battle.

She leaned into him and kissed him with a sigh.

He pulled back a little. “Sound good?”

She just smiled wider.

“You okay?” he asked.

She realized she was far calmer as well. The manic adrenaline had burned itself out.

She hadn’t failed. She’d just found a better option, right? She blew up her new life because it needed blowing up, not because she’d epically screwed up once again.

She couldn’t help wondering if she was mistaking good sex for a good decision, but it was far, far too late to fix it now.