Page 13 of Screwed by the Minotaur in Hallow’s Cove (Hallow’s Cove #6)

Chapter nine

Rick

The sun was far too bright when I woke up.

It pierced through the curtains, slicing into my eyes and drilling straight through to the back of my head.

For a moment, I thought I was back in Lea’s bed at the inn.

But the bed was empty, and the sheets were tangled around my legs.

I lay there, groaning, wishing I could rewind everything to the moment before I’d fucked it all up—somehow knowing even with a fresh start I’d screw it all up again.

The hangover pelted me like a heavy summer thunderstorm, but the memory of her standing there, hurt and angry, was like going through a hurricane.

Gravity became irrelevant. All I thought about was those eyes looking so disappointed in me, and my stomach roiled.

I’d wanted to make things right. Instead, I’d shown up at her door, confirming every worst fear she had about me.

I rolled over, burying my face in the pillow.

Fuck.

I peeled myself out of bed, the wooden floor too loud against hooves.

I wasn’t sure what to do. Give her space?

Give her time? A part of me knew I should back off, let her decide if she wanted anything more to do with me.

But another part—a bigger, more desperate part—wanted to go over there right now, sober and clear-headed, and try again.

I splashed cold water on my face and stared at my reflection.

My shaggy hair was a mess, and regret had settled deep in my eyes.

I needed to breathe. To think. To get my head on straight before I went to her again.

Maybe I’d made an idiot of myself the night before, but she was still the one who got us into this situation.

The thought burned, but it also cleared the haze. I wasn’t just going to let her waltz into town, wreck my head, and then sweep out again. If she wanted to play games, she’d picked the wrong minotaur.

I stormed out of the apartment, down to the shop. I didn’t know what I’d say when I saw her, but I knew one thing: I wasn’t going to be the one to retreat in embarrassment.

I knocked on the flower shop door once, hard. No answer. The windows were covered in brown paper, but I could hear music blasting—early 2000s, some boy band—leaking through the cracks.

I didn’t wait for an invitation. I turned the handle and stepped inside.

It was an explosion of color—fresh paint, stacks of packaging, pots of flowers in various states of bloom.

Lea stood behind the counter, her curls piled up with two pencils and a spade jammed through them like it was a hairdo straight from an art supply riot.

Lea was hunched over her phone, typing one-handed, the other hand holding a half-eaten donut.

She didn’t look up.

“Lea.” I called over the music.

“Rick?” Her voice was startled, then cutting. “Sobered up, have you?” She turned down the old-fashioned CD player she had next to her.

She was right, but it still stung.“Yeah, I have. And if you are going to stay here, then we need to at least be civil to each other.”

Her tone was pure steel. “Fine. Let’s be civil neighbors.” She set down the donut with a deliberate lack of care, wiped her fingers on a rag, and gave me a glare that could scour rust off metal.

“Run your shop. I’ll run mine. We’ll keep it professional.” Her laugh was sharp-edged but real. “You think you can manage that, big guy?”

I bristled at the word. “Careful,” I said, stepping closer.

“Or what?” she said, chin up, lips twitching. “You’ll mope at me? Glare holes in my drywall?”

“Don’t push me,” I said, but it came out hoarse, barely more than a growl.

The look she gave me then—defiant, electric—should have been a warning.

Instead, it detonated every rational thought in my skull.

With no more than a heartbeat’s hesitation, I leaned forward, flattening my palms on the counter.

She didn’t recoil. She didn’t even blink.

She just stared me down, chest rising and falling like she was daring me to cross the line.

So I did.

In one motion I vaulted the counter, scattering the screws and nails that Randy had left behind, landing just inches from her.

She didn’t flinch. If anything, she squared her shoulders, tilting her chin up so our faces were even.

I could see the spark in her eyes, a riot of hurt and want and willful, impossible hope.

“Didn’t think you had it in you,” she whispered, and the words barely made it past her lips before I crushed my mouth into hers.

She met the kiss like a slap, hard and greedy.

There was nothing polite about it. All lips and tongue and an angry, desperate gasp that burned in my mouth.

Her hands tangled in my shirt, bunching the fabric, and she yanked me so close I could have sworn she meant to tear me in half. Good. Maybe I wanted her to.

I pressed her back into the wall behind the counter, feeling every point of contact: her small fingers digging into the flesh of my shoulders, her thighs bracing my hips, the fever-hot pulse pounding in her throat as my lips trailed down to claim it.

She let out a sound—not quite a moan, not quite a growl, but something feral—and the need in it made me lose the last shreds of sense I had.

My hands roamed over her, everywhere, gripping her hips, sliding up her back, tangling in her hair.

I wanted every part of her, wanted to erase the distance we’d carved between us.

I kissed down her neck, feeling her shiver against me, feeling the heat between us grow until it was more than I could handle.

Until I was hard and aching and ready to take her right there on the shop floor, to show her how much I wanted her, how much she meant.

“Upstairs,” she panted, her voice urgent.

I pulled back, breathless, my eyes searching hers for something—anything—to tell me this was real.

Her gaze was steady, and she tugged at my hand, leading us through the mess of paint cans and empty boxes and up the stairs to her apartment.

Lea

My pulse throbbed in my ears, the sharp hammering of my heart matching the wild scramble of our feet as I hauled him up the stairs.

We were a frantic mess of tangled limbs and reckless urgency, my boots and his hooves sending vibrations through the old wood, the soft glow of midmorning light be damned.

I didn’t know if this was madness or desperation, and I didn’t give a fuck.

I needed him, needed the heat of him, needed that first kiss—searing, possessive, branding my soul.

I kicked open the apartment door. Rick was mine the second he stumbled inside, his mouth crashing onto mine, fierce, demanding, tasting of stale whiskey, sleep, and a primal hunger that matched my own.

I drank him down like the strongest shot, body already yearning for more, already aching for every part of him.

“Lea.” He groaned my name, ragged and raw, like a plea and a challenge rolled into one.

I tore at his shirt, buttons flying, fingers clumsy, frantic in their need.

He grabbed my waist and slammed me against the wall, heat and desperation in every movement.

I locked my legs around him, feeling the hard, urgent length of him press between my thighs.

Everything about him was molten, insistent.

His fingers dug into my hips, anchoring me to him as he ground into me, his breath hot and heavy on my neck.

He crushed my lips again. My nails scored fiery lines down his back, pulling a low, feral moan from deep in his chest. The sound resonated through me, echoed straight to my core, told me how much he needed this too.

I writhed, gripping him with my thighs as he carried me to the sheet-draped bed, still warm from the morning sun.

The gentleness with which he laid me down was a stark contrast to the storm in his eyes.

I whimpered at the lack of contact. But he was on me again, in an instant, hands and mouth frantic, unzipping my jeans, tugging both pants and underwear off in one quick motion, leaving me bare beneath him.

He licked a clear, torturous path from my hipbone to my inner thigh.

I bucked, arching as his teasing tongue circled my clit, sending jolts of electricity through me.

Fingers tangled in his hair, I pulled him deeper.

He growled into me, the vibration electric and more intense than I could stand.

He latched onto my clit, sucking hard, and I nearly screamed.

I didn’t care if the whole building heard.

No part of me wanted to play coy, not with him, not right now.

His hands pinned my hips, huge and unyielding, holding me open while he licked into me, tongue flat and greedy, flicking up and down like he’d been starving for this, for me.

I clenched around the emptiness, wanting more, and he must have read my mind because he slipped two thick fingers inside, curling them perfectly, hitting that sweet, pulsing spot.

“Shit, Rick,” I gasped, slamming my fist into the mattress, “don’t stop, don’t you fucking dare—”

He growled, low, and pulled back just long enough to say, “I love how you taste. How you fall apart for me. Let go. I want to feel you come.” His voice was thick and hungry, and I nearly snapped in half hearing him say it.

“Please,” I begged, so far gone I barely recognized my own voice.

He answered by pushing in a third finger, a stretch that burned so good I saw stars. His tongue kept circling my clit, relentless, coordinated with the curl of his hand. He murmured against me, “That’s it. Let yourself go. Give it to me, all of it. I want to taste you when you come.”