Page 22 of Where the Roses Bloom (Gospels & Grimoires #1)

Rhett

The skillet was still warm on the stove. Rosemary and browned butter hung in the air, a promise we had no intention of keeping.

We were supposed to be eating.

Instead, Willow was spread out across the kitchen table, thighs locked around my shoulders, her head tipped back, hair cascading like honey over the edge of the wood.

Sunlight poured in through the windows, catching in the curve of her jaw, the arousal between her thighs, the way her chest rose and fell in sharp little gasps every time I sucked at her clit.

One of her hands was tangled in my hair, the other grasping the sugar bowl we hadn’t bothered to move. The plates were still on the counter. The toast was cold. The coffee was untouched.

And I didn’t give a damn.

This was how most mornings went now. I’d walk past her, maybe brush my hand across her waist while she stirred something on the stove—and she’d look up at me with those eyes.

That soft, secret smile like she already knew what was coming.

And before I could think better of it, I’d have her on the counter, or against the door, or sprawled across this very table, wet and begging and mine.

I couldn’t stop touching her.

She was so soft under my hands. So open. Her breath hitched with every slow drag of my tongue, her hips rising to meet my mouth like her body was desperate to chase the next wave. I let her grind against my face, let her use me however she needed, my grip tight on her hips to keep her steady.

Her thighs trembled around my ears. Her voice broke on a moan that shattered straight through me.

I kissed higher, mouth trailing up her thigh, her hipbone, the tender dip just below her belly. I pressed my face into the heat of her, groaning as I felt her throb beneath my tongue.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered.

Like I ever could.

I swore this was what I was made for—to worship her like this. To start every damn day on my knees with my mouth on her, drinking her in like the most sacred kind of sin.

Willow reached down and cupped my face, guiding me, hips rolling, breath ragged. Her fingers slid into my hair again and pulled, sharp and sweet.

“Rhett,” she gasped. “Oh my?—”

The front door flew open like it had something to prove.

“Rhett?”

Beau’s voice. Casual as hell.

Like he wasn’t about to walk into something he’d never recover from.

“You better not be dead, man, it’s been?—”

“Well…bravo, big brother!”

That was Whit— way more amused and far less bashful.

Willow shrieked.

Her whole body jolted upright, sending a half-empty coffee cup skidding across the table and the sugar bowl flying off the edge. I barely caught it before it shattered .

“Shit,” I muttered, pulling her off the table and behind me to block her from view, heart hammering, slick with sweat and salt and…her. I swiped the back of my hand across my mouth, even though it was a lost cause.

No amount of wiping would erase the sin glittering on my lips.

Willow grabbed my t-shirt from the floor and yanked it over her head. Her hair was a mess, cheeks flushed, thighs still trembling. I was in nothing but my boxers, hard as a damn rock.

Beau stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth half-open like he didn’t know whether to laugh or back out slow.

And Whit? Well…he was applauding like an asshole.

“Well. Damn,” Whit said. “You weren’t kidding when you said you’ve been busy lately.”

“Can you knock?” Willow asked from somewhere behind my back.

“In our brother’s house? Hell no. This was a drop-by. Brought y’all peach fritters, if you wanna salvage breakfast.” Beau set the paper bag on the counter and lifted his hands. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your…rituals.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Real generous of you.”

Beau turned away as soon as the paper bag was on the table, giving Willow at least a shred of dignity. “We knocked,” he muttered. “Kinda. Maybe.”

“You threw the door open,” I shot back.

“Thought you were makin’ bacon, not a family,” Whit teased.

“Whit,” I growled.

“We wanted to check in,” Beau chimed in, hands raised in surrender. “The town’s feelin’ real different lately, and now I see why.”

Whit was still grinning, propped against the doorframe like he’d paid good money for this shit .

But then he faltered a little, head tilting like he was noticing something new. His grin softened—not gone, but quieter.

“Shit,” Whit muttered. “No wonder the whole place feels off. Y’all stirred somethin’ up.”

Beau’s gaze shifted between us—me tense, Willow tucked close to my side, her hand resting on my hip like she couldn’t quite let go. The air in the kitchen felt thick, charged, like the magic still clung to us.

Beau rubbed the back of his neck. “Flowers bloomin’ out of season. Power flickers at night. Delilah says she’s been dreamin’ about witches and roses. And now this… Whatever y’all did? It’s rippling out. I can feel it.”

Willow peeked out now, still half-hiding behind me, but steadier.

Beau offered her a smile. “Whatever y’all are doin’? Keep goin’. Looks like it’s workin’.”

I cleared my throat and stepped in front of her again, shielding her like that’d do anything against two grown-ass men who’d already seen far too much.

“All right,” I said tightly, “y’all delivered the fritters, saw more than you had any damn right to, and dropped your little prophecy of the week. Now get the hell outta my kitchen.”

Whit snorted. “You always get like this after you come?”

Willow let out a strangled sound behind me that might’ve been a laugh—or a threat—but before I could snarl another warning, she spoke:

“He actually only gets like this when he hasn’t come yet, so…I suggest you leave.”

My brothers stared at her over my shoulder like she was from another planet.

Then Beau held up both hands. “Fair enough. We’ll go.”

He started backing toward the door, Whit dragging his feet behind him like a toddler who didn’t want to leave the circus.

“I swear to God, Whit?—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m goin’,” Whit muttered, snagging a fritter on his way out and stuffing half of it in his mouth. “Just sayin’—if y’all summon a horny demon or some shit, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The screen door creaked, slammed.

Silence.

Willow sighed and melted against my back, the tension finally leaving her limbs. I reached for her hand and kissed her knuckles.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I’m humiliated,” she mumbled.

“You’re radiant,” I corrected. “And I was real close to makin’ you see God, so I’m a little pissed, honestly.”

She laughed—full and bright—and I turned to take her into my arms again. The kitchen felt warm now, ours again. I could still taste her on my tongue, still feel the magic humming low between us.

We stood like that for a beat. Letting the quiet settle. Letting the house breathe with us.

“Now…I was thinking we’d get back to breakfast, then maybe see if I can finally finish what I started?—”

A breeze pushed through the window screen, sharp with the scent of ozone, and the hair on my arms stood on end.

Willow stiffened.

“What is it?” I asked.

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared out the window, like she was listening to something I couldn’t hear.

And then we heard it too—the low crunch of gravel.

A car. Still distant, the long driveway giving us time to feel it coming. The house seemed to go still .

“I swear to God, if they’re comin’ back just to fuck with us…” I started, but stopped when I saw her face.

She wasn’t annoyed. She was pale. Focused.

The engine drew closer, the sound wrong. Not Beau. Not Whit. Not anybody from here.

“You know who that is?” I asked, my voice low now.

Willow’s hand tightened on mine.

“I think so,” she said, almost like it wasn’t her own voice. Like it was the house answering through her.

“Who?”

She swallowed, jaw tight. “Carter.”

The name landed heavy.

The ex. The one who let her go. The one who didn’t deserve to find his way up my drive.

“The hell’s he doin’ here?”

“I don’t know,” she said, and now her eyes sparked with something fierce. “But he’s not staying long.”