The protrepticus went to static, and when I checked the little screen, it was blank. The dread shading my view of the situation darkened even more. Fear tingled on my spine. I wondered how the Bindspoken ritual was performed, how many witches it took to achieve it. Does it hurt?
I returned to chopping up vegetables, and the weight of the knife in my grasp felt reassuring. Still, I jumped when the door flew open.
Johnny came in. He shut the door, scanned the room as if he hadn’t seen me, and called out, “Lucy, I’m home,” doing a surprisingly good impression of Desi Arnaz.
I really wanted to play along and not think about WEC’s threat but I hadn’t a clue what Lucy would reply to keep it going.
He came to the kitchen area. “Whatcha doin’?”
“Well, I’ve been told that the Erus Veneficus has a duty to be pampered and apparently being pampered does not include cooking, but you know me.”
“You’re a rule breaker?” He feigned shock. “What happened to ‘the right thing for the right reason’ bit?”
Making big, innocent eyes at him, I said, “Helping myself is the right thing when the reason is my own hunger and that of my hardworking man’s.”
“Ooooo.” He planted a kiss on my cheek, slipped behind me, and copied the gesture on the other side. Suddenly the knife was in his grip, not mine, and he was chopping the veggies more skillfully than I could. “Tuck your fingers just under like this,” he said, showing me his technique, “and keep the tip of the knife on the cutting board at all times. You have more control that way. You try.”
He set the knife down, and as I picked it up again, his hands went to my waist. I finished chopping the rest of the peppers while he kissed the unbandaged side of my neck and whispered, “Good. Now, isn’t that better?”
“Yeah.”
“So what are you making?”
“Pasta and veggies.”
“Meat?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Heh, heh, heh.” His warm touch rose up my sides, not tickling, but moving so his fingers could just stroke the underside of my bra. “How about breast? Chicken breast, that is.” And then he was gone, getting meat from the refrigerator. In minutes he had the pasta in the boiling water, and was preparing to stir-fry the meat and veggies in separate pans.
“One pan,” I said.
“You sure?”
“Yes.” A little chicken would be okay. He poured olive oil in the pan then added the sliced meat, stirring it around with a wooden spoon. “Aren’t you tired?”
“Yeah. I mean, we knew those Beholders work hard and fast, but damn.”
“Let me cook then. You supervise.”
“No, I got it.”
Since he was taking over, I went to sit at the bar side.
I considered telling him about my run-in and power struggle with Menessos, but that could lead to the threat Menessos made and I didn’t want to add to Johnny’s stress today. I’d gotten Menessos’s promise and that was good enough.
He put the wooden spoon down. “Is that another what’s-his-house painting?”
“Waterhouse. Yes.”
“Figures.”
“Don’t you like it?” I rotated my chair to examine it again. “The color works perfectly in here.”
Johnny checked it again. “Yeah. I guess it’s all right.”
I spun back. “It’s ‘all right’? Straightlaced and geeky little museum curators would get into fistfights over that painting.”
“Can we get that on pay-per-view?” Laughing, he added, “I remember a boxing match that Ig took me t—”
I waited for him to finish, but he didn’t. The pan on the stove was now receiving his complete attention.
“And?” My elbows rested on the counter.
“Guy got knocked out in the third round.” His tone was even.
The rest of the cooking was done in silence. When Johnny served up two scrumptious-smelling plates and set them on the counter, he said, “I’ve decided that”—he lifted a bottle of white wine—“Ig can’t help us and the pack is going to be reeling so it’s best to just leave them alone.” He dug around in the drawer and came up with the corkscrew. “We’ll find another way.” He opened the wine, poured two stemmed glasses, and put them on the counter for us. He came around to join me and took his own seat. “There’s always another way, right?”
I smiled. He smiled back, but his eyes were somber and sad. He wanted me to agree with him. His father figure was dying, and I definitely understood why he wouldn’t take action to become Domn Lup through ending that man’s life. I wasn’t close to Aquula, but I wasn’t willing to take her life—even to save Menessos’s.
Still, he couldn’t avoid his destiny forever.
On one hand, I wanted to push him toward it. I felt desperate for help to save Menessos. The pack would have to do as Johnny bid them if he claimed that leadership. On the other hand, this wasn’t my only option for aid. Xerxadrea had pointed out another avenue to pursue.
But between those hands was my heart, and it recognized that right now Johnny was clinging to the last bit of control over his life and his decisions. If I pushed him, in any direction, it would only make this moment ugly when it didn’t need to be. All I truly needed to do was support Johnny. “Right.”
We ate in silence, but with my last bite I couldn’t resist nonchalantly bumping his leg gently with my foot. He bumped back in kind, and soon we were having a contest under the bar countertop like two bratty siblings. When my next turn came, he twisted his rotating barstool quickly away and slid out of range.
“No fair!” I cried, but he wheeled on me, spinning my seat. “I just ate!” I protested. After he sent me around three full times, I was laughing and squealing objections. He stopped me abruptly and I nearly tumbled from the stool, a bit dizzy. He watched me laugh, nakedly admiring.
“What?”
Johnny didn’t answer; he leaned in. His mouth, those perfect, just-full-enough lips pressed to mine. That sweet tightening of low muscles gripped me deep inside, squeezing desire through me.
I buried my fingers in his dark curls and kissed him. His hand on the small of my back, he drew me to him. His heated touch started a chain reaction. In seconds, all my inhibitions had burned away.
He lifted my shirt up, breaking off the kiss long enough to yank it over my head. Inching my bottom to the front edge of my barstool, I wrapped my legs around him and leaned back, arching my spine. My head fell back as he unfastened the front-hook bra. A shrug and the bra dropped to the floor. I swiveled my hips, twisting the stool, to grind against him.
Johnny gave an appreciative growl and his hands stroked my thighs. When his fingers left the denim and touched my bare skin at my waist, sensations rocked through me. He traced my ribs, then lightly caressed the skin where my breasts rounded up. It tickled and teased. My nipples hardened, aching for his touch.
I arched my back further, begging wordlessly for more. My reward was the tip of his tongue flicking, wetting my skin—just enough that the cool air of the room made me even more aware of how I yearned for his touch.
Johnny unbuttoned the top of my jeans.
He released the zipper with maddening slowness. I couldn’t wait for him to be inside of me. “Please.”
Deftly removing my shoes, he freed me of my jeans and panties at once, then glanced disapprovingly at my socks. I bit my lip, then shifted my legs until I could hook toes in the top of one sock and push it off, then repeated for the other.
Lowering my feet to the footrest on my barstool, I leaned forward, reaching for him. In a heartbeat, his shirt had joined my clothes on the floor. My eyes took in the tattoos, the lean hard chest, the contoured abs. I reached for his belt buckle.
“No,” he whispered, and shoved the plates and glasses away. He scooped me up and set me on the black granite countertop. It was cold and I couldn’t suppress a shiver.
With a masculine look of approval for my little shiver-shimmy, he stood there between my knees and unfastened his belt, unbuttoned his jeans, and opened the zipper with excruciating slowness. I watched, waiting and ready. So ready. He pushed his jeans down and exposed his smooth, hard cock.
I whispered, “Give it to me.”
He didn’t. He pressed closer and kissed me, his usually soft lips now firm and urgent. His tongue searched for mine. He tasted like sunshine, like sweet heat, like sugar boiling into rich caramel.
My legs wrapped around him again, scooting me to the edge of the counter. “Just a taste,” he whispered, and dropped to his knees. He ran his tongue over me until my legs were quivering. I gasped as my every nerve jolted in response. It was so good, I was so close, but this wasn’t enough.
“Please, Johnny, I want you inside me.”
He stood, adjusting himself.
I couldn’t wait another second. Not even to be teased. I squeezed with my legs, trying to thrust him into me. But he stood firm, not letting me. He gave a very male little laugh. He was in control this time.
He rolled his hips, his cock rubbing up and down my wet labia.
Putting my hands far back, I stretched over the counter, arching up so his movements hit at the right angle, rubbing my clitoris in a way that felt so damned good. I sighed.
Then he pressed inside of me.
The breath I’d just squandered rushed back as I gasped. He grasped the counter on either side of my buttocks, and I squeezed my legs around him. He had an instant rhythm, thrusting hard and deep, retreating more slowly. I relished the retreat, but it was the harsh thrusts as his body pounded against me that rushed me to the edge.
I rose up and held his face in my hands, staring into his Wedjat-tattooed eyes. His gaze fell, and I followed it down, watching as our bodies joined, seeing how he filled me up.
That did it for me.
I fell back across the counter, arms spread wide, knocking the wine over. Cool liquid poured under me, spilled into my hair. One glass shattered on the floor but I didn’t care. Ecstasy roiled me. The wine made the granite slick, and Johnny used that to his advantage. Instead of holding the counter, he held my hips, pulled and pushed me, fucking me fast.
I couldn’t cry out, my voice was lost in the electric tremors shaking me. It was glorious. The theater could have fallen down around us and I wouldn’t have cared as long as he didn’t stop. I didn’t even care when Menessos flashed through my mind, when I felt him tap the hex and taste my pleasure with me. He savored my wanton disregard like a piece of candy on his tongue. He laughed and I felt the heat of his breath in my ear, felt the sting of his fangs in my neck, felt his fingers on my flesh.
Words whispered through my mind. Menessos’s voice. Latin, a chant ending with: in signum amoris. Those words left my own lips, in whispered sighs. “In signum amoris. In signum amoris. In signum amoris.”
Johnny growled as pleasure claimed him.
Together we rode the bliss to its end, panting, entwined, and gratefully ensnared in each other’s arms. It was beautiful.
Until I realized Johnny was kissing my sternum and whispering, “In signum amoris . . .”