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But I do.
My fingers linger on her downy skin. She looks innocent. Delicate with her soft features and girlish lashes. So bloody young.
It’s an illusion. She was born a witch in every sense of the word. And I must resist her because Morgana deserves not my pity.
Still, how was she a virgin? And why did she seem so…human?
In her sleep, she sighs. My hard cock jolts with fresh lust at the breathy, needy sound. Then she tussles in my blanket, writhing until she exposes one bare shoulder and the swell of her breasts.
My desire surges.
Gnashing my teeth, I resist my urge to slide between the rumpled sheets and sink deep into her body, rouse her for the thrill of hearing her scream my name again. And again.
Fuck. Where Morgana failed centuries ago, my “wife” has succeeded.
She has ensorcelled me.
Gathering my will requires Herculean effort, but I leave the room and seek sanctuary on the sofa.
I pick up the carving I began days past. The piece hasn’t yet taken shape, but I allow my fingers to take me on an instinctual journey.
With my thoughts free, I home in on the woman in my bed. She thwarted me last night, but we are not done sparring. I am a warrior. I am a fighter. I will not stop until I command or cajole the witch to free me. And though she may have gotten the better of me following our “vows,” she also unwittingly revealed her weakness.
She melts at my touch.
I intend to use that ruthlessly—again and again—until she gives me what I need.
* * *
Olivia
I wake alone, aching and exhausted. I should be grateful the hunky lunatic I stupidly fell into bed with last night gave me some breathing room. But no. I’m hurt that Marrok left me after we…
Best not to think more about what happened. Or about how much you liked it.
He must be laughing. He melted me with barely a touch, and I climaxed for him not once, not twice, but three mind-blowing times. I didn’t know I was capable of multiple orgasms. Even my trusty rabbit can’t deliver that kind of ecstasy on repeat. But Marrok touched me, and poof! I came like a porn star.
He didn’t. At all. Obviously, I didn’t do it for him.
I’m so humiliated…but not surprised.
Note to self: next time you have an unexplained need to touch or trust him, don’t.
Seriously, what kind of pathetic loser practically begs the man who abducted her to take her V-card? After he shows his crazy by insisting he’s immortal and I’m the witch who cursed him?
It’s almost as ridiculous as my plan to lure Marrok close, whack his head with one of his carvings, and escape. All he had to do to thwart me was lift me against his body, carry me to his bed and—
Stop there.
Unfortunately, the memory of his arms cradling me against his powerhouse chest as he sank into me plays over and over, royalty-free, in my head. Worse, still wrapped in sheets that smell faintly of his woodsy musk, I burn for him again.
Maybe because I’ve never had so much human contact at once. The little unloved girl inside me gorged on his touch. Not smart, but semi-understandable, right? Obviously, one shag with the man can’t undo years of my mother’s rejection, but he made me feel so special, like the center of his world.
You’re going crazy, too. And your libido needs an Ambien.
And what is it with the bond I felt with him after speaking those mysterious words? Why did I even say that stuff? They sounded like medieval wedding vows. And when Marrok answered in kind—how did he know exactly what I ached to hear?—that only intensified our connection.
Yep. I’m definitely going crazy. Time to start the ultimate walk of shame back to London.
