But then, just as quickly as it arrived, the vulnerability washes back out to sea, and his dazzling, teasing smile slides back into place. “Lucky for you, I’ve gotjustthe thing for a migraine.”
“Oh, Ibetyou do.” I crack up. “Does that line actually work on people?”
“Comehere, witchling.” His voice is deep and commanding, those disarming hazel eyes glittering with mischief as he grabs a throw pillow and places it in his lap. Then, tapping it lightly, “Don’t be difficult.”
“I’ve told you a million times, that’s like telling the sun not to rise.”
“Somehow, I thinkthatwould be an easier feat. Now stop fighting me for once and come here. Unless, of course, youenjoythat headache chipping away at your brain, in which case—”
“Oh, fine. Twist my arm.” Powerless to resist his charms, I leave the safety of my cozy little chair and stretch out on the couch, resting my head on the pillow.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, gently running his fingers through my hair. “Close your eyes and relax, and your favorite, most handsome, most devoted gargoyle will take care of the rest.”
I do as he asks, letting out a deep sigh as he continues his soft ministrations, alternating between stroking my hair and massaging my temples with light, tingling touches. It’s not long before the pain melts away, leaving ripples of pure pleasure in its wake. There’s no hiding his effect on me; my entire body erupts in goosebumps.
However, there’s also no hiding my effect on him. Beneath my head, a hard bulge presses urgently against the pillow.
“Does that feel good, witchling?” he says, his voice like liquid honey. “Or am I being too hard on you?”
“No, it’s… it’s perfect.”
“You’reperfect,” he whispers, so softly I’m not sure he even meant to say it at all.
His fingers stop their slow circling, and when I open my eyes, I find him staring down at me, that ancient pain flooding his eyes once more.
I sit up beside him and take his hand into my lap, running my thumb across his dark palm.
“Auggie, will you tell me what happened?” I ask. “How you guys became gargoyles, I mean? If it’s too personal, I get it. I just… I know you’re in pain. All of you. And you’ve got this curse to contend with and I’m never quite sure if I should ask about it or just—”
“Westlyn…” My name is a heavy sigh on his lips, and he closes his eyes, his hand curling around mine. I’m starting to think maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up, maybe I pushed it too far this time, but then he says, “It’s not personal like a secret I don’t want to share or don’ttrustyou enough to share. It’s more like…” He opens his eyes and looks at me again, releasing my hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. With a sad smile, he says, “Stories are bridges, West. That’s how I think of them, anyway. Once you know someone’s stories—the deepest, darkest ones that rock us to the core and shape who we become—you’re connected to that person in a way you can’t undo. Even if you have a falling out, even if you never speak again after that moment, you’ll always have that piece of them.”
A tear slips down my cheek. I know exactly what he means, which is probably why I’ve never told my stories, either. Not the deepest, darkest ones. The ones that still burn a fresh path through my heart every time I remember them. Every time they haunt my nightmares.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I say, tracing my fingertips along his jaw. “I understand.”
“No, you don’t. I want you to, though—I truly do.” Then, with another heartbreaking smile and a soft sigh, “but this isn’t just my story to tell. It’s all of ours. And I… I can’t right now. I just can’t.”
“It’s okay.” I smile through the ache in my chest, because he needs to see that smile. He needs to know I’m on their side, no matter what. “Whenever you’re ready—if that night ever comes—I’m here. And if not, that’s okay too. It doesn’t change the fact that I’m going to do everything in my power to help you break this curse.”
He slides his hand around the back of my neck and draws me close, touching his forehead to mine. I breathe in his clean, masculine scent, like the air after a deep and cleansing rain, and a shiver snakes down my spine.
Kiss me, Augustine Lamont.
The thought tumbles through my mind—a wish unspoken, but nevertheless real. Memories of that all-too-brief maple syrup kiss in the kitchen bob to the surface, unleashing a flood of molten heat in my core. I realize it the moment he scents me; his nostrils flare, and he draws back to look at me, eyes darkening with desire.
Heat.
Need.
He still has the throw pillow in his lap, and now he tosses it aside, his hungry gaze never leaving mine.
“Come here,” he rasps, and this time the command carries a sharp, desperate edge.
I climb into his lap, straddling him.
My yoga shorts are nearly as flimsy as the panties underneath, and he shoves them aside easily, his fingers sliding inside me with practiced ease.
“Fuck,” he hisses, pumping me with slow, deliberate strokes. “You’re already so wet for me, witchling. So eager.”
