Catching her like that tonight… knowing she was just behind the door pleasuring herself… wondering above all else if she was thinking of me the same way I’ve been thinking of her…
It’s enough to drive me to the brink of madness.
I tighten my grip and stroke, one hand braced against the tile, eyes squeezed shut as I picture those soft pink lips, her innocent blue eyes gazing up at me as she loses herself in her own secret fantasies, the good witch who longs to be bad, just for one night…
Fuck, yes…
One more stroke, another, faster, harder, and…fuuuck… I hold my breath and come with a shudder that leaves me trembling and spent and slumping against the tiles, waiting for my heart to return to my body.
Despite the solo act, it’s still the best bloody orgasm I’ve had in years, my muscles relaxed, everything inside me warm and content.
But not, I realize, wholly sated.
BloodyHell, she’s still with me, and this shower-time dalliance has brought me no closer to getting her out of my mind than I was the first time I gathered her into my arms and drew her close, inhaling the scent of her lemon-coconut hair and burned-sugar magic.
Fuck. Me.
I turn the water as cold as it will go, pruning my skin and shriveling my balls, damn near turning myself blue, and still, the woman won’t leave me.
It’s not just her intoxicating scent or the damned romance novel scenes we’re narrating nightly, either. It’s not even catching her unawares tonight during her mostprivatemoments—an event so thoroughly burned into my memories, I’m declaring this day a national holiday.
No. Somethingelseabout this witch is chipping away at me. Several somethings. Her bright eyes and the awkward laugh that always tells me my joke hit the mark. The quiet concentration written all over her face as she selects the ingredients for her next brew. The warmth in her eyes when a customer compliments her. And the shirts! Don’t even get me started. Gnomes and fairies and animals sipping tea, and the original mushrooms too, all of them conspiring to kill me with an overdose of adorableness that should make me want tostranglesomeone but instead only drives me wild with need.
I’m in dangerous territory here, and I’ve no bloody idea what to do about it. Because every day that passes, our arrangement feels less like a magical obligation and more like something I look forward to—something I want tokeeplooking forward to.
Spending time with her… It’s almost enough to make me want to remove the mask for good. To stop fucking pretending for once in myliteralGod-forsaken life and just… just be.
Right. Talk about an impossible fantasy.
The ugly truth of it is… For all the outrageous favors I grant, for all the favors I’m owed, there’s one thing the Devil canneverhave for himself.
Love.
So instead, I turn off the water, grab a towel, and do what I do best.
Take all of it—the fantasy, the desire, the inconvenientfeelings—and shove them down in that rusty locked box inside me, right next to the abandonment issues and addictions and all the scars that can’t be seen, and instead I don the mask, plaster on a nothing-can-touch-me smile, and head back out into the world for another fucking go.
Chapter Nineteen
VIOLET
Three Sisters Bed and Breakfast sits atop Raven Hill like a dark, sentient guardian. A stunning three-story black Victorian with pink gingerbread trim and an obstructed view of the town and the Bay beyond, the house is a federally protected historical landmark—the original home of the Wayward founding family, passed down and lovingly cared for by my aunts—Joslyn, Lorelei, and Althea.
“Wow.” Devlin lets out a low whistle as we head into the foyer and guest check-in area—gorgeous black marble floors, a massive mahogany staircase that leads up to an open balcony area, artwork lining the ruby-red walls. “This place should be a museum.”
“It is, actually. I’ll give you a tour if you’d like. After knitting circle.”
“It’s a date, love.”
Love? My stomach fizzes. I ignore it. Getting to be a thing, these annoying bodily reactions to his mere existence. “It’s anappointment, Devlin. Not a date.”
“As you wish, mushroom.” Devlin tugs on one of my curls, then waltzes straight back to the kitchen, where the warm, doughy scent of Emmie’s fresh-baked magical scones is a beacon to road-weary travelers everywhere.
“Oh my goddess! Devlin!” Emmie, flour-covered and adorable, doesn’t even remove her oven mitts. Just pulls Devlin into a hug and mouths “fucking hot” at me over his shoulder. “Olivy mentioned Violet’s new friend, but she was weirdly tight-lipped about the details. We’ve been waitingforeverto meet you!”
“I’m afraid your sister keeps me chained in the basement most days,” he says. “I had to gracelessly invite myself to knitting circle just so I could meet her family. Can you imagine?”
“Goddess, the accent. The sass.” Emmie fans herself. “The aunts are going toloveyou! Come on. I can’t wait to introduce you.” Grabbing a freshly plated tray of her still-steaming scones, Emmie escorts us to the sunroom beyond the kitchen, where my aunts are already assembled in their respective armchairs, knitting projects and gossip session in full swing.
