It’s embarrassing, undignified, but I don’t care. I’m too lost in her, too consumed by the feel and taste and scent of her.
When it’s over, she’s limp against me, her body boneless and pliant. I help her down from the counter, my hands supporting her waist until her legs are steady beneath her.
“Griffin,” she moans. She’s flushed, her cheeks a pretty pink, her lips swollen from my kisses. She’s never looked more beautiful.
I rub my thumb over her jaw, tracing the line of it, then over her lips. I lean in and kiss her again, a slow, deep kiss this time, pushing my tongue into her mouth, letting her taste herself on me.
“I need to go,” I say, the words tearing at my throat. It’s the last thing I want to do, but I know I have to. If I stay, we’ll just drown in this, in the mess we’ve made.
“Okay.” She staggers backward a step, as if the ground has shifted beneath her feet.
I turn and walk to the door, every step an act of sheer will. I have to use all my resolve to leave, to not turn around and pull her back into my arms.
I open the door and step out into the cold night air, leaving her there, leaving a piece of myself behind. Again.
Spell Against Anger:
Tie a single, tight knot in a piece of leather. Carry it in your pocket. The anger is stored in the knot until you can release it safely.
The first thing I’m aware of is the light. It’s not the gentle, hazy gray of a normal Willowbrook morning. It’s almost brittle, slicing through a gap in my curtains and landing directly on my eyelids.
I groan, rolling over and burying my face in my pillow, which smells faintly of lavender, detergent, and something else. Something musky and male.
Something that smells like Griffin.
My eyes fly open.
The events of last night crash into me with the force of a physical blow. The knock on the door. The look on his face. The argument, the tears, the broken bottle of whiskey. And then…the kitchen counter. His hands on my thighs, his mouth on me, the way my body responded like a switch had been flipped, igniting a fire I thought had long since turned to ash.
Holy fuck. The memory sends a jolt through me, a hot, embarrassing pulse that makes my cheeks burn.
What the hell does this mean?
I sit up, the sheets pooling around my waist. My body feels different. Not sore, not exactly, but… used. Sated. There’s a pleasant ache between my legs, a lingering echo of his touch. I feel invigorated, buzzing with a nervous energy that has nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with the man who was in my kitchen just hours ago.
I press my palms to my cheeks. They’re hot. This is a mess. A complete and utter disaster. We didn’t resolve anything. We just added a new, complicated layer to an already convoluted history.
I check the time on my phone. 6:47 a.m. Too early to call Amara. Far too early. I wouldn’t even know what to say. “Hey, Griffin came over last night, we had a huge fight about the lie I’ve been telling for three years, and then he went down on me on the kitchen counter. How was your night?” She’d have a field day.
She’d also probably kill me.
I swing my legs out of bed, my bare feet meeting the cool wood floor. Thistle, who has been sleeping peacefully at the foot of the bed, lifts his head and lets out a demanding meow.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m moving,” I mutter, shuffling toward the kitchen. “Your highness awaits.”
The kitchen is a minefield of memories. The counter where he held me. The floor where we both knelt, our heads bumping together. The spot on the floor where the whiskey bottle shattered. I can still smell the faint, sweet scent of it under the cleaner I used last night.
I take a deep breath and push the images away.Focus, Caroline. Just get through the morning.
I fill Thistle’s bowl with the expensive salmon pâté he prefers, the one that costs a fortune but is the only thing he’ll deign to eat. He rubs against my legs, purring like a motorboat, before diving in. I watch him for a moment, a small, fond smile touching my lips. At least someone in this house is uncomplicated.
I start the coffee maker, the familiar gurgle and hiss a comforting sound in the quiet house. While it brews, I hop in the shower. The hot water cascades over my skin, and I tilt my head back, letting it wash over my face. I can still feel the ghost of his hands, the phantom pressure of his mouth.
I soap my body quickly, almost clinically, trying to scrub away the sensation, the memory. It doesn’t work. If anything, the heat of the water just makes it more vivid. I turn the temperature to cold, gasping as the icy spray hits my skin. That’s better. That’s something I can feel other than him.
Back in my bedroom, I face the wardrobe. What does one wear to work after a night like that? Something professional, to remind myself that I have a job, a purpose outside of being a woman who makes terrible decisions with her ex-boyfriend. I settle on a simple, long-sleeved black dress and a crisp white apron. Practical. Unremarkable. Safe.
I drink my coffee standing at the counter, staring out the window at the waking town. The streets are quiet, a few early risers hurrying to their jobs, the lanterns along the main street still glowing in the pre-dawn light. Everything looks so normal, so peaceful. It’s hard to believe that just the other night, the Rift was surging, that I was at the center of a storm of both magical and emotional proportions.
