Page 89 of Freed By the Witchbone Knife

“We’ve had,” I corrected. “You’ve been dealing with all of this too.”

He made a noncommittal sound, staring into the fire.

The warmth of the wine, the crackling flames, the soft glow of the room, the autumn vibes—it all combined into something that felt dangerously close to romantic. The kind of intimate we’d been avoiding.

I set my glass on the coffee table and shifted closer, tucking myself against his side. He went rigid for a moment, then relaxed, his arm coming around my shoulders almost reflexively.

“Is this okay?” I asked, knowing he’d made the first move and now it was my turn.

“Aye.” The word was rough. “More than.”

We sat like that for a while, watching the fire. His thumb traced absent patterns on my shoulder. And damn, it felt so good. To have his touch back.

My hand rested on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm.

Slowly, carefully, I tilted my face up.

He was already looking down at me. The firelight caught in his eyes—one whole, one damaged, both burning with something that made my breath catch.

I stretched up and pressed my lips to his.

He responded instantly with a growl, like he was relieved. Like he’d been waiting days for this to happen. His hand slid into my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss. It was soft at first. Tender. The kind of kiss that felt like an apology and a promise all at once.

Then it changed.

His grip tightened as his tongue swept against mine. He tasted like wine and a unique brand of something that belonged only to him. I wanted more—needed more.

A low groan vibrated through his chest as I shifted, swinging my leg over to straddle his lap. The position pressed us together in all the right places, and I could feel him—hard, straining against his jeans. Pressing up perfectly between my thighs.

God, I wanted him inside me. I knew he was big. I could feel it.

“Becca,” he growled against my mouth.

“I know.” I kissed him again, rolling my hips. “I want⁠—“

“I know what you want.”

His hands found my waist, gripping hard enough to bruise. He kissed down my jaw, my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below my ear. I gasped, grinding against him, desperate for friction. Each movement sent sparks dancing up my spine. Fireworks crackling behind my closed eyelids.

“Axel, please⁠—“

Before I knew what was happening, he’d flipped us. I was on my back on the couch, his weight pressing me into the cushions, his mouth hot on my collarbone. He yanked my top up and over my head, tossing it aside. His lips closed around one nipple through my lacy bra and I arched into him with a moan.

“Want to taste you again,” he rasped, already kissing down my stomach. “Haven’t been able to get the memory of you off my tongue.”

I reached for his shirt and he paused then shucked it off, revealing all those gorgeous muscles I wanted to lick. I sat up, hungry for him. His mouth met mine again in a furious kiss, all teeth and tongue. It was messy and desperate. Then my fingers went to his waistband. To the button there.

He caught my wrists in one hand, pinning them above my head. “No.”

The single word sent a shock through me. “What?”

“No, little witch.”

“Axel.” I tugged against his grip. “Let me touch you.”

He released my wrists, but his expression had shuttered. He sat back on his heels, putting distance between us.

“Axel, what the hell?”