Page 49 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

She releases my fingers from her mouth and nods.

“O-outside the—not—we can’t—”

“Shhhh,” I soothe, “I know.”

I apply the perfect amount of pressure, enough to brush the textured fabric against her clit but not so much that she feels nothing. Her fingers curl into my shirt as she pulls me closer, pressing our sweaty foreheads together as she lifts herself up to give me access to the wet part of her heat.

I cup her between her legs, using the blade of my palm to give her fuller contact.

A short, sharp sound comes out of her as her hips stutter and stall. I smooth two or three quick paths when she can’t move, paralyzed by the precipice of her orgasm. At the end of the fourth stroke she lets out a keening whine, thighs squeezing my hand as she rides out her pleasure with tiny tilts of her hips.

She lets out a shaky, slow breath, and I find myself sighing with her, relieved.

There are a few long moments as she catches her breath. We both unwind from our stolen bliss, our bodies going languid and boneless.

She breaks the silence first.

“I’ve never felt that good in my life,” she admits.

I chuckle, kissing her sweaty brow.

“Now, that’s just criminal,” I say. “Imagine how good you’re going to feel when I get my actual cock inside of you.”

“I just did,” she says with a weak laugh.

I find myself smiling like an idiot. It’s so easy to slide back out of that commanding, brutal person I can be when I’m in charge. Easier than it’s been with anyone else. Another way Lillith is special. Something I’ll unpack later, I think. Maybe.

Or maybe I’ll just enjoy taking care of this woman and eating the food she made for me.

“Come on, sweetheart,” I say. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

ㅤ

Imiss Damien.

I miss him all the time.

He’s been coming to the shop every day he can, but it’s been getting busier for him. He has an album to record with his band, and they still have tour dates in other cities soon. I’ve been trying to do all of the reading I can while he’s busy, but it’s hard not to be distracted by daydreaming about him.

He’s been a really good sport about my supposed UTI. He hasn’t pushed or pressed me about sleeping together. But all the kissing has left my lips in a constant state of pleasant bruising and not so pleasant chapping. So I’m taking a little break from the never-ending stack of books to work on a salve for both my lips and Damien’s.

Gods, he is a good kisser, though. The best I’ve ever had. I don’t remember a time when I was so content just to kiss someone for hours on end. It makes me wonder what it will be like when we finally can sleep together. It’s probably going to be explosive when we can put our physical chemistry to use if the day last week on the couch was any indication.

I set a small cauldron on my counter over bed of hot coals. I’m not fully focused as I place a few pellets of beeswax inside, along with coconut oil, shea butter, and sweet almond oil.

Maybe it was a bad idea to grind on his thigh and hand until I came, I think, as grabbing a metal stirrer and shifting the contents of the cauldron, watching the mixture come together. The moment of weakness certainly walked the very thin line between fucking and not fucking. And I know I left some... er... residue on his jeans and hand.

I hope it wasn’t enough to touch him with my curse.

As I work, a bell chimes from the door in the shop. Not the door to the outside—the door to The Buried City. It’s bespelled to only be heard by people who know about The Buried City and the “door” is more like a glamoured portal.

Visitors know to wait until I give them the okay to come through. Normally I don’t make them wait long unless there is someone else in the store. But Damien is supposed to be coming to the store at some point today. With his habit of surprising me, I’m worried he’s going to show up while someone weird is here.

It’s not that I’m embarrassed by him or anything. I just worry about anyone from The Buried City knowing that there is someone precious to me in my life. I hesitate a moment before grabbing a vial of essential oils and a dropper, then finally say, ‘Coast is clear,’ to the empty store.

In strides none other than Bastion Bramblethorn, the last man I slept with and my friend since childhood. It’s rare to see him outside of The Buried City, and I can’t say that it’s a particularly welcome visit, considering the circumstances.

Bastion is like the sun incarnate. His hair is a warm strawberry gold and his skin is tawny despite his chronic distaste for leaving his subterranean abode. He’s wearing his normal colors and fabrics—gawdy silks in royal blues with golden accents. It reminds me that I need to return his pants to him. He’s unique in that he’s always dressed like he’s on his way to a renaissance fair. Today he wears a pair of blue velvet harem pants, decked out in golden embroidered stars and a gold silk vest over a peasant top that slips off his shoulders, exposing the tawny skin in a little sliver between the two garments.