I plant my feet next to his hips and he grunts with approval. Satisfied I’m okay he sinks deeper—faster—speeding up gradually. The change makes my breasts bounce rhythmically, slapping against his chest, igniting another, different wave of sensations. I moan with approval, eliciting a pleased grin from the man over me, and when he dips his fingers between us, brushing against the desperate bundle of nerves, I cry out.
He sets a rhythm, his long hair swaying with each thrust. At first it’s awkward and off kilter but soon it’s our rhythm, our place in time. Our skin slick, our nerves frayed. Our. Our. Our.
I wonder for the slightest moment if it’s just Clinton and I or something larger. Do the others feel it? Do they feel him pounding between my legs? Do they feel the coil tensing and tightening? I wouldn’t be surprised. Magic courses through this house. Through my limbs.
My mind slips away and my body takes over. Clinton seeks my mouth and kisses me desperately, panting raggedly. I think he’s going to come but then his fingers find that spot again I close my eyes and I’m the one that can no longer hold back. With the tweak of his fingers I’m sprung, riding the wave of euphoria.
As my body shudders, I slip into the wild. The walls creak and the rafters sway. I think I hear a muffled caw outside the window and swear I feel the charm burn against my chest. Brightness engulfs me and I shut my eyes, spinning, spinning, spinning. The energy, the Darkness lurking inside releases, bathing me in adoration.
My nails dig into his back and that’s when he comes, riding the crest of my own orgasm. His shoulders tense, his abs constrict. He grunts into my mouth, long and ragged, mimicking his hips.
Clinton collapses, his massive body heavy against mine. I like the way it feels. I love the sticky warmth of his seed pooling between our bodies. I don’t want him to move, but I know that this is just the beginning. There’s more. So much more.
As soon as he catches his breath he rolls me over, switching our positions. I’m on top, relaxed and truly satiated for the first time in weeks. The Morrigan is quiet. The energy quelled. For once I don’t feel the Darkness lurking at the edges. I hadn’t realized how close she had been.
When I look down at Clinton, his cheeks red and his eyes glassy and distant in a way I’ve never seen before, I feel a mixture of emotions. Slight embarrassment—wondering if I did it r
ight and if it felt as good for him as he presented. Pride for taking this step in my life. I’d been fearful—of Clinton the most—but I beat that. I owned it. I claimed him more than he claimed me and that feeling burns in my chest.
“What are you thinking about?” His finger criss-crosses over my bare body. He’s mimicking the runes painted on by Bunny. The burning from earlier with Xavier—on my chest—is gone.
“How I shouldn’t have waited so long.”
He laughs, a rare sight on Clinton’s face.
“Do you think the others know?” I ask.
His face loses a hint of its humor. “They know.”
A new feeling settles in my chest.
Dread.
“I’m going to have to choose now, aren’t I?” Because I’m still not sure. Even after all that, I’m not sure.
He brushes a curl of hair behind my ear. “Yep.”
I sigh and slide off his lap. I’m sticky and need a shower. A dull ache has replaced the euphoria. I don’t hate it. It’s a reminder—a good one—but a signal of how I’ve changed.
Clinton catches my hand and squeezes it just as a loud knock raps at my suite’s door. A thin line forms between his eyes and he says, “Get dressed. I’ll see what’s going on.”
None of the guardians have come to my room this late before and the worry on Clinton’s face sets me on edge.
“Is something wrong?” I ask. The rapping happens again. Louder this time.
He doesn’t answer, just tugs his pants up over his hips. Shirtless and barefoot, he walks down the hall and I grab a blanket from my bed and wrap it around my body, following him.
The door opens and Dylan stands on the other side. His eyes land immediately on me from over Clinton’s shoulder. If he’s fazed by our state of undress or intimacy, he never reveals it.
Like Clinton said, he knows.
“We have a problem,” he says, shifting his gaze back to Clinton. “Meeting in the library. Ten minutes. Everyone will be there.”
I walk down the hall, gripping my blanket at my chest. I push past Clinton and ask, “What is it. What happened?”
Dylan pins me with an ice blue stare. “Xavier is sick.”
Something inside me cracks, a jagged edge that cuts to the bone. I sway and Clinton draws an arm around my shoulder. Terrified, I ask anyway, “With what?”