by Alisa Woods
“Your turn,” he said, and encircled her with his arms again, but gently this time. He peered over her back, working the zipper of her dress, then sunk his teeth in her shoulder to keep her still.
“Oh, God,” she gasped at the pain/pleasure of it.
He groaned into her flesh—she couldn’t tell if it was the ache of lust coming off her or frustration with the zipper. He finally got it to release, and her dress slid to the floor. The corset was a built-in bra, so once the dress was pooling at her ankles, she was dressed in nothing but her lace stockings and heels. Swift ducked his head to feast on one of her breasts while clasping the other in his hand. The sudden touch was so electric, especially when he bit into her, that she reflexively arched into him. Her head softly banged the wall behind her, and her hands buried in his hair, encouraging him, but she literally throbbed between her legs, aching for his touch there. The magick-forsaken lace leggings-and-panties ensemble had seemed so practical when she dressed this morning, but now they were nothing but an awkward impediment. She wanted Swift to take her hard up against the wall this very minute.
“Swift,” she begged. “I need you.”
He nipped her breast again, making her suck air between her teeth. Then he pulled back and whispered against her flesh, “You have me. You own me. Every part.” The words were hot breath against her skin. Then he went lower, to her stomach. His fingers slipped under the edge of her panties—thank magick!—and started tugging them down. He kept kissing her belly, then dropped light, electric kisses on her sex, then further down on her thigh as he worked the lace and her heels finally off. He ran a hand up her leg, on the inside, and she eagerly opened for him when he lifted the back of her knee. Only instead of rising and removing his own damn clothes—he was still clad in black leather pants—he simply hooked her knee over his shoulder and dove face first between her legs.
“Oh,” she said, then “Fuck” as his tongue hit the ache square on. The pleasure of that lit up her entire body. She grasped his head, pulling him tighter. He reached up from where he knelt, lips and tongue slipping hot pleasure into her, and pinched her nipple as he feasted on her. That added spark made her whimper, which just seemed to drive him on. Then his hand was back between her legs, joining the symphony of pleasure he was wrenching out of her, teasing her, and when she could hardly stand it anymore, plunging inside her. She cried out, called his name, banged her head and squirmed against the feathers on the wall. It was too much. Too heady and light and aching, so much aching, and as he picked up the pace with his fingers and tongue, she about lost her damn mind. Crying out and clawing at him and the wall, she felt the rise of her climax like a thing that might bury her. An avalanche of love and pleasure she wasn’t sure she would survive, but she didn’t care. She yearned for it like nothing she’d ever wanted in her life, and when it arrived, when it seized up her body and convulsed an insane peak of pleasure, she screamed and screamed her release. It went on and on, and she rode it with abandon, the spreading warmth through her body as she slowly crested and came down nearly as glorious as the peak.
She was weak with it, but she’d never been so alive. So full of life.
And love.
She’d known him only a short time. They’d only ever kissed a handful of times, and he’d given her one orgasm up against the wall in her apartment. And yet she knew—they were bonded now in a way that would anchor them through anything and everything life could bring. Swift rumbled a low and delicious sound of pleasure as he unhooked her knee from his shoulder and kissed his way up her body.
She only prayed he wasn’t done with her yet.
Chapter Twenty
Mercy’s song was as beautiful as she was.
Swift drank it in—the blast of joy, the triumphant herald of something new and beautiful, all held aloft by the resonant hum of her love. The background of her screams of pleasure just added erotic punctuation to the mix. He loved it all. He loved her. And bringing her to this climax was an experience he could never get enough of.
He kissed her on the lips, and said, “I need to be inside you.” His voice was rough with that need.
“Yes.” It was dreamy and airy, and her eyes were barely open. She was still lost in the haze of pleasure.
He dipped his head to kiss her cheek. “We need protection, my love,” he whispered. It wasn’t like he carried it with him.
That snapped her awake. “Bedroom. Now.” She grabbed his hand and towed him down the hallway in all her naked glory. They’d barely made it into the entranceway of her apartment. Before, when they’d come here after she’d first kissed him, he’d known her bedroom was down this way, but he’d obviously not been invited. Now she was literally dragging him there, and it brought a stupid grin to his face. How insanely lucky of a man was he? He had found the treasure that was her in the midst of his miserable existence, surviving from one case to the next, trying to avoid the pain of scrying and the horrors of using his Talent. Suddenly—because of this wondrously powerful witch—his world was now wide open and full of possibility.
Could they make this work?
He had no idea.
But he’d meant every word he’d said—he would die trying. This was it for him. She was everything there was in the world worth living for.
Her bedroom was just as intense and eclectic as the rest of the apartment. A chandelier of black chains and iron and candles hung over her bed—which was massive and took up most of the expansive room. Heavy purple-black curtains blocked the windows. A dark wood piano was tucked in an alcove. A couch sat at the foot of the brass-postered bed. But it was the black-wood side-table to which Mercy had drawn him. She yanked open a drawer and quickly drew out a condom, holding it in front of him between her thumb and index finger, like it was a treat.
“Clothes off,” she demanded.
That stupid grin of his made a reappearance. “Is this how you usually proposition men into your bed?” But he got busy as he was talking, unbuttoning and unzipping his leather pants, releasing the painful pressure of being restrained.
“There’s no usual with a man like you.” She climbed onto her bed, sliding her delicious little body across the black-furred spread like she was savoring the feel of it.
“A man like me?” He worked faster, shoving down his pants then realizing he’d forgotten his boots.
“An undressed man like you.” Mercy dangled the condom, enticing him as she scooted back into the mound of pillows at the head of the bed—black satin and red velvet all shoved up against an elaborate black-and-brass headboard.
He finally got his boots off, the pants went next, and he clambered on the bed after her, snatching the condom from her grasp. As he tore at that, she immediately grasped hold of him and stroked. “Fuck,” he gasped, stalling out in his attempt to open the package. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away. “None of that.” She tried to hide her grin, but her humor was singing all around her. “You think this is funny?” He grabbed her hip and slid her down the bed, a cascade of pillows settling underneath her as he stretched the length of his body on top of hers. He was damn serious about burying himself in her… losing himself in her…
The humor was gone from her soundscape, replaced by a hum of lust so intense it made him twitch. He grasped the headboard above her, gaining leverage so he could unroll the condom and sheath himself. He was beyond ready, but he paused at the shine in her eyes. Everything about her sang love, but she’d gone still underneath him, staring up, lips parted.
He held her cheek with his hand. “You all right?”
“Yes.” She was breathless.
Was he doing something wrong? There was nothing in her soundscape. “Do you want this?”
“Oh, yes,” she breathed.
He let his hand drift down, across the silk of her pale skin, over the mound of her breast, the taut peak of her nipple, following the curve of her waist. She responded to his touch, arching and reaching. Her hands did the same with his shoulders, his chest. This
weightless exploration felt timeless—as if they’d always had this and yet it was still the first time.
He slipped his hand behind her bottom, shifting her body and his until they were aligned, face to face, chest to chest, his body begging entrance to hers.
Her fingers dug into his shoulder, urging him on.
He leaned in and whispered, “Tell me this is real.” His heart and body ached with the need for an answer—to hear it from her lips and not just the song of her heart.
Her hands slid up to his face. “This is real.” She shuddered as she said it, and her love and lust and attraction all spiked. “I can’t believe how much I need you.”
But that wasn’t what he wanted. He leaned down and brushed her lips, his body still taut against hers, his hand still anchored with the headboard. “Say it,” he whispered, then kissed her again.
She pulled him harder into that kiss. It was erotic beyond any he’d had—his body sliding against but not taking hers, her hands grasping him, her lips hungry for him. And when she ended it, she whispered. “I love you like no man I’ve ever known.”
That broke something inside him—some restraint he’d imposed, holding back and waiting for the mirage to vanish. The dream to end. But this was real. He gave in to his need to slide his body into hers, the slick heat of her enveloping him just as much as her cries of pleasure and the singing surge of her lust.
She arched up against him. “Oh, God, Swift,” she gasped.
He buried himself all the way and held for a moment. His grip on the headboard kept most of his weight off her, but he wanted just the right angle, just the right friction… this was their first time, and he wanted to take her to that place again, the one where he would lose himself in the song of her pleasure. As he gently began to thrust, all her sounds increased. The whimpering in her throat, the hum of her love, the surging rush of her pleasure. It was streaming such pleasure through his body and his mind, he quickly lost hold of his steady pace, thrusting harder and deeper, his grip on the headboard giving him the power he needed. She cried out with every bang of their bodies, every delicious spike of their pleasure. Because they were one now, fused body and soul, pleasure and love, sound upon sound upon sound… He was drowning in it, thrusting through it, building to a peak for both that threatened to undo him.
Her hands were on his face again, and she was gasping out through her pleasure, “It’s real, it’s real, it’s real.” Her voice was his anchor, a response to a question he hadn’t known he was asking out loud. Then she came and convulsed around him, and her music washed over and through him, tipping him over the edge into an abyss of pleasure. He was free-falling and falling and falling some more… lost in a realm where there was only her music and his. Time suspended. Or maybe it passed. Slowly, the feel of Mercy’s body moving against him brought him back to awareness. She was vibrating, her emotions were so intense. Her hum brought him home, like a beacon, and he hadn’t realized his vision had whited out until she swam out of a hazy mist into view, peering at him with concern in her beautiful blue eyes.
“Swift, answer me!” Her concern was a trill that beat back the haze.
“Hm?” was all he could manage. “M’okay,” he tried. They were still locked together, his body in hers, but he could tell time had passed because their skin had cooled. He blinked and pulled away, just to anchor himself back in reality again.
“You don’t seem okay.” Her anxiety was spiking, and he almost reflexively reached out to mentally soothe her. Instead, he slumped into the bed next to her and drew her body up against his.
He swallowed. “I’m okay.” Holy fuck, he’d been gone there for a moment. “But holy magick, making love to you should come with a warning label.”
Her eyes went wide, and he nearly laughed. Instead, he kissed her—hard—and then slumped into the pillows again. “It’s a compliment.”
She peered at him, uncertain. “What happened?”
Some delicious aches were making themselves known in his body. He shifted again, cuddling her against his chest. “I think you literally blew my mind.”
She frowned. “I mean, is that—”
He shushed her with his fingers against her lips. “It’s good.” He drew in a deep breath and let it go. He’d never felt so relaxed in his life. “So very good.” He peered at her, but his eyelids were made of lead. “It’s a good thing I’m in love with you because I think you just instantly addicted me to making love to you.”
A small smile crept out. “So you’d like to do it again…”
“Holy fuck, Mercy,” he breathed, then he just kissed her on the forehead. “Give me a moment.”
She grinned and snuggled closer to him. “We have all day.”
He looped his arm around her, holding her tight. “Are you kicking me out at nightfall?” He could already feel himself drifting.
Her humor chirped at him from her soundscape. “Depends.”
“I agree to your terms and conditions.” Sleep was tugging at him hard.
She wiggled against him. “You don’t even know what they are!”
He caressed her back, letting his hand come to a stop on her hip. He could hear the response—love, lust, humor. That wicked intelligence of hers scheming something.
“I’m all in on you, Mercy Strange,” he whispered, eyes falling shut. “You can tell me the details later.”
Then he felt her hands on his chest, trickling in magick. Dopamine? Is that what she said before? Whatever it was, it slid him down the hill, tumbling him toward a deep and blissful sleep.
The last thing he heard, he would carry into his dreams. “Sleep well, my love.”
Love.
Somehow, against all odds, he’d found it at last.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Are you ready?” Swift asked her.
He could hear Mercy’s anxiety, she was sure, but he probably thought she was worried about walking into the secret PsyOps division at the FBI’s Chicago field office. Or that they might try to force her to work for them. Or that she might have to hand over all her research to the military—the FBI only had Violet’s data and the original drug cache, and she knew that wasn’t enough to replicate the drugs. She’d thrown away that pill—the one she stole, daring herself to take it and eliminate her whisper magick—crushing it into her coffee grounds and dumping it in the trash. In reality, there was only one thing she was concerned about—Special Agent Swift Payne. Specifically, how she would keep him from getting in trouble. Or making promises just to keep her—and her Talent—out of PsyOps’ clutches.
They’d only been together a short while, but she knew all about the scars he carried from his “work”—the things PsyOps and the military had forced him to do. She would not let them hurt the man she loved any more. She’d vowed that much to herself, no matter what else came out of this “assessment.” She may enjoy doing science, but she was also a witch with illegal magick from a rich and powerful family. She and Swift hadn’t openly discussed it, but she knew the unspoken option on the table. Running away. Just her and Swift on a remote island in the Bahamas, untouchable and untraceable. He hadn’t had the money or connections to make that happen when he was in trouble before—they just sent him to jail and forced him to do awful things.
There would be no more of that. Not while she drew breath.
And retiring to a tropical paradise with the hottest lover she’d ever had—the man she wanted to father her children—was a hell of a backup plan. So, yes, she was nervous about how this would go. But not as much as Swift seemed to think.
“I’m ready.” She gave a nod for him to open the door to Special Agent Leela Dalvi’s obscure little office on the second floor.
Inside was not only Dalvi but Special Agent in Charge Etta Burrows, head of the Chicago office. They were peering at a small screen Dalvi held in her hands.
“Ah, Ms. Strange,” Dalvi said to her, all smiles. “Do come in.”
Okay. “Agent Payne said you wished to meet.” M
ercy wasn’t a skilled negotiator experienced in corporate politics and intrigue like her big sister, Ever, but she had a long history of not taking shit from anyone. Which might come in handy here.
Dalvi was a petite Indian woman with exquisite taste. Her black leather sari was spectacular, gathered at the waist with a metal-studded belt and underlaid by a studded halter top. The jeweled neck-piece and Dalvi’s long, wavy brown hair softened it just enough.
“Please—come take a look.” Dalvi turned the screen to face her.
Mercy chastised herself for admiring Dalvi’s fashion sense too much—just because the woman knew how to dress didn’t mean they had any common cause. Then she looked at the screen. Dalvi tapped it to play a short video segment. It was Eliphas Storm at the conference, his hands raised over the crowd of attendees, a heated look on his clean-shaven face.
“I am the Resurrectionist,” he said. The video cut just as he turned to leave.
Okay, maybe they did have some common cause. “You got it on tape.” Mercy searched Dalvi’s face. “Are you bringing him in?”
“Unfortunately, no.” Dalvi lowered the screen.
SAIC Burrows extended her hand. “Ms. Strange. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
A pleasure? Okay. “Likewise.” She shook Agent Burrows’ hand, but the hairs were rising on the back of her neck. They were softening her up.
“You really broke open our case, nailing the time and location of this demonstration well ahead of anything my agents were able to put together.”