by Rebecca Main
“Let me taste you,” he moans against my lips. Wasn’t he already? I think amid the drowning sensations. Before I can ruin the moment with my indecision, I give my assent, gasping when strong hands lift me and set me atop the counter. My hands are momentarily pinned above my head as his lips attack my own with renewed vigor. A sharp thrust of his hips and the feel of his hard length pressing against my center leave me mewling my consent. Thank God for skirts. His hips maintain their rhythm, and I sink into their pleasure. Rubbing and rocking until a steady pant falls past my lips.
“Fuck,” the explicative bursts forth from my mouth as his hand travels up my thigh and tugs me forward, till my ass sits precariously at the edge of the counter. I wrap my legs around his torso, and his grip tightens to leave bruises. When I begin to roll my hips in measured cadence with his thrusts, we share a look weighed down with our desires.
Even as his other hand begins to trail down my arm to palm my breast, I leave my hands above my head, reveling in his dominance. His lips move boldly down my body and across the top of my breasts, though he carefully stays away from the soulmark. I whine in response, my hips bucking upward only to meet air.
The warmth of his exhalation crosses my thigh, and I stiffen in response. My eyes darting open to gaze down at him on one knee.
“What are you…?”
His wolfish smirk moves against my skin. He nips at my flesh, and I shiver in response. “Tasting you,” he murmurs. My mind barely moves fast enough to comprehend his next actions, but instinct tells me to find purchase and hold on.
When his head dips, I stifle a cry with my fist. Not a second later, I am almost shouting in surprise when I feel his grip on my forearm. He eyes me with unadulterated hunger. “Don’t. I want to hear you.” His tone leaves no room for argument, and my fingers reach down to curl in his hair as he dives back in. He noses along my thigh, taking in deep, shuddering breaths as he nears his goal.
Distantly the logical part of my brain cries out in distress. That I have let it go this far is unfathomable, and for a moment I hesitate, heart skipping an anxious beat. It isn’t a matter of telling Ben about my indiscretions anymore. I have to break it off with him. I suck in a sharp breath. What am I?
A sharp bite near the apex of my thighs makes me yelp, concentration broken. I look down to stare wide-eyed at Xander. His mouth lies in a grim line as he eyes me. My skirt is pushed up high around my hips, my underwear parted to one side. I can feel my arousal easing its way down. Xander growls. The sound savage and primal. My heart races, a moan tearing its way from my throat as I clench my legs in response. But Xander’s grip is unyielding. My legs barely move an inch.
“Xander—”
“Don’t,” he breathes harshly, holding my eyes captive. Several heartbeats fly by. “Keep your legs open. Do you understand?” I nod pathetically, watching in awe as he leans forward to taste me. Tongue pressing flat against my dripping center. I nearly cry in relief as he licks his way up. Again and again and again. I shift forward, grabbing at his shoulder with my free hand to gain some semblance of control.
He is relentless. Fucking impeccable. My tender flesh trembles and flushes at his persistent touch. Warmth spilling down my legs, as my entire body goes up in flames.
“Aleksandr.”
His name falls from my lips like a prayer, and I faintly hear his cursed response. He kisses up and along the apex of my thighs, mumbling nonsense against my skin as his fingers take up the work. My head rolls back as not one, but two fingers enter me simultaneously.
I bend forward, my fingers slipping from his hair to cup the back of his neck, urging him back as unexplainable pain and pleasure build to a crescendo inside of me.
“Please,” I beg as my other hand reaches inside his shirt and inches toward his soulmark.
I know nothing in the next instant, only blinding pleasure as his teeth sink into the soft flesh of my thigh with a feral growl. His fingers are unforgiving as they press inside me. My own strain against the crescent moon etched on his bronze skin. I arch upward, my chest and face toward the sky. A ragged moan escapes as my orgasm crashes over me.
I cannot describe the feeling that pulsates between us. Nor the weight of the anchor that wraps us tightly together. Abundant warmth and satisfaction settle over us as we revive.
He stands in one fluid motion. Barely an inch is between us as he straightens my clothes and presses sweet kisses across my face even as my breath continues in short and shallow bursts.
“Xander—”
“You’re mine,” he snarls. His hand grabs my face, his thumb presses against my jaw, and his forefinger wraps securely under my chin. He presses into me; head against my own, fingers shoving back into my pussy without pause. He swallows my cry, thrusting his tongue inside my mouth in time with his fingers. His thumb plays across my clit, bringing me near the edge once more with no remorse.
Xander pulls away panting, and I almost fall off the counter, barely catching myself as I stare at him, mouth agape. “I—”
“Break up with him before the dinner, Zoelle,” he commands, sticking his fingers in his mouth to clean them off. His stare pins me in place until he finishes. “Or else.” And then he is gone, and the oven's timer sounds off.
– Chapter 9 –
Celebrations
It’s Thursday, and already this morning I’ve endured a manicure and pedicure, a Swedish massage, and a hair appointment alongside Irina. Though the pampering is meant to be relaxing and rejuvenating for tonight’s dinner, it is anything but, for Irina is in constant teacher mode. She educates me on all the important members of the packs who will be in attendance, and how I should behave with each and every one of them. I am exhausted by the time we finish our beauty routine, but at least I look tremendous. My fingernails and toenails are painted a shimmering opal color, and my hair holds a luxurious new bounce to it. The tightly coiled springs falling to frame my face in a beautifully, subtle way while maintaining their volume. And my dark skin glows from the copious amounts of oils rubbed thoroughly into it.
When all is said and done, I have a few precious hours to kill, which is fine by me. My head is filled with Irina’s insights and thoughts of Ben.
I left him a voicemail this morning. Asking him to call me back as soon as possible, but I hear nothing from him. No texts. No calls. I don’t want to annoy him with a brigade of either, and so I wait anxiously instead for his call. Sensing my nervous energy when I return home, the aunts and Gran convince me to practice my potion making. With their help I brew protective enamel, healing potions, elixirs of fortitude and strength, bottled blind sight and blasts, and tonics meant to give power over the elements. They are advanced potions, a fact that initially had me wary until I started treating them like recipes. Then, everything clicked into place. I shouldn’t be surprised at how naturally the art of brewing comes to me, yet I am in the most pleasant sort of way. Most of the potions take only a few attempts to get right (and some end in war wounds), but once I’m able to correctly brew them, making them comes as easy to me as cooking eggs Benedict.
As my free time nears its end Gran gifts me an enchanted bracelet. It works as a truth seeker and will compel anyone I come into direct contact with to speak the truth. I can’t help but roll my eyes as she fastens it around my wrist but give her a small smile nonetheless. I can tell Gran is on edge. Her gaze often lingering these past few days on my jade talisman. A thoughtful frown on her face. She will be meeting with the Wellington’s while I am at dinner. The strange item intended for passage through our small town scheduled for tonight.
She’s nervous. The aunts are nervous. And in turn, so am I. But it’s clear our worries run in opposite directions. While the aunts and Gran fret over the magical object, I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from my phone.
My fingers reach for my soulmark, feeling the indentation on my skin that seems to have sunken deeper since my… encounter with Xander. The worst of the ache I feel in my bones has retreated. A chan
ge most likely resulting from our renewed contact. Except it wasn’t like this before. This time I can’t force Xander’s baser emotions to the back of my mind. He remains always present. And though the soulmark doesn’t cause me tremendous pain from being separated from him anymore, it still yearns for him. Much more so than before.
And then there are the dreams.
I swallow thickly. Closing my eyes, the dreams from the past few nights come forth with stunning clarity. Monday night recapped our kitchen escapades, with an emphasis on what would have happened should we have continued. Tuesday night I dreamt of Xander taking me roughly from behind, bent over the desk in his home. Wednesday, we loved each other nonstop, bodies slick and intertwined on silken sheets. I awoke each morning with my hand lost between my thighs, body feverish and unsatisfied. If there is any part of me left to ache, it is becoming quite obvious what it is.
Daydreams further tempt to ensnare my attention throughout the day. Heady thoughts of being trapped between Xander and some ancient tree as we come together beneath a full moon nearly make my croissants inedible. One bite and the strongest sensation of longing strikes a chord inside my belly.
I feel oddly aware of myself during each fantasy. The touch of his skin on mine; pulling, teasing, guiding, and grinding. It’s all so real. His breath fans hotly against my chest as he laves my breasts with attention. The erratic thrusts of hips against mine as we climax together time and time again. How his teeth worry the skin of my neck.
“Honey, are you all right?”
I nearly jump out of my skin at Aunt Lydia’s quiet inquiry. She takes the kettle off the stove, and its shrill cry recedes.
“Yes,” I assure her as my hand lingers over my heart. “Sorry, I was just lost in thought.”
“Mhmm.” Her scrutiny is blissfully short, her attention turning toward the tea cabinet. “You’re worried about tonight,” she says knowingly.
“To say the least.”
“I would give you some kava tea, but it’s really quite strong, and if you plan to drink tonight you shouldn’t mix the two. Passionflower will do you better.” She readies me a cup silently, fixing herself the same.
“I still have a lot to learn, don’t I?” I comment, blowing softly at the steaming liquid she places in front of me a few minutes later.
Aunt Lydia chuckles. “You do, but you’ve got the best teachers a witch could ask for.”
I enjoy the silence between us, for once not charged with stifling energy.
“Is tonight going to be okay?”
“You’ll do just fine, honey,” Aunt Lydia reassures me. I shake my head.
“I wasn’t asking about myself,” I explain. “It's obvious Gran is concerned about tonight going well. What exactly is being passed through town tonight? And”—I hurry before she can interrupt—“don’t think I don’t realize the significance of whatever it is that's happening. All the big bad wolves will be out of town, meaning tonight’s handoff can be done more safely. Right?”
Aunt Lydia seems equally perturbed and pleased by my guesses. Several times she opens her mouth to answer only to firmly press her lips together in a stern line. Finally, before I can urge her answer, she snaps her fingers twice. The kitchen door, normally always open, shuts with a bang, and the window curtains close with a clatter.
“If anyone asks,” she says, “you didn’t hear it from me. Your grandmother has secured a trade with the Stormrow Clan, a large family of sorcerers. In exchange for the Wielding Crystal of Dan Furth, your grandmother is giving the clan the Amethyst of the Aztecs in return. The crystal is an ancient Wiccan artifact used to naturally enhance the products of the land almost tenfold. It is a very powerful crystal that could be very dangerous in the wrong hands.”
“And are the Stormrows dangerous?”
“Dangerous isn’t the right word to describe the clan. Opportunists. Cunning. Manipulative. They strive for power but believe such an artifact disturbs the natural balance of things. It is not the power they seek, but in knowing its meaning to us, they have the advantage.”
“And what about the amethyst? What does it do?”
“The gem is set in a gold ring and provides the wearer the ability to walk in sunlight.”
I pause, letting the words sink in but finding no meaning. “What am I missing?”
“Firstly, the stone is obviously not meant for one of the clan members. A power like that can only be useful to one type of creature: a vampire.” The blood drains from my face and Aunt Lydia reaches forward to pat my arm reassuringly. “Drink your tea, dear,” she reminds me. “Now, second, if the clan is attempting to secure the ring for a vampire that means the vampire has control of the clan. The Stormrows cannot, therefore, be trusted.”
“But it sounds like we really want the crystal. Does Gran think the clan won’t give it to us?”
“We don’t just want the crystal. We need the crystal. We’re surrounded by warring wolf packs and the threat of vampire compulsions and interference in our affairs. The crystal can provide this town with the protection we sorely need.”
“Right,” my head bobs along with her reasoning, mulling over them with mounting distress.
“Third—”
“Third!”
Aunt Lydia scowls. “Third, and final, the ring we are set to exchange in return for the crystal is a forgery.”
The mug slides from my grasp as I gasp. “No!”
My fingers splay apart in reaction, and the mug stops midair, tea slopping over the sides momentarily before settling. With shaky hands, I retrieve it and place it on the counter. “You’re giving them a fake ring? That doesn’t sound like something Gran would do.” Aunt Lydia colors. “Why are you giving them a fake?”
“Because we can’t trust them with the ring, knowing they’re in league with a vampire,” comes the overly defensive response.
“And what happens when they find out they’ve been duped?”
“They won’t. We’ve been working tirelessly to infuse the counterfeit with enough magical ability to act like the actual ring. But it’s taken a lot out of us—”
“And that’s why Gran and the rest of you have been so tied up and tired. That’s why you’re having me make all these advanced potions. The coven is preparing for… war?” And that’s why the aunts act nicer to Xander. If the coven is preparing for its own war, alliances need to be made, and who better to align ourselves with than a pack of wolves on the rise?
“Just remember,” Aunt Lydia says, taking a large gulp from her mug, “you didn’t hear it from me.”
+++
“Remember, tonight there will be three families to celebrate,” Irina restates, “The Wselfwulfs, the Maccons, and the Beldigs. The Beldigs are a very small pack from Juneau. The alpha, beta, and fourth are coming. The fourth with his soulmark. Their names are—”
“Samuel, Dominic, Christopher and Monica.”
“Yes.” Irina’s praise comes softly through, “The Maccons will be coming with almost the entirety of their pack, but you need only know the names of the alpha, beta, and the third. They have a few soulmarks within their pack, all bonded”—she gives me a pointed look which I ignore—“and are from Canada. The alpha is older, even older than Marius, and does have a wife. They’re Jacob and Lydia. The beta is Carlos. And what are you supposed to remember about Carlos?”
I pause in my pursuit of the sprawling grounds we drive past. “Not to stare at the scar on his face.”
“Correct. Now, we’re obviously coming to the Lunar Ceremony with a sizable amount of the pack. Which, as you know, has its advantages and pitfalls.”
“Are you quite finished with your lesson, sister?” Ryatt asks, sipping on his champagne as he fingers his tie.