Impassion (Mystic)

by B. C. Burgess

  “Maybe,” he agreed. “Are you sad it’s gone?”

  “A little. I just always thought it would be there. Not that I have plans to go back, but it was reassuring knowing it was there, like a reminder of my time with Katherine.”

  “I’m sorry it’s gone, but I’m glad you were here instead of there.”

  “Me, too,” she mumbled, recalling the details of her old home. Then she cleared her throat and looked at her phone. “Travis must be a wreck. I better call him.”

  Quin kissed her hand again then got to his feet.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, heart rate spiking.

  “To talk to Caitrin,” he answered.

  “But... but I...” She sucked her lips into her teeth and dropped her gaze, mortified by her neediness.

  “I won’t be long,” Quin assured, sitting back down.

  “Okay,” she agreed, looking in the opposite direction. “Take as long as you need.”

  “Layla.”

  “I’m fine, Quin.”

  “Then look at me.”

  “I’m embarrassed,” she explained, “but I’m fine.” She’d made a fool of herself, and no matter how bad she wanted to look at him, she couldn’t turn her head.

  He swept her hair aside then kissed the nape of her neck, sending chills across her shoulders. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed,” he whispered. “I really like that you want me here.”

  “That doesn’t give me the right to act like a needy child,” she countered.

  He kissed again, then again, softening her heart with each sweep of his lips. “Would it make you feel better if I called Caitrin over here?”

  “No. That would make me feel worse.” She filled her lungs then faced him with hot cheeks. “Are you going to tell him about my house burning down?”

  Quin scooted closer, taking her face in his palms so she couldn’t turn away. “Yes. Caitrin’s business savvy and can help you correspond with the hexless world.”

  “Okay, but I don’t want him and Morrigan rushing over here in a panic, so tell them I’m fine.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that.”

  “And don’t feel like you have to rush either,” she added, struggling to maintain eye contact.

  “I’ll be ready to come back as soon as I go,” he assured, “so please don’t be embarrassed about wanting me to stay. I think it’s wonderful you feel that way. Now, I’m going to go talk to Caitrin while you call Travis, and when I get back...” He paused, giving her two quick and intense kisses. “...I’m going to find your kryptonite.”

  Still reeling from his kisses, Layla watched him walk to the foyer. He flashed a smile at her before leaving, and she sighed as her heart beat hard and fast, expanding and warming her veins. He was so amazing, and he wanted to spend his time with her. She couldn’t help but wonder how long his interest would last, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the heartbreaking thought of him leaving for good.

  She pushed the dread away and opened her eyes, resting her elbows on her knees as she dialed Travis’ number.

  He didn’t answer until the fifth ring, and he sounded awful. “Hello?”

  “Trav?”

  “Sugar?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Damn, Layla, it feels good to hear your voice. I had no idea how much I’d miss ya.”

  “I miss you, too, Trav. Phyllis told me about your mom. You must feel like hell.”

  A long moment passed before he bitterly responded, sounding nothing like the Travis she knew. “Yeah, it sucks.”

  “I know it does, but it gets better. It won’t go away, but it won’t feel so bad forever. I promise.”

  “Guess you’d know.”

  “Enough to know you feel like shit. I wish I could be there for you.”

  “I know, sugar, but it feels good just hearin’ ya talk. I’m better already.”

  “Liar,” she accused. Nothing would make him feel better right now. “Have you slept?”

  “No. The phone’s been ringin’ all damn day and people kept droppin’ by.” Frustration gripped him, igniting his docile temper. “Bunch of snobs, the lot of ’em. Ain’t been by to see my mom once since she got sick. Now they wanna bring pie and pot roast. Who the hell’s gonna eat all that shit? She’s dead. She don’t need food, and I wouldn’t eat their slop if I was starvin’.”

  “I’m so sorry, Travis.”

  “I know, sugar.” Depression again.

  “It’s late now. Have they stopped calling?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What were you doing when I called?”

  “Starin’ at the wall.”

  “That’s what I figured. You’re running on regret and need to rest. Take a sleeping pill and go to bed. Tomorrow’s going to be hard, too.”

  “I know.”

  “Then get your butt to bed.”

  “Mkay.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. I’ll call in the morning to make sure you’re rested.”

  “Mkay. Thanks for callin’ and bossin’ me around.”

  “Any time. Now go to bed.”

  “I’ll try. Bye, sugar.”

  “Bye, Trav.”

  Layla hung up and stared at the phone, unable to picture Travis depressed or angry. He’d been a constant source of optimism since the day she met him. “He’ll be okay,” she told herself. “He’s strong.” But her heart continued to ache for his loss.

  Chapter 7

  Quin hadn’t returned, and Layla didn’t like the way it felt to sit there and wait, so she headed for the bedroom. As she peered down the dark hallway, she thought about exploring the rest of the house, but she didn’t want to do it on the heels of a sad conversation with Travis. Her new home was beautiful and deserved to be toured without worry. She’d save it for morning.

  She moved to the nightstand to set her phone aside, but halted when she remembered her hotel room in Portland. Finding the number in her contacts, she called the front desk and explained she wouldn’t be back. With the billing information on file and the room empty, it didn’t take long for the clerk to approve an early checkout.

  After washing her face and brushing her teeth, Layla dug through her duffel bag by the soft light of a stained glass lamp on the dresser. It was the only bag of clothes she had with her, but apparently the rest of her stuff wasn’t too far away now that her car was in her new garage.

  “Weird,” she mumbled, emptying her bag, yet she still lacked something to sleep in.

  Quin had said Morrigan stocked the house, but Layla wasn’t sure if the clothes were meant for her or if they’d been her mother’s. She walked to the closet and flipped on the light, scanning the wooden racks to the left and right. Both were full, and none of the clothes were men’s, so she assumed the wardrobe had been replaced since her parents lived there.

  She began sifting through gorgeous outfits made of wonderful material, searching for tags that would confirm they were new, but there weren’t any, only hanger after hanger of elegant yet relaxed ensembles. Surely Morrigan hadn’t bought all these. Never in Layla’s life had she dreamed of owning such an amazing wardrobe.

  She found the nightclothes and went through every piece, but none of them were appropriate for Quin’s company. No pajama pants or long t-shirts, just skimpy nighties and flowing negligees. She searched the drawers on the back wall and found several pairs of fancy shoes, a pile of skirts and camisoles, and an assortment of belts and scarves, but no shorts, pants or t-shirts. Maybe the more appropriate sleepwear was in the dresser.

  She stopped at the armoire outside the closet door, locating a variety of candles, gemstones, stationary, and unlabeled apothecary bottles, but no clothes. So she walked to the dres
ser and shuffled through every drawer, yet she remained empty-handed of modest sleepwear, and she hadn’t found a stitch of underclothes. No panties, bras or socks. She searched the room, looking for another dresser. There wasn’t one.

  The front door slammed, and she jolted, closing the drawer on her finger. “Ow,” she whined, shaking her hand, which only made it worse, so she stuck the throbbing finger in her mouth. “What a klutz.”

  Quin’s voice floated from the hall. “Layla?”

  “In the bedroom.”

  “May I come in?”

  “Yeah.”

  He rounded the corner and crossed the room. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you do?” he asked, pulling her finger from her mouth.

  He lifted her hand for a closer inspection, and Layla stood on her toes, trying to see the damage. “I slammed it in the drawer,” she pouted. “Is it bruised?”

  “Yes.”

  “It feels bruised.”

  “May I fix it?”

  Her pucker slipped away as her eyes widened. “Can you?”

  “Yes.”

  He lightly pressed her finger to his lips, and the throb ceded.

  “Wow,” she breathed. “You wizards sure are handy to have around. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Keeping her finger to his lips, he touched the satin over her heart. “How’s everything else?”

  “Well,” she shakily replied, “I’m okay.” All she could concentrate on were his lips and fingers, so she pulled her hand away and took a step back. “Travis is going through a hard time, but he’s a happy guy who bounces up when he gets knocked down, so he’ll be okay. He’ll deal with the loss better than most. Much better than I dealt with mine.” She picked up a chunk of rose quartz from the dresser, running her fingers over its sharp angles as she rambled. “It felt good to talk to him. Sad, but reassuring.”

  Quin stepped forward and picked up the heart shaped ruby that accompanied the rose quartz. “I’m glad Travis is resilient and going to be okay.”

  “Me, too,” she agreed.

  Her heartbeat had slowed, her lungs had steadied, and she was at ease with him once more. Wow, she thought, now that she could think at all. He had the most amazing affect on her.

  She smiled at him, and dimples dipped into his chiseled cheeks, quickening her heart. But at least she remembered to breathe.

  He returned their gemstones to the dresser then took her hands, leading her to a chair by the coffee table. After taking a seat, he pulled her onto his lap, brushed her hair aside then kissed the skin below her ear.

  All the effort Layla made by the dresser was useless now, and she melted into him, heart thundering as she fiddled with the hem of her shirt.

  Quin softly kissed her neck a few times then pulled away, finding her eyes closed. “Do you want me to go home so you can sleep?”

  “Nuh-uh,” she murmured. “Are you tired?”

  He looked to her chest, watching her shirt stretch over stimulated breasts. Then he flipped his gaze lower, watching her thighs tense and quiver. “Nuh-uh,” he answered, once again finding her neck.

  She shivered and leaned closer. “I’d understand if you need to go home.”

  Quin laughed as he turned her face toward his, watching her peek at him with one eye. “This is where I want to be,” he assured.

  Her held breath floated into his mouth, and he pulled it into his lungs as he grazed her bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. Her fingers stretched over his jaw, drawing him nearer, so he slid his hand to her side and deepened his kiss.

  She was already lost in instinct, but Quin was very aware of the risky game they were playing, so every move was thoroughly calculated and carefully executed. No way would he let his libido blow his relationship with the most amazing witch he’d ever met. Until she was ready—comfortable with her own body as well as his—he’d abstain. Both painful and stimulating, the ache of need without resolution would probably give him enough fantasies to last a lifetime. To get so close he could taste it then yank the fruit away as soon as it touched his starving lips would drive him crazy in so many wonderful ways.

  Her fingers curled around his neck as her tongue slipped over his, and he stretched his boundaries by sliding his hand under her shirt. The flesh over her ribs was softer than talc, and his thumb warmed in the friction flowing from what lay ahead, the journey he ached to make.

  Her lungs hiccupped, and she severed their kiss, practically panting into his mouth as she tried to catch her breath. Her chest heaved as her legs twitched and stretched, and one glimpse at her racing aura told him why. He gave her quivering lips another kiss. Then he tilted her head back and lowered his mouth to her throat.

  She jolted and curled in, closing her hand over his, and he froze, sad she was ending it so soon. But instead of pulling his hand away, she forced it further up her shirt, guiding him to an impressive handful of firm flesh. His muscles hardened as he stretched his fingers wide, feeling her tight nipple in his tingling palm. Then he closed them again, tasting her moan as it rolled up her throat.

  Her hips rose and angled toward him, but he’d anticipated the move and positioned her accordingly, making sure she couldn’t reach his tightening groin. She trembled, and her hips fell only to rise again, intent on spreading fire through his throbbing veins.

  Her weight returned his leg as she arched, sliding his hand to her neglected breast, and his speeding heart skipped a dozen beats. When the overwrought organ resumed its race, he took a calming breath and kissed his way to her lips.

  Leaving his hand to its task, she grasped his jaw, kissing urgently and without regard for modesty, so he took the opportunity to free his itchy fingers. He slid his thumb to her nipple—small, hard and surrounded by puckered flesh. Then he drew a circle around it, adding pressure as his fingers toured every contour of her shapely bust.

  Her hips were out of control, so he considered giving things a break, but he wanted to test his restraint, and he hated the thought of quitting on her. After one more solid squeeze, he slid his hand to the waistband of her skirt. Then he held his breath as he slipped his fingers beneath it.

  Her lips stilled, but there was no mistaking their idle state for one of unwillingness. Her fingers clutched his jaw, keeping him close, and her body surged with her lungs.

  Inhaling every breath she took, he slid his fingers to her side, then ventured lower, tracing the curve of her hip bone. When he found the hem of her panties, a wave of increased desire punched him in the gut. He’d never been with a woman who wore them; witches didn’t bother with modest undergarments—a shame apparently, because they increased his arousal tenfold.

  He traced their outline then slipped his forefinger beneath the hem, following the seam from one hip to the other, but he didn’t travel further. Instead, he abandoned her panties and slid his palm to her thigh, finding it flexed and trembling. She arched into his touch, and he compensated, making sure she didn’t do something she might regret. She did this several times, which he loved, but each time he eluded her alluring snare. His success seemed to fuel her determination, and her lungs quickened as she stretched, tilted her head back, and lifted her hips higher.

  He used his palm to push her back down. Then he looked to her heaving chest, nearly choking as his heart leapt into his larynx. Her shirt was pulled up, exposing one of her breasts, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Full and perfectly round, it was large for her size, but her pinched nipple was petite and pink.

  She wiggled, trying to press herself against the fingers between her legs, and he swallowed the lump in his throat while moving his hand to her outer thigh. Their game would have to end soon, but he wasn’t the least bit upset. The heavenly experience would stick with him for the rest of his life.

  He slid his h
and from her skirt while burning the image of her unveiled breast into his mind. Then he covered the temptation and looked at her face. Her expression held both pleasure and pain, and he longed to remove the burn, but he merely curled her up and hugged her to his chest.

  She didn’t say a word or open her eyes, so he touched his cheek to her curls, not regretting a moment of what they’d done. He hoped she didn’t either, but now wasn’t the time to check.

  Just when he thought she might be falling asleep, she whispered into his neck. “No one’s ever touched me like that.”

  He tightened his hug and stroked her hair. “I would say that’s too bad, but I like that I was the first man to make you feel that way.”

  He wondered if she was completely untouched. Surely not. A woman as beautiful as her must have been taken to bed at some point in her twenty-one years, if only by a man-child who had no idea the value she held. Quin downed a healthy dose of jealousy at the thought of her with another man, but rather than upset him, the envy flexed his determination to ensure her first experience with him qualified as the most pleasurable of her life. Not that he felt competition with the men in her home state. Clearly she’d never been treated the way she deserved.

  When she didn’t say anything else, his wondering turned to worry. “Are you okay?” he asked, suddenly terrified he’d taken things too far. “Did I make you uncomfortable?”

  A tense moment passed before she responded. “Well, you could say that, but the discomfort was mixed with a lot of wonderful feelings, so yes, I’m okay. Better than okay.”

  Quin watched her aura, seeing everything she felt in it. “May I ask why you’re embarrassed?”

  She pressed her hot face further into his neck as her aura rushed inward, expressing increased mortification. Several seconds passed as she worked up the courage to answer, and he patiently waited, reading her colors and flow.

  “Well,” she finally replied, “I’m embarrassed about a couple of things.”