Something About Witches

Three years without him, without this. Oh, God and Goddess. As Derek had pointed out, Mikhael just gave her the shamefully needed release. Whereas even angry, hurried, in- the-outdoor-cold sex with Derek was bliss, to feel that connection after so long. Clutching his shoulders harder, she made whimpering noises into his neck as he worked his hips, his buttocks flexing under her calves as she clamped her heels against his thighs. The climax shuddered through her lower belly, through her tight nipples and aching breasts, rubbing against his shirt. She inhaled him, aftershave, soap and Derek’s own male scent, and wanted to be here in this moment forever.



“Derek….”



“Go on over, baby,” he whispered into her ear. “I’m right behind you. I want to feel you clamp down on me. Fuck, you’re heaven.”



Girl was for when he teased or flirted, or sometimes in the heat of lust, like in the barn fantasy. Baby was when he thought her emotions were going to get the best of her, or when he himself was particularly moved by something. This moment was both.



Her body simply exploded with the pleasure of it, from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head. Somewhere along the way she realized the duster was not merely for warmth, but to protect her skin from the bark of the tree. She could still feel the sharp edges through it, enough to relish that abrasive discomfort with the overwhelming power of the climax. The bitter with the sweet, bad with the good. She hoped that wasn’t what she and Derek represented right now, the Dark and the Light, a doomed coupling in this corner of quiet wood.



But she’d take what she could get. She didn’t care. She came apart in his arms, screaming out like a feral animal, her fingernails clawing his back, holding on to his shirt hard enough to rip it if she’d pulled with opposing force. But she wasn’t pulling the cloth away from him. She was digging her fingers through it, wanting the man beneath.



He released then as well, all the sculpted muscle under her legs and arms hardening into steel as the hot flood of seed gave her an aftershock that shuddered her against him, made her even more glad for the strength of his arms to hold her together.



When he pressed his mouth against her shoulder, she felt him bite, clamp down on her there. She wanted the mark, tossed her head back to encourage him to go even deeper. As his release was spent, it became a firm, fierce kiss against her flesh. His fingers, underneath the duster to make contact with her bare skin, brushed over that phantom brand once again. It made her shiver.



The forest was quiet once more, except for the occasional birdcalls, the rustle of creatures foraging. Now those shards of higher sunlight were all gone, the sun setting. In a few moments, it would be behind the embankment she’d been using for her target practice backdrop and things would start to gray, get dim. Even colder.



Derek slid from her, still erect enough to make her murmur incoherently, contract on him. His eyes held hers as he pulled out. He maintained a good grip on her as he did so, keeping her against the tree. Looking at her for long moments, he framed her face, sliding down to collar her throat, then spread his fingers out over her shoulders, pushing the duster back so he could see her breasts, the nipples still tight from arousal and now from the touch of cool air. He caressed them with his thumbs, making her quiver, her inner thigh muscles rippling against his hips. Then his hands went down farther, below her breasts to the rib cage, thumbs passing gently over her abdomen. He stopped there, his head bent, studying. Ruby felt a trickle of uneasiness.



“I’m cold,” she whispered.



He nodded, kept looking. Just as panic was about to take her, he let her feet slide to the ground. He’d been looking at the flushed petals of her sex, she told herself, the way she looked as he pulled out of her. Derek was usually a breast man, big-time, though he’d told her more than once he liked seeing her from either side, coming or going, such that a woman’s ass was a close second for him. Or maybe it was just hers. Her breasts, her ass, her…. everything. He’d told her that, too.



She wanted to move away, get her clothes back on, get past this moment, which she already knew was a mistake, but he thwarted her there. He’d picked up her panties. Dropping to one knee, he directed her to hold his shoulder.



“Derek, I can dress myself.”



“But you’re not going to.” He put his hand on her leg, found the pocket of the duster with the other one, withdrew a cloth. As she held her breath, he pressed it between her legs, cleaned and dried her. Then he re-pocketed the cloth and picked up the panties where he’d left them folded over his thigh.



“Step in.”



He dressed her from head to toe. Panties, jeans, socks and shoes. Threading her arms back into her bra straps, he hooked it and adjusted the cups, his large palms fitted around the breasts to shift their weight to their proper placement, as deftly as she did it herself. Then the shirt, a quick brush of his thumbs over her nipples again, evident through the thin cloth. Pulling her hair out of the collar for her, he reclaimed his coat, turned and moved back toward the stump.



She was quivering again, this time for another reason. He’d been silent the whole time he’d cared for her, and she, still overwhelmed by that climax, hadn’t known what to say, either. She kept thinking about the way he’d stared at her stomach for so long. If he’d lifted his gaze then, met her eyes, she would have said the hard, terrible words. And that would have been only half of it. He was never going to learn the other half. But he’d started dressing her, giving her a reprieve. As if he didn’t want to know the truth he’d already guessed. For some perverse reason, suspecting that about him hurt almost as badly as having him say it outright.



“Come here.” Sitting down on the stump, he took out his pocketknife. Flipping it open, he held out his other hand. She came to him numbly, pushing a hand through her disheveled hair. She needed to redo her ponytail.



He pulled her in the area between his splayed thighs and lifted her hand to the fading light, examining it. He began to gently clean the bark debris she’d gotten beneath her nails when he was arousing her so violently. She hadn’t even noticed it until now, but it was uncomfortable enough that his deft extraction of the material in smooth, crescent strokes of the blade was welcome.



If someone didn’t say something completely irrelevant to break the tension, she was going to lose it. She glanced down at the array of guns. “I brought the shotgun. Want to pop off a few rounds on it before we go back? Or one of the handguns?”



“Nope.” He kept his attention on her nails. “Never had a use for a handgun.”



“You’ve never had a use for one, or you never used one? I have seen Quigley Down Under, you know.”



“I know. We watched it together.” There was a small quirk at the corner of his serious mouth. “Good movie.” Folding the knife now, he stood, sliding it back into his pocket in that inadvertently sexy way a good-looking man could, with a shift of his hips and slight adjustment of his thigh. Picking up the Sig, he handed it to her, butt first. “Point it at me.”



She raised a brow. “First rule of gun safety. You never point a gun at someone unless you intend to use it on them. Doesn’t matter if it’s loaded or not.” She ignored the memory of sighting on him with the sniper rifle. She couldn’t have hit him at that distance, anyway. Maybe.



“I’ll trust you to exercise restraint,” he said dryly. “If not, I’ll catch the bullet in my teeth.”



“Yeah, I’m seeing that happening.” Actually, she wouldn’t put it past him. He backed up several paces. When she lifted the Sig, she found she couldn’t do it, couldn’t point it right at him. He closed the distance between them as she aimed it off to the left. Gripping her wrist, he moved her resisting arm so the barrel was squarely aimed at his chest.



“Derek—”



“Bang,” he said mildly. She jumped, regardless of the fact she’d kept her trigger finger on the barrel. Looking down, she saw a tiny spray of wildflowers tumble from the muzzle and land on the ground between them, just as the magazine thudded right next to them. She hadn’t pressed the release. Leaning down as she lowered the weapon, he picked up the tiny bouquet. It was growing out of the bullet that had been in the chamber. Plucking one of the flowers free, he put it in her hair, lingering over the shell of her ear.



“So very sixties,” she commented. His wry smile tugged at her battered heart. Reaching up, she painted a faint peace sign on his forehead with the gun soot. Catching her wrist again, he pressed a kiss on the palm, holding it there.



“Want to learn how to fire one, just in case?” she asked desperately.



“Will you stand behind me and press your breasts into my back, rub against my ass while you show me the proper stance?”



“No.”



“Then I’ll pass.”



“I wouldn’t be able to see around your massive body, you big bear.”



He grinned at her then. Surprisingly, the gesture eased the tightness in her stomach, so much it was a palpable relief. Taking out the handkerchief again, he wet it with the extra water bottle she had, took a seat on the stump once more. Pulling her back between his knees, he cleaned her fingers. Things got quiet again as she looked down at him, but it was an easier quiet this time. He’d put his hat back on, but she took it off, letting it drop to the side so she could touch his hair. She closed her eyes at the feel of the strands moving between her fingers. So many simple things, simple pleasures that were unappreciated until the right and ability to do them were long gone.



He was done with cleaning her fingers, the handkerchief tucked away, but he was still caressing her knuckles, keeping her a willing captive in his grasp as he massaged the palm with broad, callused fingers.



“Did you ever remember wanting to be anything else?” she asked softly. “Other than a sorcerer?”



“I was born to be what I am, Ruby. I forgot the way my mother’s breath felt on my face long before I forgot the way it felt to be smacked by my teacher when I wasn’t paying attention.” When he lifted his blue gaze to her, she glimpsed those things about him that she knew so little about. Before their relationship ended, he’d started letting her in, letting her get to know that side of him, so maybe she wasn’t the only one who’d been working through trust issues.