What. The. Fuck.
The woman who’d haunted his thoughts for the last year stood right in front of him and all he could do was make unattractive hacking sounds in her direction. The look on her face! What was that? Disgust? Disappointment? He couldn’t study her expression over his head bobbing with the spasms of his coughing lungs, but he could tell she wasn’t happy.
When he finally cleared whatever had flown down his throat (was that a bug?), he straightened and looked her in the eye. She was crying and pale. Deathly pale. “Are you okay?”
As if in answer, her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed. He lunged over the threshold to catch her, scooping her up and holding her against his chest. Fuck, she smelled good. Cinnamon and clove with a hint of fresh-cut wildflowers. He lowered his face to her hair and inhaled. She weighed almost nothing in his arms, which was surprising because her curvy shape would suggest otherwise. The mounds of her breasts peeked from under a thin white shirt held to her waist with a red leather corset. Damn. Double damn.
And now he had a hard-on. Great. She probably came here to talk about the murdered werewolf and he was ready to hump her in her sleep. As he moved to carry her inside, he paused. If he crossed the threshold with her in his arms, he’d be effectively inviting her in. That would render all of Grateful’s enchantments ineffective against Polina. Did he trust her? She seemed so vulnerable in his arms, the exact opposite of the powerful sorceress he knew she was. With some effort, he conjured up thoughts of Tabetha. Could he ever trust a witch again?
With a low, throaty groan of protest against his own stupidity, he crossed the threshold and delivered her to his sofa.
“Are you hurt?” He ran his fingers through her hair, over her arms. A cursory inspection didn’t suggest any blood or abrasions, only soft flowing tresses and graceful limbs. Her pulse was strong. She was breathing normally. “My god, you are beautiful.”
He knelt by her head. “Polina?” He stroked her hair back from her temple. Her creamy skin seemed to glow against the deep red shine of her hair. Her full rose-colored lips taunted him. Totally kissable. He was impressed that she wore little makeup. Natural. Sexy as hell. One of his hands came to rest on the space between her bottom rib and where he guessed her belly button might be. The other continued to stroke her hair.
He tried to resist her. Really he did. But she was a drug, a temptation he couldn’t deny. He licked his lips, swallowed, tried to push himself up off his knees. Anything to resist the temptation. He failed. Leaning in, he pressed his lips to hers.
Soft. Warm. He nibbled her bottom lip and inhaled deeply. Her closeness was intoxicating. Right here, hovering over her while she slept, he would have given her his soul had she asked. But she’d already held his soul, hadn’t she? The day of his accident. The day she’d saved him. He pulled back and blinked.
A delicate hand dug into the back of his head. She opened her eyes. Bright blue and fixated on him. Didn’t that make him feel like a king? What was it about her attention that made his chest swell? He had a sudden urge to hunt wild game with a spear. High-level thought had abandoned him. He was left with a headful of Neanderthal grunts and basal instincts. Girl pretty. Kiss girl.
Polina didn’t say a word, but she pulled his face back down to hers. Lips brushed lips, and it was her turn to inhale. That small, needy sound sent his blood singing through his veins. He kissed her harder, repositioning his head for a better angle. Both her arms snaked around his neck.
Damn. The go light was flashing green. He slid his hand up, over her ribs to her breast, coaxing it from under the corset and flicking his thumb across the cotton-covered nipple. His erection kicked and he discreetly reached down to straighten himself. He took the opportunity to work his lips down her jaw to her neck, over her throat. She sighed encouragingly. He dipped lower, his breath gathering against her skin, warming his face. Lower. The tips of his fingers tugged her blouse down, revealing full breasts, perfect, creamy skin converging in beige taut nipples. His hand kneaded the flesh, and then his mouth took over.
She arched her back and moaned. Desire rolled up his body, a gathering electric cloud that sent hot current shooting to his extremities. The way she writhed under his torso, he guessed she felt the same way. If he had any doubt, it dissolved when her hand grabbed his from under her breast and slid it down her body, up and under her skirt. She tucked his fingers between her upper thighs.
Cotton. He stroked and rubbed through the material while her hips worked against his hand and her lips melded with his. Her nails scraped down the back of his head and sank into the muscles of his shoulders. She dug in, deep enough he was sure she’d draw blood. He didn’t mind. He stroked the inside of her mouth with his tongue and moved aside her underwear. His fingers dipped inside.
God, she was wet. He entered her, thumb circling as he found a rhythm within her. She arched and bit his lip, her body bucking off the sofa, clinging to his neck as she rode out the aftershocks of the orgasm he’d given her. Fuck, she was an easy whistle to blow. It was almost like. Almost as if…
“Are you a virgin?” he asked into her mouth.
She pulled back, those haunting blue eyes searching his face. “Of course not,” she said, voice husky. “I’m almost five hundred years old.”
He smiled wickedly and returned his lips to hers. He planted a knee on the sofa between her legs, rubbing the length of his cock on one of her thighs. She was receptive and supple, but something was off. She didn’t reach for his fly. She was eager but quiet. Unsure.
He paused, bracing his weight on his elbows so he could see her face.
“Why have you stopped?” she asked softly.
“When was the last time you had sex, Polina?” He made sure his voice was kind, matter of fact. He said it through a smile.
She swallowed and stared at his chin when she answered. “About ninety-five years ago.”