Page 12 of The Wolf and the Witch

She shot him an evil grin over her shoulder, cocking one eyebrow at him. “Scared?” she asked, pretty lips stretched, showing off white, even teeth.

He grinned back at her. “Not at all, m—” He caught himself, grimacing at the near slip.

“What were you going to call me?” she asked, not missing a beat.

“My savior,” he replied smoothly. She snorted and resumed rummaging in the cupboards. “I’m gathering spices, if you must know. It wouldn’t surprise me if an animal didn’t care about the flavor of its meat.” He ground his molars at the distaste in her voice.

We have our work cut out for us, he sent to Ryker. The beast echoed his assent, but anticipation flowed down their bond. She will be a worthy mate, the wolf fired back at him.

Dinner was an awkward and stilted affair. The wolf—Geralt—graciously accepted a shawl when she’d offered it, tying it around his waist, hiding his tempting cock from view. Greta eyed the porcelain tub longingly. There was no way she was bathing in front of the—Geralt, she reminded herself sternly.

“Penny for your thoughts, witch?” he asked softly, a soft smile curving his lips, hooded eyes watching her.

“Where are you sleeping?” she asked. She swung her gaze from the single twin bed and back to him, daring him to suggest they bunk together.

Mischief sparkled in his eyes, the curve of his lips stretching higher. Flames fanned her face as she knew he was going to suggest the very thing she opposed.

“It seems there’s only bed, witch. Where do you think I should sleep?” His voiced dipped into low sultry tones, heat and mischief swirling in a tantalizing mixture in his emerald eyes.

Damn him, she thought. “The floor is pretty comfortable. Besides, you can grow fur anytime you like if the wood is too hard for you.” She rose from her seated position near the fireplace. It died down to small embers during their meal. With a full belly, sleep wasn’t far off for her.

“This is how you treat your guests?” he teased.

She let out an ungraceful snort. “Guests are invited. You weren’t.” Turning her nose up at him, she strode to the thin mattress parading as a bed. More than a few springs poked her throughout the night while staying at the cabin. She thought he was getting the better deal from sleeping on the floor.

Unexpected warmth brushed her back. She turned on him, a scowl twisting her lips and scathing words resting on her tongue.

Large, warm hands settled on her hips, aligning their pelvises, and the look he gave her seared her down to her core.

“Quit being stubborn, Greta. Let’s share the bed.” Leaning down, lips barely grazing hers, he whispered, “I won’t bite unless you ask.”

Her hands itched to slap him while her nipples hardened from the heat seeping through her gown from being pressed against his hard body. His breath fanned her face with his next words. “Unless you’re scared that you won’t be able to control yourself.” She felt his smile against her lips, helpless to step away and put distance between them.

He was barely kissing her, and every nerve ending tingled with anticipation. “Fine,” she breathed against his lips. His smile widened, and he slowly pulled away. She shoved aside a pang of disappointment. Confusion and desire waged a war within her.

Waggling his eyebrows suggestively, he walked around her, easing his broad frame onto the thin bed. She laughed at the pained grunt he uttered when a spring poked him.

“Still want to share the bed?” she teased in a sing-song voice. A small voice whispered that she’d smiled more in his company than she had in ten years. It was a sobering thought, threatening to strike the grin off of her face.

“I can manage. Now, get over here, witch. Let’s go to sleep. We have a full day of traveling ahead of us tomorrow.” His face twitched with every other word, body shifting on the bed, letting loose ominous creaks. She bit her lips, holding back another laugh.

Walking over to him, she eyed the thin bed critically, knowing she’d probably have to lie atop of him. He held his arms out invitingly. Resigned, she slowly climbed onto him, trying in vain to not brush his cock beneath the tied shawl.

He groaned underneath her, hands landing on her hips again, guiding her down onto his chest. She shuddered at the furnace pressed against her entire front. The male was burning up.

“Do you have a fever?” she asked with a hint of concern.

“No, witch. Now, go to sleep.” His chest vibrated against her, teasing her breast. Pressing her lips together, she suppressed a moan. Dearest Hecate, she wondered how she was supposed to go to sleep pressed against him in such an intimate position.

She tensed when he shifted beneath her until cotton slid against her skin. He’d pulled the blanket from underneath him, spreading it over her. Her heart seized at the small kind gesture. He couldn’t be comfortable and yet, he’d thought of her comfort, covering her with the blanket while springs dug into his back.

“Thank you,” she whispered, voice choked with emotions.

“Go to sleep, witch,” he murmured against her forehead, breath disturbing her hair. Releasing a sigh and letting some of the tension ease from her limbs, she recited the three-fold prayer to Hecate in her head, first in English, then in Latin. Sleep claimed her partway through the Greek translation.

Encountering Trouble

Sunlight stabbed into Geralt’s eyes, disturbing the pleasant dream he’d been in the middle of. Furrowing his brow, he couldn’t remember his surroundings until the warm weight on top of him stirred before settling with a contented hum. He brought a hand up, wrapping stray strands of dark hair around his fingers, testing the silky texture. He smiled down at the sleeping witch nestled against his neck, dainty hands curled against his chest.

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