Page 16 of The Wolf and the Witch

“Relax, witch,” he whispered in her ear. Her body shuddered at the sensation of warmth seeping into her back, soft lips brushing her skin, and hot breath skittering across her nape. Unexpectedly, her nipples hardened. She shut her eyes, digging within for the well of calm her mother instructed her on how to unearth. Hecate provides, she chanted in her head, fighting her body’s reaction to the male at her back.

“I’m not going to bite,” he reminded her, breath fanning her skin, raising the hairs on her nape. Greta briefly entertained the idea that she wanted him to bite her before internally shaking her head. She’d never disgrace her kind by willingly bearing the mark of a beast.

“Bite me and you’ll end up coughing up toe tails for the rest of the week,” she threatened. She wondered where she could get ahold of chicken feet from where ever the hell they were. It occurred to her she didn’t know their location, or who were the other people in her room earlier.

“Where are we?” she asked Geralt. Her body never relaxed against his, and more tension tightened her limbs.

“You’re safe,” he reassured her, his deep voice sliding over her skin like silk. Her bottom lip sucked into her mouth, biting back a whimper. Her hips urged her to press against the body at her back, and the cock nestling against her cheeks. It seemed like she fought a losing battle.

A gasp tripped past her lips when he brought a large hand up to cup one breast. His hips shifted forward, pressing his cock more firmly against her cheeks, like he wanted to nestle into her skin. She moaned, relaxing against him, grinding her bottom against his erection, sparks tingling across her skin beneath his touch.

His lips brushed her ear, dropping lower to her neck. She felt his inhale, sucking in her scent greedily. His cock hardened against her, the delicious length straining his pants, heat getting trapped between their bodies. Greta tried denying the charged atmosphere between them. She agreed to offer her aid for protection, sex not being on the table.

She gasped out in between subtle shifts of her hips against his cock, “Where are we, actually, wolf?” His hips met hers eagerly, creasing the fabric of her gown. Sometime while she laid unconscious, someone undressed her and placed a hospital gown on her, omitting underwear and a bra. It made the micro thrusts of his cock between her cheeks send flares of pleasure firing through her system. Dampness coated the junction of her thighs. She’d never been so aroused before.

“We’re at my pack. Like I said, you’re safe. I made sure of that.” His words dropped an ominous trail into the charged atmosphere. Her mind wrestled with his meaning. Lycans were violent creatures, and she didn’t approve of him killing in her name, ignoring the fact she slayed a Lycan with a death potion brewed from ingredients grown in Redwoods.

“What do you mean by that?” she asked him. At first he didn’t answer, stilling against her. His breath fanned her skin with a sigh.

“You’re a witch,” he stated, as if she needed the reminder. “When other packmates learned you’re my mate—” He broke off, likely choosing his next words carefully. Greta tensed too, unsure if she wanted to hear what he would say next, her mind already forming a conclusion.

“I had to deal with some challengers for my position as Alpha,” he finished. His arm tightened on her, fingers pressing into her small breast, driving his cock harder against her.

“Geralt—”

“It’s done, witch,” he snapped. She heard his quick intake of air. “I don’t mean to snap. It’s just been a rough week, Greta.” He scooted closer, ensuring no gap remained between their bodies, the bed creaking beneath his weight. Lips pressed against her ear, his voice caressing her skin. “You were unconscious. I didn’t know when you’d wake up, if at all. And on top of that, some of my own packmates turned on me. I’m not surprised at that. It happens. I just didn’t think having a witch for a mate would act as a catalyst.”

Greta let his words sink into her, absorbing like a sponge would water, listening for what he didn’t say. He didn’t mention how many, the seriousness of his injuries if there were any, or what he did to them to ensure her safety. She knew he had to have made an example of them to deter more attacks. It’s what the Lycan king would do if an Alpha turned on him. Senseless death, she thought, all of it.

She didn’t voice her opinion on the matter. He didn’t ask for it either, merely restating facts. Greta relaxed some of the stiffness in her body, sinking against Geralt. An appreciative purr rumbled from him, sending a flush to her face. He rubbed his face against her hair.

“Any questions about being my mate?” he asked softly.

“No,” she told him, lips lifting into a smile. “Because I have no intention of being your mate.” Her core clenched when he growled against her skin, scraping the tips of his canines against her neck. She shouldn’t like that, she told herself, fighting a losing battle against grinding on the hard cock digging into her. A surprised moan slipped from her when deft fingers found a tightened nipple, massaging the bud in rough circles through the material of her hospital gown.

“You’re mine, witch,” he growled. He turned her in his arms, slamming his mouth onto hers. Sparks ruptured, a moan getting trapped between their joined mouths, his tongue wrangling hers, demanding submission. Her leg rose with a will of its own, wrapping around his waist, bringing his cock into a position that allowed her to grind her core against it.

Geralt groaned into her mouth, sliding a hand down to grip her ass, pushing his cock firmly against her. Thinking it wasn’t enough, Greta pulled her mouth from his, shoving at his chest. Reddened lips scowled, but Greta pushed again, putting her weight into it. He rolled onto his back, landing with her on top of him, and she rocked her hips, finding a rhythm she liked, moaning when his cock rubbed her clit with each motion.

Geralt hissed, gripping her hips, urging faster movements. Her gown rode up, sparks tingling across her skin from his touch. Greta felt her climax just out of reach, groaning down at Geralt in frustration, who smirked up at her. His hands slid her dress higher, one brow cocked in question. Greta bit her lip, shame and lust warring within her.

“We can stop,” Geralt said, seeing her hesitation. Those three words were exactly what she needed to hear. In her experience, Lycans took, never asking for permission. Despite his claim of her belonging to him, he gazed at her earnestly, asking for permission and leaving the decision to go further to her. Her heart thawed some, cracks forming in the foundation.

Looking down at him, she decided. She grabbed one of his hands, noting the quizzical look on his face. She smiled at him, placing one finger into her mouth. He hissed at her, saliva coating his skin.

Mumbling around his fingers, she spoke the words, “tutum ab noxa,” safe from harm. Intent was everything in magick. Her spell didn’t recognize ill intent when he’d kissed her, failing to kick in. But she wanted him somewhere a little more dangerous, granting “safe passage” around the protective spell on her body.

She let his finger slip from her mouth, bringing his hand beneath her gown, and pressing his fingers where she needed them most. Geralt groaned, the sound skittering down her spine, reigniting the spark within her. She shifted her hips forward, silently begging him to finish what he started.

“As you wish, mate,” his husky voice rasped, fingers brushing through her dark curls, circling her clit. Greta moaned, rocking into his hand. Another calloused hand slid up her bare thigh, claws teasing her skin but never pressing firm enough to cut. The extra sensations elicited more moans.

“Geralt,” she gasped out, unsure of what she was asking for. A low growl tumbled from his lips, his unoccupied hand traveling higher up her gown, finding a tightened nipple and flicking with the point of a claw. Her head jerked back, pleasure rising like waves of the ocean.

“Come for me, witch,” he growled, sending her tumbling over the edge. She came against his fingers with a strangled cry, whimpering when he kept stroking her through her aftershocks.

She slumped against his chest, which shook from his laughter.

“What a good little witch, coming from my touch,” he murmured into her hair. She grunted, her weak body resting on top of him. He tipped her face up toward him, brows furrowed.

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