Page 7 of Love Potion No. 69

Peering at the liquid, I whisper, “Did it work?”

Quinton lowers his head with me, staring at the potion as though it has the answer to everything and breathing in the scent. It’s floral, musky, citrusy, a fire in the hearth and a salty ocean all at once, and it’s intoxicating. Excitement thrums through me. “I’ve done it. I’ve done it!” I yell over the thunder, drunk with victory and accomplishment.

“It’s so similar to ours,” he murmurs, “yet so different.”

I don’t know what he’s talking about, but it doesn’t matter. Because I’ve turned to him and am staring into his dark eyes, his pupils blown with need, and I can’t stop myself from pulling his mouth to mine. I need him, more than I have ever needed anyone, and even though there’s a very small, rational part of me screaming that none of this makes sense and to stop everything, the rest of me will not tolerate anything other than getting this man’s mouth on mine.

The second our lips touch, the electricity I’d felt earlier pings around my body, practically boiling my blood as I surge up, wrapping my arms around him. The groan that comes out of both of us is pure sex as I press against his deliciously hard body. His beard is just as soft as I’d thought, and it doesn’t scratch my skin at all. I shove his soaked jacket off his shoulders and he pulls my apron up and off, knocking my glasses against my forehead and grinning almost bashfully as he does it. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I notice the sweet look and wonder if that’s the real Quinton—shy, bashful—but it’s gone before I can hold on to it, falling through my thoughts like sand through a sieve. I toss my glasses onto the bench.

“Fucking knew you were like this under that ridiculous apron,” he mutters, sliding his hands under my shirt and seeming to map my body.

I hiss at the contact, unable to remember the last time anyone touched me like their very life might depend on it. I scramble for his skin, needing to know if he’s just as stupidly hot underneath that scowl as I suspect he is, and yes, god almightyyeshe is, his torso thick but taut, his abdomen flexing beneath my touch.

More. I need more. Our mouths clash against each other, teeth knocking before he steadies my head with his hand and slants his lips across mine. The surge of his tongue into my mouth, needy and insistent, hints at what’s to come. I undo his pants and shove a hand against the cotton of his briefs, a rush of excitement surging through me at the hardness I find there. His kisses are drugging, long, deep pulls that urge me to give him everything, all of it, forever and ever, amen.

“Clementine,” he says, nipping at my chin, then neck. “What is happening?”

“Shut up,” I murmur. “Keep going.”

Then he’s pushing a hand into my leggings and between my legs, and I moan against his mouth as one finger slides through my folds, then another. I sag against him, suddenly boneless, and he moves us so I’m against the workbench, his hand expertly working me as I clutch at his soggy button-down.

He lifts my shirt with his free hand and his mouth is hot and wet on the hollow of my throat as he bends, my hands clutching at air, then scrambling for purchase on the bench as he yanks my bra down and takes a nipple into his mouth, his fingers still working me. I gasp, muttering incoherently as he pulls off my breast and kneels, pulling my leggings down as he goes.

Then his mouth is on me, his tongue on my clit, his fingers thrusting inside of me, his other hand banded around my waist to keep me upright. The wind howls, and it sounds like hail is pelting the glass, and all I can do is moan and chantyes, yes, yesas Quinton’s tongue works its magic.

It feels like my entire body is going to come. Pleasure threads through me, a ribbon coursing through every limb before circling back to my core, knotting into a bow and pulling tighter, tighter. The light flickers as thunder rumbles, and I look down. Quinton is pressed against me, his mouth on my pussy, and as I stare, he flicks his eyes up, meeting mine, and it’s the hottest thing I have ever experienced in my life.

His fingers find that perfect spot inside of me and press. Lightning streaks across the sky as my legs tense and I throw my head back, giving myself over to the pleasure as it crests. Quinton’s tongue and mouth and fingers keep going, and my whole body stiffens, then seems to explode as I come. Thunder rattles the windows as I scream, then sob as he pulls the orgasm out of me, the bliss greater than anything I’ve known.

Sucking in a breath, I meet Quinton’s eyes once more, and another flash of lightning streaks across the sky as the power goes out.

For a moment, everything is utterly dark, the only sound the rain now falling soft as a kitten outside.

It’s enough time for sanity to hit, and I scramble away from him as I pull up my leggings. What have I done? “Out,” I manage to say between deep gulps of air. “Get out.”

Another flash of lightning illuminates Quinton, standing but bent over with his hands on his knees, staring at me in wonder, confusion, and outright lust.

I’m positive the same look is on my face.

“Out,” I repeat.

Another flicker, another glance. Now he’s right in front of me, his shirt half-unbuttoned, his tie—he had a tie?—askew, his skin luminous.

He smells so good.

I shake it off. No. No, none of this should have happened.

He wraps an arm around me and tips my chin up to take my mouth with his. His kiss is commanding, sensual, heady. The darkness whispers to me, promising that there’s more here than meets the eye, if only I’m willing to look.

I pull away.

“You need to go,” I say.

“We’re not finished,” he says, threading his hand through the hair at the nape of my neck. “I need?—”

“To go. Quinton, you need to go.” I step away from him, grasping for any shred of clarity I have left. As my heart rate slows, I notice how quiet it is outside. It’s stopped raining.

In the dark, Quinton blows out a breath and swears. “What just happened?”

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