Page 61 of Once Charmed, Twice Cursed
“Yes.” I frame his face with my palms. “Goddess, yes. More.”
He anchors a hand to the back of my neck. He begins to move in earnest, claiming me, making me his even though I already belong to him, and I lift my hips to meet every roll of his. I exist as slices of sensation, each stacked atop the next until they threaten to topple. There’s Weston’s hair, brushing my forehead as he holds my eyes. His fingertips against my nape, a string of searing, glowing touchpoints. The feel of him inside me, reshaping me into the exact thing I’ve always hoped to be.
Luckless. His.
We ravel tight, tangling into a knot of moans and sweat-slicked skin. Sparks fly and catch inside me. I cling to him as he chases a rhythm that promises to tip me over some fast-approaching edge.
“Touch me,” I gasp out. “With your fingers, too.”
“Where?” The word is ragged.
I uncurl his hand from my neck and steer it downward between our bodies. He splays his palm across my belly, letting me set his thumb against the spot—that wonderful spot—that makes stars collide behind my eyes. I guide hisfinger back and forth. A cry slips from my lips as each pass inspires a burst of pleasure.
I let go, but he continues the movement. “This is how you like it?”
“Yes,” I manage. “It’s how I touch myself. At night. While I think about you.”
A light gathers in his eyes, so bright it’s volcanic. The sound that rumbles from his chest is nothing short of feral.
“What else?” he demands. “What else do you think about me doing to you?”
“This.” I widen my legs, granting him deeper access, and he takes it. He surges into me and simultaneously works me with his thumb, assaulting me with a double dose of pleasure I can barely withstand.
“Always, exactly this,” I bite out.
“I’ve dreamed of it, too,” he rasps. “But this is so much better.”
It is. It’s consuming. But I can’t tell him that, because words have abandoned me. I’m spinning into myself, falling down, down, down, into a crashing river of sensation. Weston drives me deeper with every flex of his body, every press of his thumb. My spine bows up off the mattress.
Light collects behind my eyes, a rising force. And then he’s slingshotting me out into the abyss. Ecstasy takes me, spiraling outward to the tips of my fingers and toes. I shatter beneath him, crying out his name.
A moment later, he follows. His hips stutter against mine as he finds his release. “Bria,” he gasps, the syllables reverent.
Words pour from my mouth. I can’t even say which ones. Weston’s name again, maybe, tangled with curses. A promiseto love him ten more years, and the ten after that. I cling to him, riding out the waves.
He buries his face in the side of my neck and, when the intensity ebbs, slowly goes lax. Tension bleeds out of me, too, leaving me syrupy and melted. The clang of my pulse eases to a hum.
He eventually raises his head. His mouth finds mine, the kiss an outpouring of emotion—relief, awe, a devotion so deep it steals the breath from my lungs.
I kiss him back with abandon. A tear slips from the corner of my eye.
“Thank you,” I say into his mouth. Then I say it again, because those words are too small to hold the immensity of my gratitude. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“Shh,” he says, sealing my lips shut with a kiss. “I’m the one who should be saying that to you.”
He pulls back enough for me to bring him into focus. The space between his clavicles is bare. Perfect. A blank canvas.
My lungs squeeze. I didn’t feel my magic go—or maybe I did, but the moment got lost inside all the others, and that feels right, somehow, not being able to locate the second in which my wish was granted, because another, more important miracle, was taking place.
He cups my cheek, his brows knitting. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”
“Not at all. Just the opposite.”
He hesitates. “How do you feel?”
I give in to a contented sigh. “Perfect,” I say, because there’s no other possible answer when he’s still inside me. “Absolutely perfect.”
That seems to comfort him, because the tension in his face eases, some.
