Page 23 of Wicked Chains
I follow his gaze to where Hank sits, watching us with what I swear is a judgmental expression for a frog.
"That's Hank," I say, a little sheepishly. "My familiar."
"Your familiar?" Drake looks between me and the frog, bemused. "When did this happen?"
"This morning. In class. Long story." I wave my hand dismissively. "But he actually helped me find you, so be nice."
Drake laughs, a sound I've rarely heard from him. It transforms him, making him look younger, more alive. "I'm not sure how I feel about being watched by a frog named Hank while I'm kissing you."
"Yeah, me neither." I look at Hank apologetically. "Sorry, buddy, but you're kind of a third wheel right now."
Hank croaks again, and I get the distinct impression he's rolling his eyes at me, metaphorically.
"How do I..." I make a shooing motion with my hands. "Go away? Just for a while," I add quickly, not wanting to offend my new green friend.
Some instinct tells me to just close my eyes and imagine Hank disappearing, returning to wherever familiars go when they're not with their witches. I try it, picturing Hank fading away like mist, but with the understanding that I can call him back whenever I need him. Because I’m starting to think I might. Weird.
When I open my eyes, the spot where Hank was is empty.
"Did it work?" Drake asks, looking around.
"I think so," I say, a little surprised it was that easy. "He's gone. For now."
Drake's eyes return to my face, his expression growing serious again. "Rose, I really do need to tell you?—"
I press my lips to his again. I don't want complications right now. I don't want revelations or warnings or more bad news. I just want him.
This.
Us.
Ten
Rose
He responds instantly, his resistance melting away as his arms tighten around me. His hands roam my back, my sides, everywhere he can reach, as he kisses me deeply.
His mouth leaves mine to kiss a trail down my neck, and I melt at the sensation, my head falling back to give him better access. His hands find their way under my shirt again, and I shiver.
"Rose," he murmurs against my throat, my name a reverent prayer on his lips.
I tug at his ghost shirt, which feels as real and present as my own, needing to feel more of him, all of him. He pulls back just enough to help me, yanking the garment over his head in one quick move. I slide my hands over his chest, marveling at the contradiction of him, so solid but not warm, here but not alive, at least not in the conventional sense.
He watches me with those haunted eyes as I explore him, his breath hitching when my fingers glide over the hardness of his stomach, dipping lower, and lower.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice thick with need but still careful.
"I've never been more sure," I tell him, and it's true. In a world where everything feels like it’s going to let me down, Drake is the one thing I can hold on to.
His mouth finds mine again, hungrier this time, more urgent. His hands slide under my thighs, lifting me like I’m a feather, and I wrap my legs around his waist. He carries me across the room to where a dusty old sofa sits against the far wall, lowering me onto it gently.
We undress each other with shaking hands, neither of us willing to break contact for too long. Each newly revealed inch of skin is explored, cherished, worshipped. Drake touches me like I'm something fragile and rare, and I know I’m doing the same.
He parts my thighs and sinks to his knees, and his hands grip my hips as he pulls me closer to the edge of the sofa so there’s no universe where I can mistake what he wants to do to me. His breath is cool over my inner thigh, making the muscles twitch, but it’s nothing compared to the feel of his mouth on me. Drake licks a slow line up my slit, barely touching at first, just enough for my body to jerk in surprise.
He flattens his tongue against my clit and licks at it, lightly at first, then with increasing pressure. He’s teasing. I want to squirm, to arch up and into him, but his hands keep me pinned to the couch, spread wide, so he can take his time. He likes the way I react. That much is obvious. Every time his tongue circlesmy clit or dips inside me, he hums, like he’s savoring it, and I can’t help the shivery little sounds that come out of my mouth. It’s not dignified, but he’s making me feel so good I don’t care about dignity, or pride, or anything except the next wave of pleasure he’s building inside me.
He doesn’t let up, not even when my body tenses, not even when I push up against his face, legs shaking. He just grips my hips tighter, keeping me exactly where he wants me, and it’s so goddamned good I forget how to breathe. All the pressure snaps at once and I come hard, crying out his name as my climax crashes through me. He doesn’t stop, he licks and sucks me through it, slower now.
