He’s moving, fast and deep, a primal rhythm that makes the world outside the kitchen dim and meaningless. He pulls my head back, exposing my throat, and his mouth immediately clamps down, pulling hard, a furious, silent claim I welcome with a guttural sound. My nails drag down his back, fueling the intensity.
We’re both breathing in harsh, ragged gasps, the frantic sounds muffled by the sheer force of our kiss. Every stroke is a furious, passionate statement, the only language either of us needs right now. Slade never stops, using the power of his hips to drive me toward a desperate, shuddering climax.
I’m lost, utterly consumed by the rhythm and the heat, when his body goes momentarily rigid. I’ve already climaxed, shaking against him, but he simply holds me tighter, staring deeply into my eyes. The air is thick with the scent of sex—him—us.
He lifts his head, pulling his hips back slowly, drawing a long, wet groan from my throat. He doesn't move far, just far enough to part my thighs and rest his hands on my knees. Then he lowers his head, the demon lord bowing to the witch.
The shock is immediate and absolute. His mouth is hot against my clit, skilled, and utterly relentless. He uses his tongue and lips with adizzying intensity, tasting every part of me. I’m frantic, gripping his shoulders, completely undone by the sudden focus. It’s too much, too fast, a furious current dragging me under again. I feel the raw, guttural need building immediately, eclipsing everything else. My hips buck, demanding more, demanding release. The magic in the room sparks like lightning, fueled by the sheer desperation of my second climax. It rips through me, blinding and shuddering, leaving me breathless and weak.
He pulls back, lifting his head, a dark, satisfied look on his face. He looks like sin.
I don't give him a chance to speak. I push him back against the counter, slide off the edge, and drop to my knees. The air is still smoking with our combined magic, but I want to take control. To show him the full extent of my own need. I push his pants all the way down, freeing him fully, and take him into my mouth, deep and worshipful. I use my lips and tongue, tasting the heat, focusingentirely on driving him to the same breathless, feral edge I just experienced. I push my hands up his chest, feeling the ragged beat of his heart under my fingers. I take my time, savoring the slow, building tension.
He groans, low and warning, pulling my head down—a possessive, dominant gesture that makes my core clench—and then he finishes, several strokes later, hot and heavy against the back of my throat.
We stay tangled on the floor for a long, silent moment, breathing in the aftermath, both slick with sweat and desire.
Slade finally pulls me to my feet, settling me back on the counter, his eyes heavy with possession. He starts buttoning his shirt slowly, deliberately, not looking at me—a sure sign that the intense, silent moment is over and the thinking has begun.
I seize the opening before heavier conversations can land between us. “Slade,” I begin, smoothingmy hands over my jeans like a nervous teenager, “do you remember the Yule Ball?”
His eyes flick to mine, curious, amused. “Hard to forget.”
I swallow, heart thumping in that ridiculous way it does whenever I ask him for anything. “Well… Aunt Petunia is hosting something smaller. Just her, Rhea, Elle—andus. A little post-holiday gathering. I wanted to know if you’d go with me.”
For a moment he simply watches me, and I can almost see the gears behind his eyes—ancient, strategic, forever calculating the next threat in the shadows. But then the tension shifts, melts, and something warm flickers in his expression.
He focuses entirely on me.
A slow, sinfully confident smile curls at the corner of his mouth. The kind that always sends a shiver down my spine.
“I will come, witch,” he murmurs, lowering his head until his lips brush mine.
The kiss is quick but devastating—heat and promise rolled into one perfect stroke of his mouth. My breath stutters, my knees wobble, and my core tightens like my body is answering a question he hasn’t even asked yet.
When he pulls back, he’s still smiling that knowing, wicked smile. And… Suddenly, I have the unnerving sense that agreeing to this family gathering is only the beginning.
And whatever comes next, gods, do I want it.
Chapter 32
Piper
My apartment is finally quiet. It’s the day after Christmas, and the air still smells faintly of pine, cinnamon, and the lingering, dangerous magic Slade and I whipped up on the kitchen counter yesterday. The chaos is gone, leaving behind only the sticky sweetness of toomuch sugar and the deep, humming contentment of a battle well fought.
I’m curled up on the sofa, buried under the giant fleece blanket Elle gave me, wearing Slade’s massive, soft Henley shirt that smells like pine and ancient leather. Newt, sensing the relaxed atmosphere, has decided my thigh is the optimal place to practice his kneading claws.
Slade is sprawled beside me, looking ridiculously comfortable and out of place all at once. His thick black hair is slightly mussed, and his piercing, dark green eyes are focused—or pretending to be—on the television screen. We’re watching a marathon of classic holiday reruns. Right now, some fuzzy black-and-white scene is playing out, completely nonsensical but absolutely hilarious.
“I don’t understand why the mortal male keeps trying to convince the child that the mythical beast is real,” Slade murmurs, his voice a low, rough rumble.
“It’s about belief, and…consumerism,” I sigh, reaching up to run my fingers through the hair at his nape. My own hair, is a wild mess of curls. It’s probably sticking straight up, but at this point… I don’t care.
He leans into my touch, a purely instinctual response, and the sight of the demon lord melting over my petting never fails to make my stomach clench.
“Belief is a tool for manipulation,” he counters, but he laces his fingers with mine, pressing my hand to his neck. “This is better.”
Newt leaps onto Slade’s chest and immediately begins batting at the corner of the blanket, clearly bored with the lack of demonic activity. Slade raises an eyebrow at the creature, a silent challenge passing between them, before he gently hooks his finger around the cat's collar and deposits him onto the floor.
