I pressed my finger into that tight ring of muscle, and it gave way. She moaned when I also slammed my cock back into her entrance. Her moans of ecstasy told me how much she loved the feeling of being totally filled by me.
“How can it feel so good?” She cried through her moans.
I could feel my knot start to swell as I continued to pound both holes.
“I live for your pleasure, mate.”
I turned her body so she was on her back. I wanted to see her face. I looked down at where we were joined, amazed at how her body opened to make room for my knot. It was a miracle to me.
I knew she was close again, so I reached down and circled her clit with my thumb. Her release crashed over her, causing me to come in a torrent of release in a river of cum as she juddered her hips against me and I rocked as much as I could, emptying every ounce of myself into her.
We stayed like that, panting and sweating, for a long, long time.
Eventually, the knot softened, and I slipped out, rolling onto my back. Aspen curled up on my chest, hair tangled, skin flushed.
“That wasn’t too much was it? I didn’t hurt you?” I asked, stroking her hair.
She laughed, breathless. “It could never be too much.”
I held her close, kissed her forehead, and let her breathe.
She was spectacular in every way. I told her so.
When I caught my breath, I grabbed a damp warm towel and cleaned her and then tucked her under the covers.
I left for the kitchen and came back with a tray of meat, cheese, fruit, and bread. She ate, starved, giggling at the way I fussed over her.
We finished the tray, then fell asleep in each other’s arms, safe and whole.
The next day, we’d fight the world.
But tonight, she was mine, and I was hers, and nothing could touch us. If we could only keep the enemies from coming.
Chapter 20
Aspen
Bakery hours worm their way into your bones. Even if you go to bed at midnight, you’re up at four, eyelids peeled open, heart drumming with the certainty that somewhere, a batch of cinnamon rolls is about to burn. I surfaced from the depths at 4:14, every cell crackling with energy, and spent a full minute cradled in the dark tangle of our bedsheets, listening to Papa snore soft and deep beside me.
That would have been enough for the old Aspen—just lying there, counting the seconds, watching the rectangle of moonlight crawl along the wall. But the new Aspen, the one who had completed her mate bond and survived it, was restless. My bodytingled, every nerve ending humming like a live wire, skin still sensitive where his teeth had marked me.
I slid out from under Papa’s arm, careful not to wake him, and padded barefoot to the bathroom. The shower stall was still damp from last night, and the whole room smelled like lavender and sage. I let the water run hot and stood under it, trying to reassemble my sense of self after being absolutely, undeniably ravaged by my mate. In the best way.
The memory of last night ran on a loop in my head—how he’d stripped me down, lifted me up, worked me open with tongue and hands and words so filthy I’d blushed in places I didn’t know could flush. Our mate bond made every time we’re together feel like a rush of sensation that made me see stars. It should have scared me. Instead, I felt… powerful. Like I could walk into any coven in Texas and hex the paint off the walls.
I toweled off and checked my reflection. The mate mark was beautiful: a bite-shaped crescent that had healed fast, surrounded by skin that glowed warm pink. My mother’s green eyes looked back at me, brighter than ever, the whites clear and fierce. There were shadows under them, but they made me look powerful, not tired.
I threw on a pretty red dress with little white Swiss polka dots and a bow at the white collar. White tights and black boots completed my look. I dressed a bit unconventionally for Dairyville, but even if the people around here didn’t know it, Iwasa witch after all. I pulled my hair up into a high ponytail and made my way to the kitchen.
The sight stopped me cold: Papa, fully dressed in a black Henley and jeans, was flipping bacon at the stove, coffee already percolating. Oscar sat at the table, whiskers immaculate, dressed in a tailored green jacket with a gold brocade vest and a crisp white cravat. The two of them looked like the opening to a very strange sitcom.
Papa turned at the sound of my feet. “Morning, Sunshine,” he rumbled. “You’re looking beautiful as always. Pretty as a picture.”
“You’re too sweet,” I said, eyeing the plate of fluffy scrambled eggs and triangles of toast that waited on the counter. “You’re spoiling me.”
He shrugged, setting down the spatula and crossing the kitchen in three strides. He pressed a kiss to my forehead, hands gentle on my waist. “It’s not spoiling if you deserve it.”
Oscar cleared his throat. “Miss, I recommend the eggs before they lose their steam. There’s nothing sadder than congealed yolk.”
