Page 20

My eyes go wide, and I inhale sharply. "I do?"

I reach back to touch the same spot on my back, finding it tender.

"Laz did say the magic was tied to the pumpkin," he points out, “and that it changed when it transferred to us. So even though it’s not protecting the pumpkin anymore, the pumpkin is obviously affecting us.”

I look from the pumpkin to Will and back again, fear lancing through me. Unconsciously, my hands move to his arms, checking him over before drifting to his chest as I search for any other injuries.

"Randy," he half scolds, half laughs.

His rough palms cup my cheeks, tipping my face up until our eyes meet. His are so beautiful, crinkled at the edges by his befuddled countenance.

"I'm okay."

My hands naturally land on his waist, and he doesn't pull away. I lean closer, and he doesn't retreat, instead leaning closer, breath fanning across my face. My long nose brushes the ridge of his. His deep, breathy moan breaks the last thread of my control.

My mouth meets his, warm and soft. He opens for me so sweetly, and I waste no time licking in and tasting him. His flavor is autumn nights, soft blankets, and crackling fires, and the growl vibrating out of me is completely involuntary.

My arms tighten around him, drawing him against me until not a stitch of space remains between us.

His hard length presses into mine, sending a bright spark up my spine that has my hips reflexively jerking forward.

"Randy," he breathes, pulling his mouth away but keeping his forehead against mine. "We need to talk."

"Can we talk right here?" I ask, brushing my mouth against the white locks of his hair.

He chuckles and swats at my chest. I very reluctantly step back.

"Come in. I made breakfast."

He turns and heads toward the house. I watch him go, adjusting my still-hard length in my pants, then glance from the pumpkin to him.

I don't give a damn about my own damage, but I refuse to accept Will experiencing harm because of that plant.

I stride in after him, rapidly forming a plan.

The kitchen is warm. Dried herbs hang from the ceiling, and I see too much clutter for my liking, but I decide to appreciate the little tchotchkes. They're tiny windows into my mate's soul, highlighting his interests and aesthetic.

Do the multiple small ceramic pigs scattered around the surfaces imply he loves pigs? Or were they chosen to match his passion for farming? Maybe neither; maybe they were a gift from a particularly cruel aunt that he feels obligated to display.

While oddly specific, the last scenario comes from personal experience, though not with pigs.

The stained glass hanging in the window depicts a pot of mums. His favorite flower, perhaps? I want to ask, but his face is somber, an expression I hope I’m not responsible for. So I sit and I listen, making an effort not to worsen it with my words.

He sets two plates on the breakfast table, each holding a cinnamon roll the size of my head.

"If our relationship is going to move forward, we really need to clear the air about a few topics," Willoughby begins.

"All right," I reply cautiously.

He leans against the kitchen counter.

"Randy, I understand that tradition means a lot to you, and I'm not asking you to change fundamental parts of who you are. I have traditions I love too."

I perk up. Will's never mentioned his own traditions before.

"What kind of traditions?" I ask.

He shifts from one foot to the other and crosses his arms, leaning farther into the counter. "Like cider before bed, singing to my plants, pumpkin carving on Halloween, or the annual Christmas party."