Ian looked unconvinced. “That seems like a stretch.”
Cleo exploded. “There’s nothing else. Maybe I am grasping. Maybe it’s a leap of faith. But don’t you get it? I’ve never had any relief from this until this stupid necklace and this godawful tea. And that’s all shifter magic. Not witch magic.”
“But maybe you just need to learn about more witch magic,” Ian protested gently. The kindness in his eyes made her even angrier.
“Nan made sure that would never happen, since now we’re magical persona non grata! This is the best chance I have, Ian. The best chance I’ve ever had.” She blew out a forceful breath, and tried to be calmer. “You don’t have to be a part of this. I can find another shifter, I’m sure.” Lie. She hadn’t even known that shifters were real. But she didn’t want him to feel forced. “I can do this on my own.”
“The hell you will,” Ian said. He stood before her. In this chair, her eyes were just about level with… Nope, eyes up, she told herself firmly. Eyes. Up.
Ian’s warm hands gripped her shoulders. She shivered. “I don’t want you to need anyone else,” he said, his voice low and dark. “I want you to take what you need from me.”
Cleo tried to not be turned on by that.
Ian paused. “Actually, what do you need from me?”
“Traditionally, blood, spit, and… semen were used in witchery,” Cleo said. She tried for professional, but that tiny hitch gave her away.
“What do you want?” Ian’s voice was impossibly low now. If his voice had been dark before, now his voice was the inky pitch-black of velvet. Cleo wanted to roll in it.
Cleo’s answer was to lean forward and nuzzle the growing stiffness in his jeans. He groaned in response, his fingers unrelenting in their pressure. She stayed there, breathing in the smell of him, feeling herself grow wet in anticipation.
“Up,” he snarled. He lifted her by her shoulders, and she knew she’d have bruises there tomorrow. She didn’t care. He was close and his hands were stroking her curves with urgency she’d never experienced.
Then their mouths were clashing, desperate, hungry, and filthy. He kissed her like he was starving for her, his hands cradling her face delicately. His tongue wasn’t delicate, however. She nipped his lower lip, a shade harder than she’d meant to, and his chest rumbled. He was growling, she thought distantly, as her tongue traced his neck.
He reached down and grabbed her thighs, and she crossed her calves tight against his flexing back. They both groaned as their centers met.
“Bed,” he gasped out.
She nodded frantically, too focused on the delicious thrill of his mouth on the junction of her shoulder and neck to be able to speak. He crashed into the wall once or twice as she rocked and flexed against him. Cleo dimly was aware that they should probably be quieter, that Siobhan was probably somewhere in the house, but then Ian was kissing her again, and thoughts fled.
She expected to be thrown into the bed, with Ian’s big body following, but he laid her down gently. His hands slowed, although his focus was no less intense. When she went to pull it quickly over her head, Ian’s hands held hers still.
“Slower,” he said. “Me.”
He sounded a shade more in control than she was, and Cleo didn’t want that. She wanted him frantic like she was. She reached out and stroked him through his jeans, and he froze and cursed softly. There it was.
When he looked at her, his eyes weren’t quite human. Something wild was there, something full of want and lust and heat. A thrill ran through Cleo, traced with the slightest tinge of fear.
“Again,” he said, and she stroked him slowly, outlining the shape of him.
At the top, when she would’ve repeated the motion, Ian pulled off her tank, and her arms lifted to help. He stared at her tits in their plain black bra like they were the most delicious things he’d ever seen. But Cleo could give him something better than that.
She unhooked her bra and he bent down, laying her on her back. He lapped at one nipple, then the other, his eyes closed, his breath ragged against her skin. “Harder,” she urged him, and he complied. Each gentle tug shot lightning straight to her clit. She’d heard of women coming from nipple play alone, and she finally understood why. It was unbearably good.
Cleo pushed him, and he moved back immediately. “I want to see you,” she panted. Was that her voice? She sounded husky and wanton.
Her thoughts fled as he pulled his shirt overhead. His hands moved towards the fly of his jeans, and she placed her smaller hands over his.
“I want this,” she whispered. Ian’s pupils were blown wide open, rimmed by the smallest edge of chocolate brown. The veins were stark against his neck. He was holding his breath, she thought with a smile. She teased him, taking her time with the button and moving the fly agonizingly slow over his hardness. His hands reached out to cup her breasts again, thumbs moving in a crooked pattern over her nipples.
He moved to push down his jeans, and they both laughed at the awkwardness of getting his jeans off as he was kneeling. Finally he stood, pushing them off, his eyes raking over her body as she pulled off her pants.
Ian stood there, just looking at her until she started to feel shy. She started to rise up, her elbows behind her, but he thrust out a hand. It shook slightly.
“Gorgeous,” he said.
Cleo smiled, nerves fleeing. She felt powerful, laying on that bed, commanding his attention. She crooked a finger. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and she laughed.
He
