Anya Bast - Witch Heart

Adam's touch made her body want. Action. Effect.

Still holding one breast, he dragged his other hand down her flesh and between her legs. Eyes wide, she watched him stroke her sex in the mirror's reflection. His big hand moving so softly, so slowly. All to pleasure her. The gentle, giving action seemed so at odds with the sight of his forearm and upper arm, which was muscled and powerful — built to be a weapon, yet now bestowing soft erotic pleasure.

Her eyes fluttered shut and her head fell back as the now-familiar haze of lust began to swamp her mind.

"No," he commanded roughly. "Watch me touching you, Claire. Watch."

She opened her eyes again and focused on his hand between her thighs. The pressure of her impending climax building, she watched him ease a finger inside her and press his hand against her clit as he thrust in and out. He held her tight against his bare chest, other hand around her breast, fingers playing on her nipple.

Claire's cheeks were flushed and her lips parted. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, languorous, and her hair lay against her shoulders in lazy disarray. Her body tensed as she reached the maximum threshold and her orgasm washed over her. Claire's knees went weak as she came, and she gripped the edge of the counter with trembling fingers.

He flipped her in a heartbeat and had her up on the counter. Adam ripped his towel away and slid her rear to the very edge. Then, setting his cock to the entrance of her sex and tangling his fingers through her hair on either side of her head, he pushed within her to the root of him. His stomach muscles rippled with the long, easy thrust.

There was a mirror behind him, too, one that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. In it she watched in fascination as his buttocks and the muscles of his calves and thighs flexed as he pushed his cock deep into her body. Her legs, paler than his, were spread wide and dangling on either side of his narrow hips.

Claire gasped at the delicious stretch of her muscles and wiggled a little on the counter. He dropped his hands to her waist and held her still as he thrust.

She curled her arms around his neck and he dropped his head to suck one of her nipples into his mouth. His hands roved her body along with his lips, tongue, and teeth. The man loved to use his mouth, always gently biting, claiming. Always kissing, always licking. Every drag of his lips left a trail of fire behind.

He buried his face in the curve of her throat. "Gods, you are beautiful, Claire. So fucking pretty. And you feel so good." He paused. "In every way. Good enough to melt my heart."

She came first, again, impossibly. It was like her body was making up for all those lost years. Then he came, murmuring her name and kissing along her jawline before claiming her mouth.

He stayed inside her, arms around her and face buried in her curls, long after they'd both found their bliss.

It rained. Not just an ordinary rain; but the cold kind you get in the winter. Constant drizzle with periods of actual rain. Frigid wet damp just on the verge of freezing. At times when they drove the rain obscured their vision and made all of them a little cranky.

Of course, Adam was cranky for other reasons. He couldn't keep his mind off Claire. He'd given into his libido the night before. Given in and done exactly what he swore he wouldn't do.

Not since he'd first met his wife had he been so emotionally drawn to a woman. Giving in to that draw had dishonored Eliza's memory when Adam owed that memory his life.

At the time, Adam had thought perhaps giving in to temptation just once would eliminate it. He'd scratch his itch and give Claire what she wanted, too — one of the many fundamental human experiences she'd been missing out on. No harm, no foul.

In the back of his mind, Adam had known it wouldn't work that way. His attraction was too strong for such a simple solution. All the rules of engagement were different with this woman. He'd known, way deep inside, that he was just using it as an excuse to touch her.

He'd touched her all right. Thoroughly. Repeatedly.

And in the morning, he'd only wanted to touch her more.

After she'd gone into the bathroom, invitation in the lilt of her voice and the sway of her hips — Claire was fast learning to leverage her feminine allure — he'd stood beyond the door and fought with himself for a full five seconds before following her.

It really hadn't been much of a fight.

All his encounters since his wife had died had lacked a deeper connection, one that was alive and well with Claire. That deeper connection made sex so much fuller and satisfying — just like how it had been with Eliza.

But it also made the low throbbing bite of grief he was so familiar with flare back to life — a dog worrying his heart like it was a juicy bone. After their encounter in the bathroom, the grief had intensified to pain.

Adam didn't know what his attraction was to Claire. Pheromones? Some unfathomable biological undercurrent? A metaphysical connection? Adam had no idea; he just wished it would fucking stop.

He wished he could get away from her for a while, try to break it. Yet the thought of being away from her made something hard, hot, and unpleasant flare in his chest.

Gods, he was so unbelievably screwed.

And he wanted a cigarette, godsdamn it. Or a drink.

They drove through the rainy morning, heading south. Adam and Theo had decided to do a wide circle around Chicago. Every day they'd move somewhere else, but close enough to the Coven so that if they had to get back they could do it in under ten hours. The Charger was up to the task — sleek, muscled, and fast, it rumbled beneath them, tires sure on the slick, uncertain roadway.

In the afternoon they stopped at a restaurant in a small town past the border of Missouri. While Theo went next door to a bookstore to buy a newspaper, Adam followed Claire inside and sat down in a booth.

She studied the menu in front of her, long lashes dark against her peaches-and-cream skin. A curl, caught on the fabric of her sweater, sprung free. She wore no makeup and styled her hair completely naturally. Claire was honest and clean, in appearance and personality. What you saw was what you got.

Claire was not his type. Not at all like Eliza, who'd been polished to perfection at all times and far out of his blue-collar, lifelong working-class league.

And yet Adam still held the scent of Claire in his nose — that beguiling alien flower that clung to her hair and skin. He still had the ghost touch of her on his fingertips, against his body, around his cock.

He wanted more.

The thrill for Adam had always been in the chase. Not that many of the women he pursued he'd had to chase very far. He made sure the women he picked wanted to be caught… and let go. Even so, normally, when he'd had them once, his infatuation ended. It was like that old saying: you always want what you can't have. Once he'd had it, that was it. The allure was gone.

Isabelle would have said it was brutal of him, and maybe it was. He always tried his best not to hurt a woman's heart. He was always careful to choose women who were looking for the same thing that he was in a relationship — sex, companionship for a short time, friendship. Love was never on the table. Strings were strictly forbidden. Real relationships? Totally out of the question.

The Adam he had been before Eliza's death would never have wanted any of that casual bullshit. He and his wife had been able to finish each other's sentences. They had laughed together every single day of their lives. Shared all. Eliza had been his other half.

But then she'd gone and died. It had been his fault. And everything had changed.

So how was it that this woman, Claire, had gotten under his skin? She was like some sweet addiction that, once sampled, he needed regular infusions of. Adam had been with many women, and yet Claire's responses in bed — so honest, so gently surprised, and so very, very erotic — were arousing beyond belief.