Page 44 of Witchy Woman

The man is built like a god. Muscles on muscles on muscles, poured into a delicious vee pointing straight to a bulge that I don’t think anything could hide. Gray sweatpants are both the best and worst invention ever created.

He has black hair on his chest following the musculature, and it somehow heightens how perfectly crafted he is.

“You’re staring,” he says, leaning against the doorframe of the walk-in closet.

“You’re half-naked,” I reply, my voice breathier than I’d have liked.

He shrugs in agreement. “Fair point. You should probably join me.”

My heart leaps, galloping like wild horses in the summer sun. Trying to run to him, no doubt.

“Ash...” I don’t know how to finish the statement. I just keep hurting and hurting him. Hurting Hazel. Hurting everyone. All I want is to be left alone and safe, and to not hurt anybody anymore.

Understanding softens his face as he approaches me. His palm slides along my cheek, his comforting electric buzzsoothing my nerves. “I wouldn’t ever push you. We can just sleep.”

I close my eyes, reveling in his touch despite knowing I shouldn’t. The way his calluses brush against my skin.

“You really are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I knew the moment I first saw you I’d seen a goddess walking among men.”

“The first moment I saw you, I knew I was doomed,” I reply, opening my eyes. “I knew my life would never be the same.”

His fist clenches in my hair, tilting my head up toward his. “Then stop fighting us.”

“No.”

Frustration rips a growl from his chest, rumbling against me. He slides his nose against mine. “Let me take care of you, Goldilocks. Let me show you that you don’t need to fight this entire world alone. Let me give you everything you deserve. Let me give you everything.”

I lift my hands to his chest, the softness of his skin contrasting the hardness of the muscle beneath.

“Let me,” he repeats.

I squeeze my eyes shut against the intimacy of his gaze. I can’t give in. I can’t.

“My darling,” he whispers. His other hand wraps around my waist, pulling us flush together. “Let me.”

I melt into his touch, but don’t say yes. I know he won’t push me, won’t kiss me, until I say yes to what he needs.

“And if I run away in the morning?”

“I won’t allow it.” He kisses my forehead. “As determined as you are to keep me away, you can’t.”

“I can,” I reply. My voice is shaky. He’s winning and he knows it.

“No, Goldilocks. You’re mine, and there’s no walking that back. Say it and let me kiss you.”

My lashes flutter against the urge to open them, to meet what I know is a piercing emerald gaze full of love and stubbornness.

“I’m yours,” I reply. “Kiss me.”

He doesn’t kiss me immediately, despite finally getting my okay.

He waits.

Waits until I finally open my eyes and face his liquid-forest stare. Waits for me to see the joy, the pure, unfiltered joy. Then slowly dips down to take my mouth.

He’s slow, soft. Our first kiss was angry, frustration-fueled passion based on weeks—months—of buildup.

But this?