Page 86 of Flirty Fall Fling

“Come here,” she says.

I cross the small room, and she undresses me in front of the fire. Her fingertips trace the ink across my chest like she’s memorizing it. I let her take as long as she wants, enjoying her touch.

There’s no morning curfew or roommates to overhear. I lay her down on the couch in the firelight and kiss a path from her mouth to her hip. She sighs my name, and I plan to remember that sound for the rest of my life. I take my time; neither of us hurries. When I finally move over her, she catches my face in both hands and holds it.

“You’re unbelievable,” she whispers.

“I think I’ve met my match.”

I press my mouth against hers, and she moans as I push into her. The firelight casts shadows on the wall, and our eyes lock together. We move together, finding a rhythm. Blaire watches me, admires me even. Being seen like this undoes me.

The fire pops as I slam into her. She cries for me, then comes apart, squeezing me tight. She pulls me over the edge right behind her. We lie tangled until our heart rates return to normal.

“We should go to bed,” I whisper against her hair.

“I don’t think I can walk,” she mumbles.

So, I carry her naked through the house.

Blaire wraps her arms around my neck. “Best mini adventure ever,” she mumbles into my chest. “And we haven’t even seen the town yet.”

I set her on the bed, and she moves under the blankets. I settle beside her, opening my arms.

I count down the days instead of sheep. There are only twenty-seven days now that midnight’s gone.

Church bells and seagulls wake us. Sun blasts through the old glass, heating the room. Blaire stands at the little window in my shirt, looking down at the street, where two women in full witch regalia walk past, holding iced coffees at eight in the morning.

“I love it here,” she whispers.

I kiss her good morning. “Get dressed. We’re going out.”

The two of us go through our morning routine, sharing the small bathroom. I go to the closet and put on my costume pieces.

She puts on a long-sleeved dress that’s made from sweater material and laces up the leather boots that go to her calves. “Had I known where we were going, I’d have brought something more fun.”

Blaire turns around and smiles when she sees me.

“A costume?” She moves toward me, her hands trailing down the buttons of my shirt.

“There’s one problem with coming to New England,” I say and put on the rigid white mask. “I’m recognizable.”

“I love Phantom of the Opera,” she admits. “Sexy.”

“Now we can blend in and have fun.”

By nine, I’m grabbing her hand and leading her outside. Witch hats bob everywhere. We walk together, nearly invisible to thousands, not letting go of one another.

We stroll into several apothecaries that are like the Charmed Cauldron. The last one is a cramped old place off the main drag, where the woman behind the counter looks up from her book, takes one long stare at Blaire, and sets her book down.

“Interesting,” she says to Blaire, tilting her head.

Blaire gives her a sweet smile.

“I know you,” the older woman says.

“I don’t think so,” Blaire tells her politely.

“Then I know your bloodline.”