Page 93 of Vengefully Matched

“Agatha,” Priscilla said softly. “The only feedback I will have is that I’d like to see you every morning for the rest of eternity. My only notes are that I’ll never go to bed alone without dreaming of you, that what I want instead is for you to be there, thinking of me too.”

Agatha drew a sharp breath. “I already am. Always thinking of you.”

It was big, this feeling between them, this thing that they had finally unveiled. She didn’t quite have the wherewithal to talk out loud about how she felt.

She wanted to focus on what she could say.

“I think I’ll have the imprint of your hands on my body for the rest of my life,” she said, not quite believing that she had found the courage to say it. She had, in the past, been reserved, quiet about physical romance, not talking about it unless it was absolutely necessary for logistical purposes. Never like this. “I’d die to feel your fingers against mine, against all of me. Even looking at them now is agony, knowing what they’re capable of. What you’re capable of.”

“Fuck, honey,” said Priscilla, swerving a little, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. “You can’t just say a thing like that and expect me not to pull over and make you mean it.”

“We have places to be,” said Agatha, grinning. “And I do mean it. You can make me show you just how much later. For now, we have a saboteur to catch. I want to rain my unbridled wrath down upon the person who has been messing with me for months.” Her nostrils flared. Someone had kidnapped her and fucked with her memory. When she found out who, there would be heaven to pay.

“I love it when you talk dirty,” said Priscilla.

Agatha laughed and returned to her list when they hit another set of curves.

She could get going again about the way it felt to have Priscilla Hart between her thighs, but she wanted to survive the day, and she suspected what she had to say might send them careening off the side of a mountain.

CHAPTER 31 Priscilla

She woke up next to Agatha, who she’d practically had to beg to get into bed and actually sleep. Memory spells were no joke, and only the promise of the morning could get the formidable woman to finally shut her eyes. So when the sunlight drifted through the blinds the house had conveniently opened in her room, for the first time that she could remember, she didn’t find the glare of the morning so odious.

This morning, the brightness of the sun, even this early, was beautiful, but that might have been the spell woven by the goddess sleeping next to her, all soft blond hair mussed around her face, a slight ruffling snore fluttering adorably from her nose. Priscilla wanted to put her hands in that hair, to stroke it gently, but she also didn’t want to wake her. Agatha needed the rest. Agatha needed those cute little sniffling snores sawing in and out as her chest rose and fell.

Priscilla was in so deep that even snoring seemed sexy, and that was saying something.

She really wasn’t in the habit of staring at people and watching them sleep.

And yet here she was, willing and eager to watch the rise and fall of Agatha’s chest beneath her velvety green comforter, which she had stayed on top of for some semblance of she didn’t know what. Propriety? Consent? She wasn’t sure, only that it had not seemed right at the time to climb under there with Agatha when she fell asleep. It had seemed so intimate, to lie in bed with someone under the same blanket, sharing breath and air and space, the occasional jostling of limbs a reminder that she was not alone in the universe or in bed.

The point was, Priscilla had found herself so much in her own head that she’d grabbed a crocheted blanket from the basket that Hart Manor had produced next to her bed, despite it most definitely not having been there earlier that day, and slept curled up under it.

And now here she was, staring at a beautiful woman, willing her to wake up.

Agatha blinked and looked at Prissy, gaze blurry.

“Morning,” she said, groggy, a smile creeping up her face.

“Feeling better?” Priscilla would be willing to cut off another finger to make it so if she didn’t.

“Mmm,” said Agatha. “I do. I just have the most horrible taste in my mouth.” She rubbed her thumb against her fingers. A mouth-cleaning spell. “Better,” said Agatha, smiling fully now, with teeth.

Priscilla snapped, doing the same. Actually brushing teeth felt better than a magic scrub, but one of the benefits of being a witch was that she never had to choose between morning breath and getting up before she got to give her sweetheart a kiss.

“Can I kiss you?” breathed Priscilla, before she could think better of it.

“Please.” Agatha looked at her with the same fierceness that she had without memory, and it twisted something in Priscilla’s chest.

Her mouth was on Agatha’s before she could even reach her hair with her hand, lips meeting gently and then more firm, insistent. Crushing. She wound her hand into Agatha’s sleep-mussed hair, and pulled her face closer, capturing the little gasp Agatha let out, moving to suck on Agatha’s bottom lip for a moment until she moaned, and Priscilla cherished that sound, wanted it emblazoned in her brain forever.

The comforter stretched between them, a barrier both chaste and obscene, moving with every roll of their hips and yet stretching, impenetrable, between them. Priscilla had loved that comforter, but she resented it now, for getting in between her and Agatha, even temporarily.

“Hi,” said Agatha, pulling back. Her eyelids were heavy, her lips swollen from kissing. “I should contact the Council.”

Prissy shook her head. “I already did. I spoke to Otho last night, and to Kevin this morning.” She frowned, still not quite pleased with the amount of power this situation had dropped in Kevin Cross’s lap.

“Kevin?” Agatha’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion.