Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
“You mean like actual fairies?”
“Dryads, mostly. Tree spirits. That’s why it’s called the Dryad’s Dance. Legend says they come out on these nights to dance with mortals.” I shrug. “Could be the spores from mushrooms causing hallucinations, could be something else. Either way, it makes for an interesting evening.”
“And everyone really goes?”
“Everyone. It starts after midnight, goes until dawn. Think you can handle a night in the Witchwood?”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it.” She turns back to the view, but I can see her mind working. She nods, still staring out at the forest with new interest. “A midnight celebration in a glowing mushroom grove. My life has gotten very strange.”
“Good strange or bad strange?”
“Definitely good strange.” She smiles at me. “I’m never going back to boring after this.”
“Boring’s not your style anyway.”
She laughs, and the sound gets caught by the wind and carried out over the water. For a moment we just stand there, taking in the view and the weight of everything that’s brought us to this point.
Instead of saying anything else, I step closer and cup her face in my hands. When our mouths connect, she tastes of gin and lavender.
Her hands find my jacket lapels, pulling me closer as the kiss deepens into something that makes my head spin. When she bites gently at my lower lip, I groan against her mouth and back her toward the solid stone of the tower’s central column.
“Here?” she whispers against my throat, breathless.
“Here.”
The massive clock face dominates one side of the observation platform, its glass surface rising above us like a wall. The thick stone ledge at its base, where enormous Roman numerals are carved deep into the weathered stone, provides the perfect height. When I lift her onto this ledge, the clock’s bulk shields us from the wind while she wraps her legs around my waist and pulls me between her thighs.
Her dress bunches around her hips as my hands find bare skin, and when she arches against me, I can feel her heat through thin fabric. The sound she makes when I trace my fingers along her inner thigh gets lost in the wind, but I feel it vibrate through her chest pressed against mine.
“Someone could see us,” she says, but she’s already working at my shirt buttons.
“Let them.”
She shoves my shirt open and buttons ping off across the stone. My hands push up her dress, thumbs sliding the humid crease of her thigh high to her panties, which are nothing more than a black scrap—already damp, already begging. I pull them aside with two fingers, taking a moment to slide my thumb against her, slow and deliberate, smearing slickness over her clit. Her hips roll, needy, clamping tighter around my waist.
She fumbles my belt and undoes it. Instead of pushing my pants down, she peels the belt free and gives it a tug, grinning at me like a dare. I snatch it from her, wrap it twice around my fist, and double it back, then slide the loop over her neck. She shudders, lips parted, and tips her head into my hand. The wind whips her hair around her face, tangling it in the leather.
She’s still got my cock pressed to her through my pants, grinding and frantic, but I won’t let her have it yet. I tighten the belt, just enough, and use it to tilt her head up so I can bite along her jaw, her shoulder, the pale wing of her collarbone. She gasps, and I feel the sound travel up the column of her throat, the pulse against my palm.
“Blue—” she starts, breathless, but I cut her off with my mouth, pressing my tongue between her teeth until she yields and opens, hands raking through my hair and pulling me so close I can barely breathe.
I tighten the belt just a little more, and she whimpers, the sound barely escaping. Her attention goes glassy, pupils blown wide as the expansive sea, and her hands switch from grasping to clawing, catching on the nape of my neck, the cords of muscle at my shoulder.
She chokes down her own noises, biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to bleed. I can feel it, the way her breathing staggers, shallow and desperate. She lets go completely, trusting the pressure of my hand and the tension of the belt to keep her upright. I’ll hold her for as long as she’ll let me.
“Please,” she says, one syllable, shaky, and I let go, not of her, but of the discipline holding me back. I unzip, freeing myself, and she grabs me, guiding my cock against herself without hesitation. Somehow I find a moment of clarity to reach for a condom in my wallet, but how I composed myself long enough to slip it on my dick, I don’t know.