Never Been Witched (12 page)

“Shit!” He pulled her against him and covered her head with his body.

Destiny braced herself, but no rubble fell, not a pebble. She opened her eyes, and they both looked around. “The opening’s bigger now,” she said. “And the sound of running water is louder.”

“So it is.” He tested the rock he’d hit, and it moved back and forth. “Nature’s swinging door,” he said, pulling her through the larger opening and taking a minute to get his bearings.

“Sweet Palace of the Earth Goddess,” Destiny said. “This will be wonderful for your aura, Morgan. In nature, there are ions that invigorate and cleanse the aura. Take some deep breaths. It’ll help.”

Morgan raised a brow, but she huffed, so he took some deep breaths.

“There. That didn’t hurt, did it? And your aura is brighter.” She looked around the cave, totally in awe. “Harmony told us about this place, but it’s more gorgeous than I imagined. She was right. It is spiritual. The stalagmites and stalactites are like male servants who don’t come to life until the Goddess needs them to do her bidding.”

“I don’t remember Harmony saying anything like that, and I helped pull her up the rabbit hole.”

“She
didn’t
say it. I did. That’s how I feel. And look, there’s the giant amethyst geode that’s part of the cavern wall.”

Destiny went and chose several bright, beautiful amethyst clusters from the crystals on the floor beneath the geode, for spell work. She slipped them into her hoodie pocket. “The crystals you
find
are sacred and more powerful than the ones you buy,” she said. “Amethysts bring peace of mind and the understanding of death and rebirth. As a psychic, I use them to clear spiritual and psychic blocks. They ease psychic stress and amplify intuition.”

Morgan blinked. “With you, I never know which/witch end is up.”

Destiny nudged him. “Disbeliever.”

“I disbelieve nothing,” he said, as if disbelieving his own statement. “Now
I’m
freezing my ass off.”

Destiny shivered. “I’m not cold.”

“Right.” Morgan took her arm. “Let’s follow the steam to the hot spring.”

“Cool.”

“No,
hot
.”

“It looks like a cauldron on the bubble.”

“A cauldron? Nice image. Like frogs and lizards are boiling in there?”

“Let’s get naked, go for a swim, and see what develops.”

He scoffed. “Promises, promises.”

“Do not mock me. I’ve issued hand-painted invites. You’re primed, and the big guy’s on the rise.” She threw off her jacket and made sure he got a peek at her Great in Bed sweatshirt. She turned around to take off her panties, so he’d catch Smile If You’re Horny across her ass.

She looked back at him. “Hah! You’re horny!”

“I was smiling about the tattoo at the base of your spine. What is it?”

“You can examine it, at length, later, in warmer climes, but it’s a white owl, a symbol of those who need to acknowledge the shadows of the past while looking toward a new phase of light and happiness.”

Morgan grunted. “Easy for you to say.”

“Not at all. Remaining in our comfort zone is easy, but it isn’t growth, and forward movement is our goal on earth, no matter our spiritual path.”

“I guess it is.”

“Are you gonna get naked or not?”

She jumped in. “Sweet scintillating seduction,” she shouted, her words echoing around them. “This is decadent!” She shivered. “It’s steamy, stimulating, sultry, and seductive.” She floated past him so he could get a good look at what he was missing. “Step in, Morgan the Horny, for a sensual taste of delight.”

That fast, he stripped and stood there facing her, letting her eat him up with her gaze, despite his full-body blush. A god of Mount Olympus, an Adonis, erect and proud. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on his sinewy, sumptuous body.

“You look like you
belong
in a Goddess Palace, but I’m glad you’re mine, for now, I mean, as a sex toy, you know. You, Morgan Jarvis, are as sexy as sweet scrumpy cider.”

“You, Destiny Cartwright, have teased me about as much as I can stand.” He jumped in.

Finally, he was gonna take the bait!

Chapter Sixteen

HE swam around her as if in some kind of ritual mating dance. Above and beneath the water, fingertips touching, toes, torsos coming closer and closer then moving away.

The most beautiful man she’d ever seen knew best how to hide beneath a cassock—according to her vision, not his admission—beneath a growl, a frown, and his grumblestiltskin temper. His anger, however, could not be removed as easily as his cassock. Deep-rooted anger simmered inside him. Something from his past festered, infecting every aspect of his life.

He hurt, and she wanted to heal him.

She wanted
him
. For sex, for playing and adventuring, for tipping kayaks, spelunking, lunches on the dock, sharing their art, talking, long walks, for sleeping beside . . . and for sex.

Not a good sign for two people as different as a witch from a cassock wearer.

Bloodless bloodhounds from hell, he could be on sabbatical for all she knew. Did cassock wearers take sabbaticals? Except that he’d said he wasn’t one. Nor a priest either.

If he avoided sexual commitment now, imagine how he’d run if he knew she was falling for him. Oh no. Goddess, no, she couldn’t let herself fall, and she certainly couldn’t let him suspect that she was in danger of it. He wasn’t emotionally ready for anything more than sex. Who was she kidding? He hadn’t exactly said yes to sex, yet, either.

She swam away from him toward the opening in the cliff where the spring overflowed into a waterfall that caught rainbows in its mist before it reached the ocean. “I see the kayak,” she said, rising up in the water to peek out. “Is the tide changing?”

“We have time,” Morgan said, coming up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist, kissing her shoulder, her neck, his boner beneath her bottom tickling her so close, so very close to the center of her need. He nibbled her ear and nipped the lobe, ran a hand through her hair, down her spine, around her owl tattoo, and along her hip toward the place where she pulsed with want.

He found her with his hand, almost by accident. She could tell, because he nearly pulled away. She gasped as he did, so he touched her after all, tentative at first, until he thumbed her, examined her with a finger, as if counting her folds and memorizing her. He found her slick and willing. Unerringly, he found her clit and raised her up, and up, and higher still, until he made her fly.

She turned her head into his neck while he methodically pleasured her, taking his sweet, determined time like no other. Not that she’d had many partners, but more than him.

For her, it had been a while, and this man, this book-taught genius, brought her a degree of pleasure that had her clawing at him and shouting his name.

She tried to reach for his splendid cock, but he pulled away. “This is for you. Just for you,” he said. “I need—I need to
know
that I can please you more than last night’s . . . experiment.”

She tilted her head. “An experiment, Professor? More like a sexsperiment.”

He granted her point with a nod. “You don’t have to understand. Just accept me.”

“I do. Oh, Morgan, it’s better than anything, better than a superlong vibrating kangaroo made of battery-filled plastic.”

Something like a grumble or a snigger formed beneath her ear, down deep in his chest. “One more time,” he whispered, tickling her neck with his breath. “We have to catch the tide before it takes the kayak off to missing-clothes heaven, somewhere deep beneath the sea.”

She gave him his way. A glorious way. A kiss to die for and an extended orgasm that outlasted her. That final rise, a climbing-out-of-her-skin orgasm shot through her until she fell limp and heavy in his arms. “I can’t float anymore,” she whispered against his neck. “If you let me go, I’ll drop to the bottom like a rock.”

“I’ve got you,” he said, swimming them back toward their clothes. “I won’t let you go.”

If only,
she thought. “I’m too exhausted to get dressed.”

“I’ll help.” He dried her off with his spare jacket, and she leaned against him as he pulled up her panties, stuck her bra in his pocket, and slipped her shirt and hoodie over her head.

“Hey,” he said. “This is my hoodie.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

He gave her an endearing look, proud almost. “You’re welcome. Sit so I can get your socks and boots on you.”

“Nobody ever helped me like this,” she said, pointing her foot and watching the play of muscles on his naked back as he slipped her socks on her then struggled to push her boots on over them.

He shrugged in his perfectly fitted man skin. “Close your eyes and rest while I get dressed.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. I wouldn’t miss an inch . . . I mean a peek. Great hawk tattoo on your butt cheek, and is that an angel on your thigh?”

“I know it seems irreverent, but I needed to put them where they wouldn’t show in bathing trunks.”

“The angel makes sense,” given Meggie’s companion, “but why a hawk?”

“I like hawks. They . . . speak to me.” He shrugged, pulled on his jeans, and stuffed his boxers in his pocket. Be still her heart; he was going commando. She hoped she’d get to unzip him and let the big guy out into her hands later.

She tried not to show her thoughts. “Hawks move between realms, connecting both worlds. People with hawk totems see the future.”

“So
you
should have the hawk,” Morgan said. “Not me.”

“You’re the one who chose the symbol of prophetic insight, not me,” she countered. “Funny thing is, people who don’t develop their psychic skill have a tendency to over-analyze and lose their way.” She tilted her head. “Remind you of anybody?”

“Nope. C’mon, let’s go.”

He walked her to the cave’s swinging rock door, keeping his arm around her all the way down the granite incline. Her knees lost their wobble, though she could sleep for a week. “I’ve never experienced what you made me feel in the hot spring, Morgan. You deserve a gold medal.”

He stood straighter. “You sound drunk.”

“I am, as if I blue-ribboned in the everlasting orgasm competition. I could be stopped and ticketed for exceeding the legal limit for extended sexual satisfaction.”

“We’ll paddle slow, in case there are sex cops in the water.”

“
You’ll
paddle slow. You
lost
the other paddle. I gotta close my eyes.”

He got her into her seat, pulled a blanket from storage to wrap around her, even over her hair, and closed her spray skirt.

“Oh, this is bad,” she said feeling drifty. “Now I’m satiated and warm, and very kindly disposed toward you. Not kidding, I’m gonna sleep. I haven’t been this sexually satisfied in ages.”

He stood straight. “Seriously?”

“Look at me. I’m too drunk to lie. Not one of my battery-operated boyfriends can hold a candle to you. You’re the best of the best, human-wise, as well, Boy Scout.”

He grinned and pushed the kayak toward the water while she fought her heavy eyelids for control. The way the kayak rocked made her feel like the baby on the treetop.

The next thing she knew, cold fingers reached for her, and gravity had a field day. Salty bubbles filled her mouth. Whooshing deafened her.

The bough had broken and dropped her in the sea.

Air, icy, stinging, slapped her in the face. Her neck snapped. “I’m awake!”

Dripping wet, Morgan turned and grinned. “It’s about time. You slept through a flip and roll.”

“Did we live?”

“I’ll let you know later. Go back to sleep.”

“Okay.”

Then he was urging her out of the boat.

She opened her eyes long enough to see the lighthouse.

When he got her standing, he peeled her wet clothes off her and carried her to the shower.

She woke around nine the next morning, bare-assed beneath the blankets, her hair in a tangle of wayward witch curls, because she’d fallen asleep with it still wet from the shower. She got up, put on a pair of Bad Girl on Board panties, buttoned herself into one of Morgan’s tan cotton shirts, and followed her instincts to their makeshift studio.

He looked gorgeous sitting at his drawing board, jeans unsnapped, chambray shirt open to reveal a sliver of gorgeous bare chest, sleeves rolled up, his attention on his work, with no idea of how edible he looked. Yummers.

Chapter Seventeen

DESTINY cleared her throat to catch Morgan’s attention.

He looked up to take her in, from her bare legs to her electric-shock hairstyle, and he couldn’t seem to get enough of looking at her. “You slept through the night,” he said.

She might be no closer to finding her psychic goal, but she sure was closer to seducing him, and he’d damned well better cooperate. She turned, lifted her shirttails, and flashed her Bad Girl panties his way.

The twinkle in his eyes said it all. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

Were they talking about food? “Yes. Are you?”

“I am.” He picked up her portfolio. “May I?” he asked. “I didn’t dare without your permission, but after seeing the ladybug painting in the kitchen, I wanted to see more.”

Uh-oh. The lighthouse.
“I’m shy about showing my work.” It wasn’t true, of course, but he had a shock in store if he kept going.

“You? You’re not shy about anything. I received more than enough proof last night and today. Please, Kismet. Let me see what your mind has seen. I’m fascinated.”

“And disbelieving.”

“That’s what intrigues me about your work; the realism in your visions make disbelief difficult.”

And there was the rub. She accepted the inevitability—karma or fate?—glad the painting of him as a boy in a cassock still sat in a drawer. “Go ahead,” she said.

He opened her portfolio and whistled. “You’re good.” He flipped through her paintings, made several positive comments as he viewed them with the eye of an artist. His suddenly frozen stance and haunted expression told her that he’d found the lighthouse painting. “Destiny?”