Bewitched (Bewitched, #1)(47)

I gasp, my skin prickling with sensation. “My lips,” I breathe.

Memnon smiles against my skin, my nipple still caught between his teeth. That simple devious reaction of his sets my nerves on fire, and I find myself reflexively grinding my pelvis against his.

“Ah, you want a kiss on your lips,” Memnon says.

A second later, he’s moving. But rather than get closer to my mouth, he pulls away, using one of his knees to spread my legs apart.

Memnon catches my eye and flashes me a grin that promises sin. He bends down, looking like he’s about to bow. Instead, he places one of my legs over one of his shoulders, then the other.

His mouth is inches from my pussy. Only now do I put together his earlier words.

You want a kiss on your lips.

I feel his exhale against my sensitive folds. Hell’s spells…

A shiver works its way through me.

“You are the only goddess I pray to,” Memnon murmurs, pressing a kiss to my inner thigh. “You’re a fucking vengeful one too.”

One of his hands strokes the outside of my leg, and he leans in, pressing a carnal kiss to my folds. Another shiver wracks my body.

Memnon must feel it because his hand stops stroking my leg so he can grip me tighter.

A moment later, his tongue slides up my seam. My hips buck at the action, and a breathless cry slips from my mouth.

I’m intoxicated on the sensation he’s stirring up within me.

Memnon, voice rough from desire, says, “Let me show you how I pray to you, my wrathful goddess.”

With that, he leans forward, and he…prays.

I cry out as his mouth moves over my sensitive flesh. His fingers soon find my clit, and he rubs it in circles as his tongue slips between my folds and delves into my core.

I lie there, panting, as Memnon wrecks me touch by touch. One moment I’m desperate to get away from the overstimulation, but then the next, I’m desperate to get closer. It’s too much—it’s not enough. I need less of his tongue and fingers and more of the rest of him.

I reach for the sorcerer, no longer satisfied with just his hands and mouth working my flesh. I want to feel him in me.

At my insistent tug, Memnon stops his ministrations and lets me lead him up my body.

He resettles himself over me, his cock trapped between us.

The sorcerer’s eyes glint as he takes me in. “You think I’m going to give you this?” He rocks his hips against mine, and I suck in a sharp breath when his cock slides through my folds.

He laughs, drinking in my expression. “Oh no. You misunderstand, Selene.” He kisses my cheek, then presses his lips to my ears. “I will make you ache and ache, est amage. You see, I can be wrathful too.”





I wake with a gasp. My hand is once again between my legs, and my near orgasm is retreating. My skin is sweaty and heated. I was edged within an inch of my life by a freaking dream. Again.

I blow out a frustrated breath, staring up at my ceiling. Clearly, my subconsciousness thinks I need to get laid. And unfortunately for me, it’s set its sights on the worst man for the job.

Even as I think it, a small part of me feels sad that I may not see Memnon again. It’s the illogical, masochistic part of me, but it’s still there.

But there’s also the question of whether Memnon truly is gone. I banished him once, and that basically did nothing. I think I’m being optimistic to assume he left for good.

A sound from outside my open window distracts me from my thoughts. The oak tree rustles; then Nero takes shape from the darkness, hopping from the branch to my windowsill, his claws gouging the wood frame.

“Nero.” I smile, happy to see my familiar. He was gone for most of the day, and though I know I can always slip into his mind to be close to him and to make sure he’s safe, it’s not the same as having him right in front of me.

My panther’s shadowy form hops down from the windowsill and prowls over to my bed. Without much preamble, he leaps onto my mattress, then immediately begins kneading the blankets.

He’s just a cuddly little murder machine.

I reach a hand out and pet his face. Even in the darkness, I can see his eyes closing happily from the scratches.

“You’re such a good familiar,” I coo, and for once, Nero lets me coddle him.

I run my hand down his neck and flank, pausing when I touch something wet and sticky.

Foreboding washes over me. Pulling my hand away, I rub my fingers together, then bring them to my nose. Almost immediately, I notice the cloying, gamey smell coming from them.

“Illuminate this room,” I say, drawing hard and fast on my magic. My power lashes out of me, swirling itself into an orb of light.

As soon as my magic brightens the space, I gasp.

My fingers are coated in bright red blood. But it’s not just on my fingers; it’s all over—

“Nero.”

I’m in his head so fast, I get momentarily confused at the sight of my own human face staring back at me.

I can feel wetness against my—I mean his—flank and on his legs and paws. But there are no obvious aches or pains.

Not Nero’s blood.

I’m back in my own head a moment later. My familiar sprawls out on his side, and now I can see the blood smears across my checkered comforter.

“What happened?” I ask Nero, even though I know he can’t respond. “Is this blood from one of your kills?”