Which Witch is Wild? (The Witches of Port Townsend Book 3) by Kerrigan Byrne & Tiffinie Helmer & Cynthia St. Aubin & Cindy Stark

Author:Kerrigan Byrne & Tiffinie Helmer & Cynthia St. Aubin & Cindy Stark [Byrne, Kerrigan]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Oliver Heber Books
Published: 2020-09-07T16:00:00+00:00

2

Moira tugged the washcloth from her face and found herself rendered momentarily mute by the unexpected sight of Conquest by candlelight.

Darkness made itself his ally, revealing only the parts of him best suited to stunning his prey senseless with an intoxicating mix of fear and wonder. The ponderous outline of his body, feral beneath the thin carapace of tailored shirt and slacks. Long of limb and easy in the way of predators well within their turf.

His eyes, dark thieves that they were, stole flame from the candles around her bath, burning as he stared down at her, whisky in hand. Were the light better, Moira knew they would be the exact shade of the smoky liquid swirling within that glass. Ambient amber lit from realms unfathomable.

She could smell him in the humid room, steam carrying the scent of his skin with its attendant memories. The whole wild weight of him brought to bear upon her.

Nick lifted the glass to his nose and inhaled deeply.

In that moment, Moira marked just how much he favored the wolf both in feature and in aspect—his keen eyes brightening and angular nostrils flaring with appreciation for the scent. She knew the way he moved. With an eerie animal grace and unforgiving sense of purpose.

And then, there was his predilection for taking her by way of canine congress. In the long night they’d spent together, he’d left his share of bite marks on the back of her neck. He’d held her that way as he drove into her from behind.

Moira sank down in the bath, crossing her arms over her hardening nipples, which she was pretty sure he’d already noted beneath the filmy layer of bubbles.

“Macallan,” Nick said, sipping the whiskey. “Old. Good.”

Nicholas Kingswood’s lips were the one feature at odds with a visage perfectly suited to the task of domination. Generous. Sensitive. Soft.

“I wouldn’t know.” She retrieved her washcloth and pressed it to the area below the nape of her neck where a sympathetic memory plagued the surface of her skin. “I haven’t had the chance to taste it yet.”

“Where are my manners?” Nick asked.

She had been about to comment that Nicholas Kingswood wouldn’t know manners if they stabbed him in the ass cheek with a spoon shank when he descended, hawk-like, upon her. All sudden shadow and sharp hunger.

One of the things Moira found downright vexing about immortals was their ability to move at speeds incomprehensible to the human eye. Even when that human happened to be a witch in possession of all manner of handy Druid powers with which to annoy and astound the common apocalyptic Horseman.

None of those powers would aid her now.

Not when Nick’s mouth claimed hers with all the certainty of an invading army, overthrowing all thought and intention with an onslaught of sensation beyond sanity. The taste of whiskey. The scent of smoke. The sound of roaring of blood.

The heat in his lips. The silken slide of his tongue. The unbearable tingle of every follicle as he filled his fist with a handful of her hair.

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