Lorne kisses my hair. “Ideas are meant to guide us, to help us—not the other way around. We can’t suffer and sacrifice just to keep the idea in place if it doesn’t serve us anymore.”
“My whole life is ideas, Lorne. My entire career, my present, my future—it’s all spoken about as ideas. As beliefs.”
“But is it not,” he counters gently, “also your job to marry ideas to reality? And to marry reality to new and adapted ideas?”
“Shut up,” I tell him, which is my way of saying fine, you’re right.
He hums in what sounds like amused indulgence and draws circles on my thigh with his finger. Even though his body is unmistakably aroused underneath mine, he is in complete control, content just to hold me. Just to cradle his prideful little ex-wife in his arms.
“What made you come here tonight?” he asks, after a minute of us cuddling like this. “What made you change your mind?”
“I wish,” I say slowly, “I could say I had a big revelation about kink and choice, and about how choice means we can stop doing something when it no longer works or when we change and no longer want it. About how choice means I can choose who I am in different places—when I am Morgan Leffey and when I’m your little witch. I wish I could say that I made peace with the word switch, and that I finally accepted you were telling the truth about standing in my shadow when it came to my career and my public life.”
“You wish you could say?” Lorne asks, still drawing circles on my thigh. “So, you didn’t have these revelations?”
“Well, okay, I did. But mostly I was just horny.”
He laughs, his entire body shaking under mine. It feels so nice that I smile into his chest.
“And I missed you,” I say into his shirt. His laughter fades a little and my voice gets quiet. “I missed you so much that I thought I’d break with it. I’m not old, Lorne, but I’m not young either, and I don’t want to scorn happiness because I’m scared.”
He kisses my hair again, holds me tighter. “I can’t make your fears disappear,” he tells me. “But I can promise to hold you close whenever you’re afraid. I can promise to listen. And I can promise to stop, if that’s what you want.”
I nod against him, sliding my hands up to his chest and sighing in contentment. “I know. I know that now. Sorry it took me a divorce and four years apart to believe you.”
A low chuckle. “You wouldn’t be the Morgan I love if you made things so laughably easy.”
Well. True. Of all the things I’ve been accused of during my ambitious—and frankly dramatic—career, being easy for other people has never been one of them.
“So, what next?” I ask my ex-husband. I tilt my face up and nuzzle into his jaw.
“Are you asking me what I want?”
“Yes, Lorne.”
He moves me so that he can look down into my face. His dark curls fall over his forehead, and like this, I can see the shadows on his cheeks from his long, thick eyelashes. “I want to marry you again,” he says softly. “I want to be in your bed every night, and I want to be by your side every day. I want to make up for every minute we’ve been apart.”
“Oh,” I whisper. I press my hand against his face, my chest tight and my throat knotting up. Because I don’t deserve that. Not after what I’ve put us through. “I want that too, but are you sure you can trust me? I’m still trying to figure things out, and I don’t feel particularly trustworthy.”
He manages to keep cradling me and shrug at the same time. “Trust isn’t a perfect thing, Morgan. Neither is faith. But what’s the alternative? Living without my little witch for another four years?” He brushes his nose over mine in a tender gesture. “Unbearable.”
I should protest more for his sake, really, but what can I say? I’m Morgan Leffey. “Then let’s get married, ex-husband.”
“And you’ll be mine? When it’s just the two of us?”
I smile up at him. We’re so close now that we’re whispering against each other’s lips, like teenagers in the dark. “Are you asking because you’d like to start now?”
“How you read my mind, ex-wife.”
“And what would starting now look like?”
“Well,” Lorne says, brushing his lips over mine as his hand finds its way to the button of my pantsuit trousers. “You would bend over my desk and present your cunt to me. And then I would fuck it. And then you would bring me back to your residence and I would fuck you some more. And when we woke up the next morning, we would pick a wedding date, and I would make plans to leave the firm, and I would dedicate the rest of my life to supporting your dreams. And then maybe wrapping you in rope and spanking your ass raw whenever we’re alone. How does that sound?”
My trousers are unbuttoned now, and I climb out of his lap and push them down past my hips, along with my thong. And then I bend over his desk, looking back at him over my shoulder.
“Sounds like we should get started,” I say. And then I wiggle my bottom a bit and add, “Sir.”
His hand is already on his belt, his erection is already coming out. He rolls a condom on, and then in one brutal drive that has me grunting against his legal briefs and ecological impact surveys, he’s inside me, sending me to my toes.
“Little witch,” he says fondly. And then he starts fucking me like I’m actually a witch and I’ve been sentenced to Trial by Cock to prove my innocence. “My sweet witch.”
I’m going to come, I’m going to come, I’m going to come. And I’m smiling into all these surveys, because I wouldn’t be here if not for those welts from my dress. If not for meddling assassins and ex-husbands as stubborn as I am.
“Well, Morgan le Fay,” he murmurs, stroking into me. “Is it enough?”
I shatter into a thousand, glittering pieces.
“Yes,” I breathe to the man I love, the man who can call me mine. The man who left pea-sized welts of devotion on my skin. “Yes. It’s enough.”
If you’re looking for more tales with the American Witch and a round table of sexy rogues, check out Sierra Simone’s American Queen, the first book of the New Camelot Series.
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Little Red Riding Hood
Karina Halle
1
It was a starless, dark night, the sky a swath of black silk. It was as if even the moon knew that something was afoot, that trouble would find itself in the hallowed halls of the Constantine mansion, and it had decided to hide in advance.
Ginger Jones quietly shut the door to the Uber, paying the car no attention as it pulled away. Her gaze was brought up to that endless dark sky as she wondered if it was an omen of some kind. A chill swept through her though the air was warm and soft, and she gathered her red cloak tightly around her.
Inconspicuous my ass, she thought to herself, eying her intricately laced red gown. Her grandmother said she wanted her to blend in, but how on earth was she supposed to blend in when her gown looked like it was dipped in blood? She knew the party was supposed to be a Gatsby-esque masquerade ball, and that most people would be dressed in white and silver and gold, living out their 1920’s fantasies. Thank god for her own elaborate Venetian mask of gold that covered everything but her scarlet-painted mouth. When combined with her cloak, no one would figure out who she was – not that they’d know, anyway.