Devon Monk - Magic on the Storm

“No,” he grunted.

Even though I am a tall woman, Zay still had me on sheer muscle. He flexed and managed to break my hold, twisting over and onto his back, his legs scissoring to catch mine.

No way I’d let him do that.

I followed him, using his momentum to roll over him and then behind. I huffed out air, got to my knees, and tried to keep his arm pinned.

He shifted, rolled. I ended up kneeling with him beneath me. Boo-ya! I was on top.

I had one knee planted beside him and the other foot braced on the opposite side. Forget about his arm-I wrapped my hands around his throat, knuckles at his windpipe.

He pressed his palms flat against my hip bones and tilted his hands inward so his fingers stroked upward beneath my T-shirt. I glared at him as the heels of his hands slid over the bullet scar on my left side and the smooth skin on my right. Then up and up. His thumbs tracked slower than his fingers over my stomach, pausing to dip and press at my navel. Then he fanned his hands outward, upward, and rested them beneath the curve of my breasts, supporting the weight there.

I raised an eyebrow. “You do notice I’m choking you?” I squeezed a little harder in case he thought I was kidding around.

He grunted.

I most certainly was not kidding around.

He shifted his grip. Tried to pull me down and rolled one hip to throw me. No chance. I braced my heel to stay out of the roll and pressed harder.

“Mercy,” he whispered.

I relaxed my grip. “Say I win.”

“I win,” he managed.

I retucked my thumbs against his windpipe. “What? You win? Is that what you said? I must not have heard you correctly.”

“Draw,” he whispered.

“Oh, sweet hells, Jones. You have got to be the most stubborn man I know. You lost.”

“I agree,” he said.

Huh. I hadn’t expected him to give in that easily. I pulled my hands away, rested them against his chest.

“I am the most stubborn man you know.” He rubbed at his throat with one hand. Grinned at me.

I smacked his other arm. “My honor’s at stake here. You lost. I won. If you can’t admit that, I’m not sure our relationship will survive.”

He snorted, grabbed my shirt, and pulled me fully on top of him. His fist, in the valley between my breasts, was a hard pressure between us.

“Nothing’s going to get in the way of our relationship.” His gaze searched my own, and the slightest fleck of gold sparked there. “So long as we want this, nothing can stand in our way.”

Damn. Could the man get any more romantic?

I tipped my head down and caught his lips with my own, soft, thick, hungry. He instantly responded, then licked gently at my mouth until I opened for him. He tasted of deep, warm mint, and his pine scent, peppered by sweat, carried the memory of the countless times we had touched, loved.

I explored the textures of his lips, his mouth, savoring him slowly, and he did the same, his tongue stroking a delicious heat through my body. I moaned softly and gave in to the liquid fire burning through me.

I wanted him. And it was very clear he wanted me.

He flattened his fist and released my shirt, then wrapped his arm around me, holding me tightly, as if he were afraid I might disappear.

A little too tightly. Claustrophobia tickled the back of my throat. It was suddenly hard to breathe.

I exhaled and pushed back enough that he knew to loosen his grip. I lifted my shoulders and chest and took a deep breath. There was plenty of room here, plenty of room for us to be this close.

He drew his arms off from around me, his hands at my ribs instead, helping me stay half raised above him. My right hand on the floor next to him did the rest to support my weight.

With his free hand, he tucked my hair behind my ear, a gesture that was becoming habitual and endearing.

“Okay?” he asked quietly.

I nodded. Just that much space, that one deep breath, cleared my head and pushed the claustrophobia away.

I wove my fingers between the thickness of his and pulled his hand out to the side. I eased back down on him and caught his other hand, and drew it outward too, so that we lay body against body, spread wide upon the floor. My breasts, stomach, hips, thighs, melted into the length and hardness of him beneath me. I wanted more of him. All of him. I kissed the side of his neck, bit gently. His hands clenched, and his body responded to my unspoken invitation.

I sucked at his neck while his heartbeat grew stronger and faster beneath my breasts.

“Allie,” he begged. Electricity rolled through me, and I caught my breath.

It had been two months, and it still felt like I couldn’t get enough of him.

I want you, he whispered in my mind. We kissed again, his tongue tracing the edge of my bottom lip. I felt his desire burn through me like a hot wind, making my skin prickle with tight heat.

Soul Complements, they say, can cast magic with each other, matching and blending exactly how they use magic, work magic. Soul Complements, they say, can become so close, they hear each other’s thoughts. Soul Complements, they say, can become so close they lose their sense of identity and go insane. That made Soul Complements an unmeasured power, a combination that could change magic, break magic, make it do things it should not do.

Zay and I could hear each other’s thoughts when we touched. We hadn’t cast magic together, which was a little strange. I thought the Authority would have wanted to know what kind of strength or liability we could be for them. But Sedra, the leader, refused to allow us full testing.

We hadn’t pushed for it. Maybe we were both worried it would feel too good. Would make us need it too much. Maybe we were afraid if we got too close, we’d never be able to let go, no matter the price.

Yeah, that last thing was pretty much it.

But what they didn’t say was that sex, when you could feel your partner’s pleasure, when you knew exactly what his body craved, was awesome.

I rocked my hips against his and nipped at his earlobe.

Ask me real nice-like, I thought.

Zay paused, swallowed. I pulled up, gazed down at him. His eyes held more gold than before, as if he was resisting the need to use magic. He slid one leg between mine. “Or what?” he asked.

Didn’t he know I couldn’t ignore a challenge?

I propped my forearms on his chest and tried to look unconcerned.

“Or we could call it a day and go get lunch.”

“Hmm.” He brushed my hair back again, tucking it behind my right ear. He traced the whorls of magic that started at the corner of my right eye and flowed like metallic ribbons down the edge of my cheek, jaw, neck. I shivered at the cool mint that licked behind his touch.

His finger stopped at the pulse point at my throat, even though the marks of magic continued down my arm to my fingertips.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

I was. But not for food. “Yes.”

A rock hit my arm.

I twisted, my palms up, ready to cast a spell.

Zayvion was way ahead of me. One elbow braced beneath him, he rolled, putting me partially behind him, his right hand already outlining a glyph in the air, though he didn’t pour magic into it yet.

Another rock, a wet rock-no, an ice cube-hit my hip. More ice hit Zayvion’s shoulder, clattered down his chest to the mat in front of him. Ice rained down around us in handfuls.

Shamus Flynn stood at the door halfway across the room, a bucket of ice tucked between his arm and chest, and a grin on his face.

“Thank God I got here in time.” He tossed another volley our way. “You might have gone up in flames. Burst into sex at any minute.”

“Shame,” Zayvion warned. “Put the ice down.”

“Like hell. No need to thank me. It’s what friends are for.” He tossed another cube at Zayvion’s head. Zay didn’t even blink as it whizzed past his ear.

Boy had good aim.

Zay didn’t take his eyes off Shame, but he shifted so that we were no longer tangled.

“Do you remember what happened to you the last time you threw ice at me?” he asked calmly.

Shame shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“It had something to do with you not walking straight for a couple days.”

Shame grinned. “Oh, you mean what Chase did to me. That I remember. Girl’s got no sense of humor. And she kicks like a mule. Bad combination.”

“The bucket?” Zay held up his hand where he still held the glyph between ring finger and thumb. “Down.”

Shame pulled out a piece of ice and stuck it in his mouth. He chewed it-noisily-as he strolled over to us.

I swear he had a death wish.

Shame did a fair job at that goth-rocker vibe. Black hair cut with the precision of dull garden shears shaded his eyes. Black T-shirt over a black long-sleeved shirt on top of black jeans, black boots. Even his hands were covered by black fingerless gloves. But behind all that black was a man who wasn’t as young as he looked. A man whose eyes carried too much pain to be hidden by that sly smile.

“That was your last warning.” Zayvion tensed, ready to pour magic into the glyph.

“Do not burn your best friend to a crisp,” I said, sounding more like a babysitter than a girlfriend.

Zay just kept staring at Shame. “He’s won’t burn long. Not with all that water on him.”

Shame laughed. “Bring it on.”

“No one’s going to bring anything on.” I stood, and took turns glaring at Zayvion and Shamus. “No magic fights in the gym.”

Right. Like they’d do what I said.

Time to change tactics. “How about food? Zay and I were just going to do lunch,” I said.

“Lunch?” Shamus said. “Is that what you kids are calling it these days? Back in my day we called it fucking.”

“Shamus,” Zayvion said, “may I have a word with you?” Zay let go of the spell and stood up in one smooth, graceful motion that showed just how many years this man had spent sparring.

Shame didn’t have time to answer because Zay closed in on him, fast and silent as a panther. He wrapped his arm around Shame. It looked friendly enough, but both of Shame’s arms were pinned and Shame was tucked tight against Zay’s side.

“You want a word with me, or you want to date me?” Shame asked. “’Cause if it’s the second thing, you’re buying me more than lunch.”

Zayvion forced him toward the far side of the room.

I shook my head. Those two acted like brothers, even though they were physically about as opposite as they could get. I glanced at the door, wondering if Chase, Zay’s ex-girlfriend, might have come along with Shame. No one was there.

My shoulders dropped. Chase and I were not exactly friends, even though we’d had to work around each other the last couple months. She wasn’t done hating me for what happened to Greyson, the man she dumped Zay for. And I was more than done explaining to her that I hadn’t turned him into a half-dead beast.

What can I say? My relationships were complicated.

I found the water bottle I’d left on the floor, picked it up, and took a drink. Zay and Shame were far enough across the room I shouldn’t be able to hear what they were saying. But Hounding for a living meant I had good ears. There was a chance I’d be able to spring into action if Shame needed me to save his life or something.