FORTY-FIVE
Blindly casting a quick cleaning charm on the place—no matter how overwhelmed her senses might be by the creature before her, she could not ignore that the interior of the empty little house had not been touched, let alone cleaned, in who knew how long—she shrugged, trying to hold onto her thoughts. She murmured, aware of the brush of his fingers against her lips as they formed the words, "Why … um, why do you think that is?"
She could tell by his tone that he was smirking while he answered, his voice low and breathless, "I'll pretend I can focus long enough to answer, shall I?"
The witch shrugged, the sensation of his hands slipping downward, stroking along her limbs, her back, her hips, her bum, and back up to start over again seeming like the only thing that had ever felt real for a few blissful heartbeats. "I pretended long enough to ask the question."
He pushed his mind to work, to ignore that there was anything that mattered right now that wasn't her. "There could be any number of reasons. The house was built, but whomever meant to live here died before it was finished. Or they did live here, but only for a very short time a long while ago."
"Maybe it's the work of a spell?" The words had popped unbidden from her lips, the very notion seeming to startle them both.
Antonin lowered his head, bringing his mouth to the side of her throat. She exhaled a trembling breath, her eyes drifting closed in the darkness at the press of his lips against her skin.
"Maybe," he echoed, thrilling at the way she shivered beneath the tickle of his breath at her ear. "Maybe we should check … in a moment."
She nodded, a little moaning whimper escaping at the first scrape of his fangs over her pulse. "Yes, in a moment."
