The Death of a Witch

Havermouth, Present Time

Connery murmured in his sleep as Meguitte eased a little away. She stilled, not wanting to wake him, and took a moment to admire her mate. He lay on his back, his head tilted a little to the side, and the magically toned blue streetlights filtering through the window coverings played over the strong line of his jaw and the point of his cheekbone.

There was a mole beneath the point of his jaw, hidden normally from sight, a delicate dark spot as if the point of a quill had rested there for a moment. His eyelashes were a mockery of every girl’s makeup routine, naturally long and dark, feathering shadow over his skin, and his hair made her fingers twitch, wanting to touch it. His lips were parted, soft and inviting.

He’d pushed the blankets down, exposing the long lean lines of his torso, one leg, and the beginning of his dark pubic hair. If she pushed them down further, she would be able to lean over and take his cock into her mouth. She would taste herself upon