The champagne put the final alcoholic haze on the evening, and even Connor’s gait wasn’t completely steady as he led me back to the apartment afterward and more or less pushed me up the stairs.
“I’m fine,” I protested, flailing weakly at him.
“If by ‘fine’ you mean drunk, then yeah,” he replied with a grin. “But it’s okay. I’m pretty wasted myself. This is why it’s great we didn’t have to drive.”
“Definitely,” I said.
By then we were inside. He shut the door and started to pull me toward the stairs.
“No,” I said. “I want to do it down here. On the rug in front of the fireplace. I don’t even care if it’s scratchy.”
“The fireplace?”
“The rug, silly.”
He shook his head but offered no argument, only took me by the hand to the living room, then paused to get the fire going. While he did that, I unbuttoned my overcoat and unwrapped the scarf from around my throat, and flung them on the sofa. My boots I pulled off and pushed out of the way under the coffee table.
I began to undo the buckle of my belt, but he came over and stopped me.
“No,” he murmured. “I want to undress you.”
Something in the quiet intensity of his gaze kept me from making a flippant remark, made me stand silent as he undid the buckle and then the button and zipper of my jeans beneath. He drew them down slowly, being careful to leave my underwear in place. I’d hoped the evening would conclude this way, so I’d put on a new pair I’d just bought, emerald green satin with black lace trim, and a bra to match. As he pushed up my top, he caught sight of the bra, and sucked in a breath.
“When did you get that?”
“The other day, when we went to the mall. You had to use the bathroom, so I sneaked into Victoria’s Secret since it was only two shops down from the restrooms.”
“Resourceful,” he said, eyes gleaming.
“I try to be.”
No chance to talk after that, because he pulled off my top and dropped it on the floor, his mouth going to my neck and trailing hot, tickling kisses from throat to collarbone to the swell of my breast, just before he pushed the bra to one side, his mouth closing on my nipple.
I whimpered, and then we were sinking down to the rug, my hands eager on his belt buckle, wanting his jeans and underwear out of the way, wanting nothing more than bare flesh against bare flesh. The fire flickered and snapped in the background, but we didn’t need its warmth.
We had one another.
He was so ready for me, as ready as I was for him. I touched him, marveling at the rock-hard flesh under the silky skin. There had been times when we’d made love for hours, exploring one another’s bodies, stroking and licking and touching, but this wasn’t one of them. I wanted him in me, needed that joining more than anything else, as if by coming together in such a way we could sanctify the evening, seal the pact we had made to face the future together.
Although I said nothing, he seemed to understand what I wanted. His fingers found my core, stroked gently, and then he was pushing inside me, rocking with me as I wrapped my legs around him, driving him deeper, wanting him in the very center of my soul.
As always, we climaxed within a second of one another. Maybe it was because of the consort bond, or something else, something even more primal. All that mattered was the shivering heat, the explosion, the wordless convulsion as Connor and Angela disappeared for that single endless second, becoming something else.
Becoming one.
Afterward he carried me upstairs, tucked me gently in bed, then slipped in next to me, his warmth dispelling the chill from the icy sheets. I pushed up against him, cradling my head on his chest, and fell asleep that way, secure in his strength, secure in his love.
In that moment, it was enough.
* * *
As if the world truly had turned a page after New Year’s, the days seemed to pass more quickly than ever. Soon enough, the university was back in session, and we had no further contact from Damon. After a week went by, and then another, I began to believe that he truly must have abandoned his schemes, had resigned himself to the idea that the McAllister prima would never allow him to use her powers for his own ends. And since Connor had gotten confirmation through the family grapevine that Damon was making overtures to Jessica Lowe, the young woman from the potluck, I figured I was safe. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, but if she was a Wilcox, then she knew what she was getting into.
My feeling of relief only increased when I got my monthly visitor a few days after New Year’s. Not that getting my period was that much fun, but at least it meant the charm was working, meant that I didn’t have to worry about the curse descending on me. Well, the Wilcox curse anyway.