BE LOYAL TO WHAT MATTERS

Companion piece to:

Black Magic Woman - Tom is forced to confront a strange truth after Wyck reveals a town secret.

“No Tom, what we have, it’s a magic of its own…”

It is magic Tim thinks as his palms push the cotton robe down your shoulders. It slips along your arms, fluttering to the floor in a pool at his feet. The way he feels when he’s with you, it’s a type of sorcery he’s never felt before not even with Lauren.

“Lie back and let me do all the work tonight.” You murmur against his lips, in an almost kiss. “You’ve had a tough day Mr Mayor.”

His breath catches as you reach down between the two of you and unfurl his belt. The leather loosens from the tongue, the waistband slipping further down his hips as you unzip his fly. His cock springs out, the damp patch predominant on the front of his underwear as your palm ghosts over the length of it.

His hand fastens on the nape of your neck, his mouth crushing against yours. His tongue delves inside, the breath punching out of his chest at the swell of your curves pressing against his chest. He can feel your pebbled nipples through the fabric of his shirt, and he needs that barrier gone now. He tears it off over his head, not bothering to unfasten the buttons as he throws it Lord knows where.

You capture his mouth again as you free his cock from his underwear, your fingers wrapping around it, pumping the shaft as your thumb smears pre-cum over the tip.

Your desire for him, it’s an aphrodisiac, one that sears through his nerve endings like an inferno as he moans into your mouth, guiding your tank top up along the curve of your waist, past your breasts and along your arms. He thinks about knotting it at your wrists, throwing you down onto the couch, having his way with you but he needs more tonight, he needs this to be about the both of you. He tosses it onto the driftwood coffee table instead, ignoring the sound of the vase with the dried flowers tipping over.

His smooth palms seek out your breasts, cupping them, thumbs tracing over the pretty outline of your nipples as he guides the left rose bud into his mouth. Your head tips back, hair falling over your shoulders as his tongue traces over the shape, sucking it. Your fingers thread through his hair, gripping the stands at the base of his skull as he shoves down his trousers and underwear with a frantic need. Your panties follow, a complicated navigation that steals both of your attention until their thrown across the lamp in the corner of the room. Then there’s nothing but skin on skin, your wet pussy leaking all over his cock as you straddle his hips once more.

“Look at me.” He whispers and those wild tempestuous eyes are back on him, the waves crashing over his head, dragging them down into the depths of ecstasy as he eases himself inside you. The sound you make as he breeches you causes a rush of deviance surging through his body as he arches up into you, filling you inch by inch.

Your fingers lace at the base of his neck as you move together, rocking in that armchair by the fire, the wood creaking with every thrust.

“More.” You plead, your bottom lip catching in his teeth. Copper erupts on his tongue as he tugs it and you clench around his cock, his name tearing from your throat as your thighs start to tremble.

The blood pounds in his ears, the beating of ancient drums vibrating through his form with every stroke. He chases the tempo all the way to the crescendo, until his body is alive with rapture, until the symphony breaks and your nails rake over his shoulders, the pain intermingling with the pleasure, heightening it.

You cry out as you come, sending him hurtling right over the edge with you as you grip him so tight that stars erupt behind his eyes, his release spurting into you in hot, white streaks, marking every single inch of you as his. He fucks you through the orgasm, pumping until you wring every drop right out of him. His mouth seeks out yours. Torrid, messy kisses that keep the ecstasy thrumming through his veins like a narcotic.  

“Wyck was right, you are a witch.” He teases, the back of the head resting against the cushioning of the armchair as he drinks in this wanton version of you, the one that belongs to him.

“Hm.” You whisper, your fingertips tracing over the cut on your lip. Your fingertips come away stained with crimson. You use it to trace a symbol over his heart, the same one you draw in the middle of the night. He knows what it’s means by now, protection, safety, hope. “But I’m your witch.”

“All mine.” He agrees as he raises to his feet, taking you with him. You laugh and that sound lights up his insides as he carries you into the bedroom. “And I’m not done showing you that yet.”

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