Free Never Been Witched by Annette Blair Page B

himself. He went to the foot of the bed, flipped the blanket off her feet—she peeked; she couldn’t help it—and he stooped down to examine the butterfly tattoo on her ankle. He traced that, too, and she closed her eyes to let the wonder of his touch radiate through her.
    When his hand traced higher, and higher still, keeping her breathing steady became a problem. His finger slid up along the side of her knee, rising toward—
    Shocked, she squeaked, and sat up. “Where were you going with that finger?”
    “The lure of the unknown,” he said. “I wanted to see how far you’d let me go. I know you just came to bed. I sat outside on one of the stone benches watching you paint until a short while ago. For a psychic, you sure are dense about being watched.”
    For a sexual being, he sure was dense about taking up the practice.
    He’d been watching her. Maybe she got such a good vision of him, because he was as tuned into her as she was to him, though she wouldn’t tell him so. He’d probably block her the way he blocked what he was supposed to remember, according to Meggie.
    Destiny raised herself on an elbow. “I pretended to sleep because I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable if you didn’t want to talk. I was giving you an out.”
    “Thanks. I’ll take the out. What does your bed shirt say?” He took his own shirt off.
    Nice chest. She could usually see a part of it beneath the open shirts he liked to wear, but she liked seeing the whole thing. Touchable. “Blonde and Bitchin’, my shirt says.”
    He lowered the blanket to her waist to double-check. “Not so long ago, I would have thought it should say Blonde and Bitchy, but I’ve revised my initial impression. And your panties? What do they say?”
    “Why don’t you just pull my blanket off entirely, and you can read my ass yourself?”
    He took her up on her offer, and she rolled to her side to give him a peek. “Bite Me,” he read. “Does that mean your ass is none of my business, or is it a delightful invitation for me to nibble on that fine portion of your anatomy?” He palmed her bottom and primed her at the same time.
    “Bummer,” she said. “I interpreted it as an insult, not an invitation.”
    He retrieved his hand and went to his side of the bed, so she could no longer see him. “Too bad,” he said, dropping his jeans. She heard them hit the floor. Then his shoes landed, one by one, and he lay in the bed beside her, the walls of Jericho keeping her from seeing any visible evidence that he’d be inclined to accept an ass-nibbling invitation.
    “Are you going to rhyme us another good night prayer?” he asked.
    “Sniffling sneezeweed, have you come a long way. You’re dense, though. Very dense.”
     
    “He sees more than I think
And wants more than he’ll say.
I see more than I say
And want more than he’ll give.
    “When it comes to sex,
Tenderness beats skill.
Hands ’neath the curtain
Are a sign of goodwill.”
     
    Half a beat, and his hand met hers beneath the curtain. He held tight. “Do you mean what I think you do?” he asked.
    “My spells are my prayers. You were right about that. And this one is open to interpretation. Some are not, but this one is.”
    “Thank you.” A minute later, his breathing evened out in sleep.
    He’d hardly slept the night before, but sweet sassafras tea, he’d left her wanting.
    She didn’t know what he’d thanked her for, the spell or her offer to give him sex lessons—in the event she correctly understood his need, and he caught her less-than-subtle offer. Everything about him seemed to be a matter of psychic speculation and as open to interpretation as her spell.
    Closing her eyes while aching for him and holding his hand, however, opened a window in her mind to his past—so odd when she normally saw the future, though she and her sisters each carried a bit of the others’ gifts.
    She might need to glimpse Morgan’s past to help him remember it, so he could move on to