Shortbread and Shadows - Amy Lane Page 0,37

anyway. But we had to learn to just… just take the magic in stride, you know?”

“Yeah,” Lachlan said. “I get it. It’s like with anything powerful—a belt sander, a saws-all. If you hesitate or act afraid, bad things will happen. You have to move confidently or things could get disastrous.”

“Yeah.” That seemed to help. Bartholomew took the two amulets in his hand and scanned through the spell he’d written. Then he took Lachlan’s amulet and pressed it to his lips in a gesture that was almost unconscious—and an exact mirror of the one Lachlan had made when he’d finished the two discs.

A look of peace crossed over Bartholomew’s face, and the presence under Lachlan’s hand seemed to heat, glowing, perhaps, with the magic and the lo—the emotion of the two of them.

Bartholomew put the discs into the potion and lit the candle, and Lachlan saw that the candle was bound to the cooking pot with four cords—two sets of red twisted with white.

“Roses for love,” Bartholomew started, and then he cleared his throat and the paper fluttered to his feet. “Love and strength, pride and timidity, healing and protection, the one to the other. This spell is for you who loved and did not know your love was returned, and for me. I loved you and you did not know. Let our hearts look forward now, and see only truth. Let our breath and bodies twine and our minds read from the same page. Roses for requited love, cloves to awaken, amaryllis to forgive. May our lives twine and grow.”

The cone of power for this spell was a rich, sensual red, with a bright white and pure iridescence, and while this grew brighter even than the friendship spell, Lachlan could not look away.

As he stared, mouth slightly parted, the incense of the potion filled his senses and the candle flared, its glow encompassing the tiny cauldron in a bubble of magic Lachlan couldn’t deny.

Somewhere, a perfect chord sounded, and Lachlan’s touch on Bartholomew’s back rang between them, until both of them moaned slightly, their skin ablaze with need.

The cone of power and the dome of protection merged, and the chord swelled, and both of them tilted their heads back and gasped, spilling a gentle sound of completion into the air, a release without sexual climax that left them both sinking to the floor in a daze.

Lachlan wasn’t sure about Bartholomew, but he was rock-hard, aching, the tip of his cock so wet it was weeping through his underwear and his jeans.

The magic scattered in a final crescendo, the light, the sound, the scent, all of it washing through them and permeating their very bones.

When it was over, all Lachlan was aware of was Bartholomew’s rapid breathing as he sat, knees folded, weight on his hands behind him.

“Damn,” Lachlan said throatily.

Bartholomew let out a tortured little moan. “Lachlan?” he said, sounding lost.

“Right here.” Lachlan leaned forward from his own crouch and put his hand on the back of Bartholomew’s neck. Bartholomew turned toward him, eyes blazing with—oh, man—pure desire.

“I want you,” Bartholomew whimpered. “I want you so bad. And I don’t know if it’s the magic or just you—I think it’s just you, but I can still smell the magic on my skin and—”

“Who cares,” Lachlan whispered back, leaning into him, pulling him into the kiss.

“I want it to be real,” Bartholomew breathed.

“Oh, baby—you of all people should see.” Lachlan could believe the light show, the buzz of electricity, the sensuality saturating the air, only because all of it was exactly what he felt when he looked at the puzzled, anxious man on his wood-paneled kitchen floor.

“Love is magic,” Bartholomew said in wonder.

Lachlan captured his mouth before he could complicate that thought. He’d said love.

And this kiss—this kiss was everything. It was Lachlan’s helpless fascination; it was Bartholomew’s obvious growing attachment. It was the slow-burning longing looks of the past two years and the breathless excitement of the past few hours.

It was hard hands sweeping skin, and sounds of excitement and arousal as Lachlan pressed Bartholomew back against the tile and began to plunder his body.

He wasn’t going to stop now, not when he had Bartholomew in his arms. That spell had finished what the events of the morning had put in motion—this consummation right here, the two of them, skin to skin.

He slid his hand under Bartholomew’s waistband, and Bartholomew grunted, thrusting up, trying to put his swollen, aching cock within Lachlan’s reach.

Lachlan took it, unable to deny himself the