With the dishes done and put away, they stood facing each other in the kitchen, a new tension humming between them. Donatello glanced at his watch.

  “It’s getting late,” he said. “I can drive you home like I promised.”

  Andromeda forced a smile, but disappointment prickled at her chest. She didn’t want to go home. She wanted to be kissed until she forgot her name.

  “Is this you playing good cop?”

  Donatello nodded, his Adam apple bobbing. “I’m being a gentleman.”

  “What if I wanted you to play bad cop instead?” she challenged.

  In an instant, he had her pinned against the kitchen counter, his body bracketing hers without touching. His eyes searched her face. “Are you sure about that, Swan?”

  Heart hammering, Andromeda met his gaze. “If you don’t kiss me now, I’m going to turn you into a traffic cone for real.”

  Donatello Malatesta was not a wizard who needed to be told twice. His mouth claimed hers, hot and demanding, his hands sliding up to cradle her face with surprising gentleness. His skin was still cold from doing the dishes, the contrast delicious over her heated cheeks—same as the damning contradiction that lived in his forceful kiss and tender touch.

  Andromeda wound her arms around his neck, fingers threading through his ridiculous lilac hair as she pulled him closer. He tasted like wine and spices.

  His hands moved to her waist, lifting her effortlessly onto the counter. Her pencil skirt was too tight to allow much movement, but Donatello—his mouth never leaving hers—efficiently hiked it up her tights until she was free to wrap her legs around him, drawing him between her thighs as the kiss deepened, turning from exploration to something more urgent and primal.

  As their lower bodies came in contact, she shamelessly moaned into his mouth. Donatello broke the kiss, smiling down at her in a way that was both sweet and somewhat feral. “You’re right, Swan. I can tell the difference now.”

  He moved on to mercilessly kissing every exposed inch of her neck, sucking her earlobe, and forcing more incoherent moans out of her.

  And then his mouth was on hers again, hard and insistent, as if he wanted to consume her completely. Her pulse thundered in her ears as one of his hands reached behind her and pulled her hair loose while the other slipped beneath her sweater, trailing fire along her bare skin. She arched into him, her body desperate for more contact, more of him. His thumb grazed the edge of her bra, hot and unbearable, and her head fell back, hitting the cabinets as she gasped for air.

  Donatello pressed his advantage. He kissed down the column of her throat before his lips found their way back to her mouth.

  Andromeda’s thoughts scattered, leaving only the blinding sensation of his mouth moving against hers. Any flicker of self-control she had left was devoured by the sheer intensity of the kiss and his fingers hooking the back of her knees to draw her closer.

  She whimpered as his tongue parted her mouth, dizzy from his taste, from the rush of it all. The sound goaded him on. His hands gripped her thighs, while she clutched his shoulders, desperate to keep herself grounded as wave after wave of raw desire crashed over her.

  Her senses blurred. He was everywhere—under her skin, in her soul—with bruising kisses that made her blood boil in her veins. She was about to lose her mind when he took a small step back. Her eyes snapped open, meeting the wild look in his.

  He stilled then, his entire body going rigid, vibrating with the effort of holding back. “How much bad cop do you want me to get, Swan?”

  She held his gaze, biting her swollen lower lip. “All the way bad.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Screwed

  DONATELLO

  “All the way bad,” she whispered, and that was it. Game over.

  He surged forward, kissing her again like she was air after a year underwater. Andromeda clutched at his clothes, dragging him closer, and he gladly went, bracketed between her legs, lost in the taste of her.

  In the back of his mind, a tiny voice—the sensible part that occasionally showed up late to meetings—muttered something about pacing, about not ruining a good thing by rushing it.

  He body-checked that voice straight into a metaphorical locker.

  Andromeda Swan wasn’t a witch you kept waiting.

  Her nails scratched lightly at his nape, just shy of his hairline, and he shuddered. She was rewiring his brain with every slow drag of her fingers. He broke the kiss only long enough to pull her sweater up, pausing when it bunched under her arms.

  “One last chance to back out,” he offered, breath hot against her ear.

  She tugged at his hair. “You want me to redecorate your house with glitter spells?”

  “I like my house the way it is—un-cursed and with you inside it,” he muttered, grinning as he peeled the sweater off her and tossed it behind her.

  She was wearing a plain black bra. Nothing meant to seduce. She wasn’t trying to wreck him—and yet, he was already ruined.

  “You’re staring,” she teased, twirling a lock of his lilac hair around her slender finger. A good metaphor for where he stood now.

  “Can you blame me?” His hands found her waist again.

  “You gonna talk about it all night or touch me?”

  Gargoyles, he loved her mouth. Especially when it said reckless things like that.

  Challenge accepted.

  He bent his head, brushing his lips along the swell of her chest, grinning when she shivered. “Touching’s extra,” he teased.

  “Start me a tab,” she whispered back, breath hitching.

  Donatello slid one hand up her spine, threading his fingers into her loose hair. He yanked it back not too gently, tilting her head backward to gain better access. Her thighs tightened around his hips as he kissed a path up to her collarbone, then nipped at her throat, savoring the way she gasped his name like it was a prayer and a curse. He caught her mouth in another searing kiss, one that had nothing patient or careful left in it. She met him with the same fierce urgency.

  He pulled back, breathing hard, forehead resting on top of hers. “Swan, you’re a terrible influence.”

  She tilted her head, brushing her mouth over his jaw without kissing him. “You seem a fast learner.”

  He barked out a laugh before hauling her up, one arm under her thighs, the other bracing her back.

  She yelped, clinging to him as he carried her through the house. “You could’ve dropped me onto the couch. I’m not fussy.”

  He nudged open the door to his bedroom with the tip of his boot. “I want you in my bed.” He bit down hard on her earlobe to get the message across.

  He lowered her onto the mattress, arm muscles tight with the effort not to collapse with her. Donatello braced himself above her for half a second before giving up and sinking down, needing to feel her body.

  Through sheer determination and questionable coordination, they undressed each other between frantic kisses, every brush of skin against skin igniting fresh sparks.

  He lost his sweater. She lost her skirt. They both wrestled her tights off, dissolving into helpless laughter when he got tangled in the fabric.

  He tugged it free. “For the record, next time you wear these, I’m cutting them off.”

  “Uuuh, kinky, I like it,” she panted, curling her fingers into his biceps and pulling him to her.

  He groaned against her throat. “You’re killing me.”

  “Good,” she whispered, arching into him. “At least you’ll die doing what you love.”

  He buried his face in her neck to muffle the broken sound that tore out of him—half growl, half strangled moan.

  His hands slid over her without hesitation now, greedy for every inch he hadn’t touched yet. He grazed his teeth over her shoulder, smiling into her skin when she arched into him with a gasp. What little fabric was left between them vanished under clumsy, frantic fingers, and when nothing stood between them, she hooked a leg behind his hip and dragged him under, tearing the last of his control to pieces.

  They found their rhythm instinctively like they’d been made for this—for each other.

  Andromeda kissed him like she needed his lips to breathe, her hands roaming over his back, digging her nails into his skin whenever he did something particularly good—which, judging by the number of scratches, was often.

  He kissed her back until they were both drowning. Until neither of them could tell where one ended and the other began.

  They moved together in a rough, greedy tangle, a collision of mouths, hands, and skin that burned and chafed so hexingly good.

  Every breath, every gasp, every buckle of her hips, every shudder of his muscles—it all built into something incandescent, something inevitable.

  When they finally tumbled over that edge together, it wasn’t a clean fall. It was a glorious, reckless, spiraling dive, like cliff-jumping into an ocean.

  Donatello caught her soft cries with his mouth, clutching her to him like he could make this last longer, stretch it into forever.

  When the world eventually stopped spinning, he collapsed onto the bed beside her, dragging in slow, heaving breaths like he’d run a marathon uphill.

  Andromeda flopped a hand over his chest, her nails lazily tracing patterns over his pounding heart.

  For a while, they lay there, limbs tangled, skin buzzing from the aftershocks.

  Eventually, she broke the silence.

  “So,” she said, voice raspy but smug, “You fed me. You sexed me. What’s next?”

  He laughed, still breathless, and turned his head to kiss her temple. “You get anything you want, Swan.”

  She grinned sleepily. “In that case, I’d like the good cop to hold me now.”

  He pulled her closer without hesitation. “You’re very high maintenance.”

  “Oh, shush, you love it when I’m bossy.”

  Yeah, he thought as he spooned her. He did.

  He loved a lot of things about Andromeda Swan.

  And he was so screwed.

  Chapter Twenty

  How To Get Away With Cuddling

  ANDROMEDA

  Andromeda woke to an unfamiliar warmth wrapped around her body—a heavy arm draped across her waist, a solid chest pressed to her back. The foreign sensation of bare skin disoriented her until memories from the night before flooded back in vivid detail: Donatello’s hands exploring her curves, his mouth claiming hers, the way he’d looked at her right before they’d both fallen apart. She was naked in Detective Malatesta’s bed, and not a single alarm bell went off. A languid contentment settled in her bones instead, as comfortable and unexpected as the man still sleeping beside her.

  Morning light filtered through the half-drawn blinds, casting golden stripes across the rumpled sheets. Carefully, Andromeda shifted to face him, moving slowly to avoid waking him. Asleep, Donatello looked younger, the perpetual crease between his brows smoothed away. His lilac hair was tousled, sticking up at odd angles that made him absurdly adorable for someone who’d been so commanding last night.

  She studied him, taking advantage of this unguarded moment. His eyelashes—unfairly long for a man—cast feathery shadows on his cheekbones. The stubble along his jaw had grown thicker overnight, darkening the sharp lines of his face. One of his arms was still tucked beneath her, the lean muscle firm. Her gaze traced the contours of his chest, the defined slope of his shoulders, down to where the sheet draped low across his hips.

  Andromeda couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this… satisfied. Usually, first-time sex with a new partner involved awkward fumbling, misinterpreted signals, and polite disappointment. But with Donatello, it had been like their bodies had known each other all along. He touched her like he already knew every place that made her shiver.

  And then there had been that moment—that strange, breathless pause when he’d just… stopped. Held himself above her, gazing down with an expression that had made her chest ache. In that suspended second, with his eyes locked on hers, their connection had become something more than bodies seeking release. As if they’d been making love, not having sex. The realization disturbed her as much as it thrilled her.

  Andromeda ran her fingers through his lilac hair, the silky strands slipping between them like water.

  Donatello stirred under her touch, his eyelids fluttering before opening to reveal those dark eyes that saw right through her defenses. He blinked once, twice, focusing on her face. Then a slow, lazy smile spread across his lips. Her heart kicked in response.

  “Morning,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep. He shifted closer, burying his face into her neck and breathing deeply. “You smell good.”

  She raised a brow. “I smell like sex and sweat.”

  “Mmm. I’ve never been this into either before.”

  His lips brushed her pulse point. She gripped his hair hard.

  “Any chance my hair could go back to black?”

  Andromeda widened her eyes in mock innocence. “I never admitted having anything to do with the color change, detective.”

  “No?” His hand slid up her side, fingertips tracing patterns on her skin that made it difficult to keep cool. “You’re sticking with denial?”

  “It’s worked for me so far.”

  His eyes narrowed playfully. “I could make you confess.”

  “I’d like to see you try—”

  Before she could finish, he lunged forward. His mouth found the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder, and he delivered a series of quick, playful bites, nuzzling her as she squealed and laughed.

  “Stop!” she gasped, squirming beneath him.

  “Admit it was you,” he growled against her skin, his stubble ticklish. She’d have to use a spell to hide the beard burns.

  “Fine! Fine!” Andromeda surrendered, breathless from laughing. “It was me! I cursed your hair!”

  Donatello pulled back, victorious. “See? Was that so hard?”

  “You fight dirty.”

  “Only when necessary.” He touched his lilac locks with an exaggerated sigh. “Do I have to beg for you to fix it?”

  The image of Donatello Malatesta—powerful, cocky, self-assured—begging her for anything sent a wave of heat through her body. “That’s… an interesting proposition.”

  He caught the shift in her tone, his eyes darkening as he leaned closer. “I could get on my knees right now if that would help,” he whispered in her ear.

  Andromeda swallowed hard, torn between taking him up on the offer and showing mercy. She sighed dramatically and kept stroking his lilac strands. “I suppose I can be persuaded without the begging. But I’ll miss this color. It’s grown on me.”

  “You can turn it back tonight, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. “If that’s what you want.”

  The casual endearment combined with the assumption they’d be spending another night together sent a warm flutter through her chest. Rather than examining the feeling too closely, Andromeda focused on reversing the curse.

  Under her fingertips, the texture of his hair remained the same—soft and thick—but the magic drained away as the color shifted. “This might feel weird,” she warned. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the counter-spell.

  “It already—hex!” Donatello shivered in her arms. “Your coursework is freezing!”

  When she opened her eyes, his hair had returned to its natural midnight black, the strands still caught between her fingers. He wasn’t any less handsome. Still the same intense, brooding, skilled-in-bed cop.

  “Better?” she asked, admiring her handiwork.

  “Much.” His hands were moving again, sliding down her back to pull her closer. “But now I’m cold. Think you could warm me up?”

  She smiled as she let her weight drop on him, trailing her fingertips down his arms. His mouth claimed hers, hungry and demanding, as he rolled her beneath him.

  This time was different—less frantic, more intentional. His hands moved with careful precision as if cataloging her responses for future reference. And he held her gaze with an intensity that made her breath catch. There it was again—that something that ran deeper than a physical connection. Andromeda should have found it terrifying, but instead, she arched up to meet him, surrendering to whatever this was becoming.

  Afterward, they lay tangled together, Andromeda’s head pillowed on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. His fingers traced lazy patterns on her shoulder, and she melted into the touch.

  “Shower?” he suggested.

  What was meant to be a quick rinse turned into another round of intimacy when Donatello backed her against the cool tile wall, lifted her with those strong arms, and made her forget her name. Water cascaded over them, steam curling around their bodies as they moved together. She clutched his shoulders, her thighs locked at his waist, wondering how she’d ever go back to showering alone after this.

  By the time she made it to the kitchen, wrapped in his too-large robe, her legs wobbly, and her skin bearing several marks from his eager mouth, the clock on the microwave read 9:17—later than she’d expected.

  “Hex! Quill will be worried sick. I didn’t tell him I wasn’t coming home.”

  Donatello grinned as he cracked eggs into a bowl. “Your hedgehog’s going to hate me even more now.”

  “He already thinks you’re the devil incarnate.” Andromeda rummaged through her bag for her phone. “Yikes. Seven texts from Sarah Michelle.”

  She scrolled through them, her cheeks heating as her roommate’s messages grew increasingly suggestive. The last one being:

  You’d better be handcuffed to Malatesta’s bed. That’s the only reason I might forgive you for not replying

  Andromeda groaned and typed back:

  Stayed at D’s. Will be home soon to change. Tell Quill to chill

  Almost instantly, three dots appeared, followed by:

  D, huh? So… on a scale of 1-10, how accurate was that “my penis is small” meme? Asking for a friend

 

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