Eye of the Tempest (Jane True #4)

“You snore,” Anyan informed me, as he stroked his hand down my belly.

“So do you,” I said, and then moaned as—without wasting any time—his fingers eased between my legs.

“Mmm, still wet,” he said, as he moved his hand from in front of me to behind me, parting my lips as he slid a finger inside my warmth. I moaned, and his other arm, the one he was lying on, moved up so he could wrap his hand around my throat.

Easing my head around so his mouth could find mine, he slid up my body till I felt something other than just his fingers prodding at me from behind. Wanting him so badly, needing this after so long and after so many worries, I arched my back, whimpering for him, as I felt his cock part my lips…

And then Blondie apparated into the room, right in front of us.

“No time!” she shouted, flailing her arms. “No time! There’s no time!”

We both lay there, frozen, staring at her in disbelief.

“We have to go right now. What are you two doing? Don’t you know what’s happening?” I’d never seen the Original discomfited, let alone completely panicked. A chill slid down my spine.

“What’s going on?” Anyan asked.

She stopped her frenetic movements, really looking at us for the first time. I knew she was serious when she didn’t stop to say anything rude. Instead, her eyes were huge with horror.

“There’s going to be a war,” she said, her voice ominous. “And we have to win. You have to pack for a long voyage and chilly weather. Lots of layers. Now!” she shouted, when Anyan and I just stared at her. “We leave in a few hours!”

And with that she apparated me right back to my own bedroom. I landed with a thud on my twin-sized bed. My clothes, shoes, and the labrys landed with a louder thud on my bedroom floor just a few seconds later.

I lay there, blinking at the ceiling, while I adjusted to the idea that I would not be shagging Anyan in the next few minutes but that I would be going to war.

Sitting up, I looked around to muster the will to begin packing. Again. Then, overwhelmed, I stared down at my shoes, splayed out against the double-headed ax.

For starters, I mused, eyeballing my now filthy, battered, and holey Converse, war calls for a new pair of kicks.

I’m thinking a Champion wears red.