Page 62 of Buckle Up, Buttercup

Smiling, I press a hand to the inside of the door. “Thank you, Bodice.”

She waggles the closest siding, and the sound is friendly. Oh my gods, are we turning a corner? I can’t believe it.

The building shimmies, the hallway quaking as a door upstairs slams open. I’m silent, waiting to see where she takes this. The door slams again, and then the stairs flatten, and a pair of handcuffs slide down the flat surface toward me.

Shocked, I drop to a knee and pick them up. Staring around the building, I bark out a shocked sound. “Is this for Hadrian?”

Another shimmy. An internal quake that honestly sounds like laughing.

Okay we’ve definitely turned some kind of corner. Tucking the handcuffs into my bag, I stroke the door to the alley as I thank her again.

A quarter hour later, I park my truck at the portal station. It’s busy at this time of night with travelers coming to PG for the Mead Cute Festival. Nobody pays me any mind as I step through the portal and disappear.

It takes me another thirty minutes to get to Laporte and make my way to Hadrian’s address. When I get there and take the elevator to the opulent hotel’s top floor, I take a moment to fluff my hair in the mirror-like surface of the elevator interior.

When the elevator doors open, Hadrian stands there wearing nothing but sweatpants and a smile.

“Hello there, little witch.”

Hadrian

Bluebell steps out of the elevator, pulling the hoodie over her head. Instead of the usual space buns, she’s wearing her hair down long. It trails down over her breasts to the middle of her belly. A belly that’s covered by clothing I can’t wait to tear off her.

“You came,” I manage. “I’ve been waiting, little one.”

She slips both hands up my stomach, feeling her way along the chunky outlines of my abs. “You made a pretty compelling case, hot stuff.” She pauses as I stare at her, raising a brow.

We burst into laughter at the same time, and she shakes her head. “Okay, that nickname did not work. Gonna have to try another one.”

“Big boy was nice,” I say. “Mate is good. But, yeah, I want something else too. I’m selfish. I want all of you, Bluebell.”

She looks both ways down the hallway. “So, you got the entire top floor of the hotel again or what?”

Reaching down, I pull her up to straddle my waist.

“Nope, just a single room, but the rest of the team is spread all around the hotel. No one to hear us, no one to bother us.” I stalk down the hall with her in my arms, pushing the door open with my foot. The room’s as beautiful as they always are. The Punishers pay for the very best.

Bypassing the kitchen and living room, I walk to the giant nest in the middle of the bedroom. It’s an unusual layout, but one I like. I can watch television while I’m falling asleep, when my mind won’t turn off. Which happens more often than not.

Laying Bluebell in the center of the nest, I fall on top of her and slot my body between her thighs. “You look so pretty in this nest,” I whisper, eyes dragging down her tiny form. I dwarf her like this. I’ll always dwarf her, giant in comparison to her humanity.

Flaring my wings wide, I wince at the way my left one aches.

Bluebell shoots upright. “Hadrian, what’s wrong?”

I fold the wing at my back, ignoring the pain that shoots along my topmost bone. “Just a little tackle during the game.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m literally a black witch. I can fix that.” She slaps my belly. “Onto your stomach.”

I know Bluebell, and she won’t let this go. So I flip over and unfurl my right wing. Bluebell crawls onto my back and seats herself just above my ass.

“This might burn a little while I’m locating the source,” she murmurs.

Closing my eyes, I focus on the sensation of her warm hands running up my spine to my wing. Her fingers tickle the edges of my topmost bone, and an uncomfortable heat follows her fingertips. I groan when she reaches the spot where the big minotaur tackled me.

“Hush, baby,” she whispers, wrapping her hands around my bone.

My hard-on pokes into the nest’s soft mattress, and I roll my hips to relieve some of the pressure. “‘Baby’ sounds good,” I groan, rolling up onto my elbows, forehead pressed to the soft surface.