Summer closed her eyes, drawing up a stronger shield between his feelings and her own. One hand rose, unconsciously, to the circled star pendant around her throat. “You don’t have much choice, Sherlock, I’m almost certainly the only witch you know. Which rather means you need my help, as galling as that must be for you.” Sternly, she added, “So get on with it.”
His eyes followed her hand and he felt the urge to grab her hand. He tried to resist the urge to do so. He honestly did but then she said his name and he could hardly contain himself. He grabbed her and pulled her close to him. “I want you,” he stated, lowly and filled with lust.
Pure instinct turned her face up to his. Skin-to-skin contact bypassed her mental shields, and Summer groaned. /Gods/, did he want, and now she did too. Blurrily, she cursed her damnable gift, instrument of her body’s betrayal, and swayed closer to him. “Go on,” she breathed.