The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

Page count: 7

She was pushed up against the car, and Dean's mouth descended on hers. His arms wrapped around her tightly as he lifted her off the ground, her legs automatically wrapping around him until he set her on the hood of the Impala. His hands roamed her body, slipping under her t-shirt, fingertips teasing her skin and massaging her breasts through the lace of her bra.

She moaned into his mouth, gripping his hair and tugging hard enough to make him groan and buck into her. The hard length restrained in his jeans pressed against her clothed centre. She gasped, biting his lip and drawing blood, ripping a growl from deep in his chest—one that vibrated through her, raising goosebumps across her skin.

She pulled back when the need for oxygen became too great, but Dean didn't stop. His lips dragged down her cheek, along her jaw, and into the crook of her neck, peppering her skin with licks and nips.

A week without her was torture. The need in him was rising fast, sharp and almost painful, the way it always did when the bond went too long without being fed. He remembered Hermione's dry explanation from the other day:

"We don't have sex as often as we do because we're a newly married couple," she'd said, rolling her eyes. "We do it because of our bond. When we're apart too long, we get sick. When we're not intimate, the bond weakens. Sex reconnects us, strengthens us. Over time, the need will lessen, stabilise."

He snapped back to the present when her hands slipped under his shirt and scraped at the scars on his back. He pulled away enough to look at her—hair wild from the wind, lips parted, her head tilted back as the breeze blew around her. She was breathtaking.

She opened her eyes and moaned softly at the look in his.

"We can't," she whispered, shaking her head, though she didn't push him away.

Dean's mouth twitched. His hands slid to her hips, fingers tracing slow circles along her skin, sending shivers through her. He leaned in, whispering against her ear. She clutched his shoulders, nails biting into him, and he chuckled softly as his breath tickled her neck.

He knew she felt the withdrawal just as much as he did—she simply hid it better. But her cycle had finished, her hormones were a mess, and a week without him had finally broken her resolve. She cracked.

"A car could come by any minute," she said quietly.

"Then we'll have to be quick, won't we?" he murmured, kissing the spot behind her ear that made her gasp.

Her nails dug deeper into his shoulders, and when he pulled back to look at her, he watched her eyes shift—pupils widening, almost feline. He knew he had her then.

He crushed his mouth back to hers and pulled her off the hood. She made to climb into the car, but he caught her wrist.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked, his voice low and dark.

"Into the car," she said, confused.

He smirked, turned her gently, and guided her hands flat onto the hood of the Impala. He stepped up behind her, forcing her to lean slightly forward as he pressed close, nipping her shoulder and grinding against her.

"No," he muttered. "I've had you in the car. Now I'm going to have you on it."

"There is not a chance in—" She gasped when his hand slid down the front of her jeans, slipping into her underwear to find her already wet. Two fingers sank inside her easily, the heel of his palm rubbing perfectly against her clit.

"You were saying?" he breathed, mouth on her neck.

"Fuck it," she moaned, moving her hips against his hand, desperate for more.