Nightwick

The gate at Nightwick tastes visitors and almost never answers. Sera Almeida arrives in a storm to verify a night-bloom and sign a sheet before dawn. She is the circle's field botanist, practical, curvy, and not in the market to be kept. The man who keeps the wards is a different problem.Ivo Pell does not hurry. He tells her the heat in her skin is the house recognizing a match, not a trick, and that skin-to-skin is only a wrist at the bench unless she asks for more. He gives her a word that stops everything. She does not use it. What she asks for, in a stone kitchen and then under the greenhouse glass, is his mouth, his hands, and the kind of fucking a verification form was never meant to witness.A courier's lamp moves on the drive while they are anything but dressed. The bloom opens whether they are decent or not. Sera learns how thin the glass is, how a bolted potting-room door sounds, and what it means to say yes and mean the mess of it. Rain, orange-peel tea, a ward-light under his collarbones, and a road that may not open by morning.This is a paranormal MF erotic romance for adult readers: a male witch, a spoken revocable yes, breeding talk, and the risk of being seen. No one is turned. No one is owed. If she stays, she stays because she wants the second night.