The dinner table in the witches' enchanted cottage looks like something straight out of a painting. Glowing root-wood benches, fruit platters suspended by flower stems and magical plates that refill themselves with forest delicacies.
But no one's paying attention to the food.
Because the entire table keeps twitching each time a high-pitched squeal or guttural moan escapes from the room down the hall.
Inside, Pip has the eldest of the three witch sisters twisted across a plush bed covered in velvety sheets of moss and flower petals, her spine arched, her fingers curled deep into the bedding like she's trying to anchor herself to something solid. He starts slow, unhurried, one hand smoothing up the length of her thigh like he has all night to map every inch of her, and in a way, he does. Every drag of his hips is deliberate, deep, savoring, the kind of pace that has nothing to prove and everything to give.
