Chapter 9: Sophia’s Desyre

I was still standing in the middle of the circle, my gown clutched against me, when three sharp knocks rattled the door.

“Evangeline! It’s almost midnight. Your parents have something planned, and we need to get downstairs!”

Sophia. I nearly dropped everything. The candles were still burning, the chalk circle lay pale on the floorboards, and the grimoire sat open at my feet like a confession. I scuffed the chalk with my toe, shoved the book into a drawer, and pinched out the flames one by one. Then I stepped into the gown, bare beneath it, fumbled the thin straps over my shoulders, and yanked the door open before she could knock again.

Sophia stood in the hallway light, her red gown glowing like an ember. She stepped inside, her eyes flicking over me. “You okay? You look flushed.”

“I’m fine.” My cheeks were burning. So was the rest of me. A strange warmth had been spreading under my skin since the last candle went out, slow and insistent, like a fever with no illness behind it. The chiffon felt too light and too close, and every small movement made me aware of it.

“We really need to go.” She glanced at the dresser and picked up my halo. “You’re not even in costume.”

She stepped closer to settle it into my hair. Her fingers brushed my temple, and the warmth in me flared so hard I gasped.

Sophia went still.

“Evangeline?”

I couldn’t answer. She was too close. I could smell her perfume, spiced orange and sandalwood, and I could hear her breathing change. Her hazel eyes had gone dark, and a flush was climbing her throat. For a long moment neither of us moved. The halo slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor, and neither of us bent to pick it up.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she whispered. “I just ... I can’t stop looking at you.”

“Neither can I.”

Her hand rose to my cheek, trembling. Somewhere far below us, a clock began to strike twelve.

Then she kissed me, and the whole world narrowed to the heat of her mouth and the sound of the lock clicking shut behind us, though I can’t tell you which of us had touched it.

Both her hands framed my face as she kissed so fierce it stole the air from my lungs. Her mouth was hot and demanding, her tongue sliding against mine with desperate hunger. I moaned into her, the sound raw, and suddenly, finally, the pieces slammed together: the throbbing between my legs, the slickness on my thighs, the tight, aching peaks of my nipples, the way my hips kept twitching forward, seeking friction. I was desperate. I was soaked.