by Jodi Redford
To hell with his ridiculous infatuation with freckles. He was damn well not gonna picture playing connect the dots with this witch who’d ruined his carefully laid plans tonight.
“I—I followed you.”
“Why the fuck would you do that?”
“The Quints were going to hurt you.” Her eyebrows slashed low. “And is it necessary for you to cuss constantly?”
“Yes. What are you going to do, charge me a quarter for swearing?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
His scrutiny dipped to the luscious mounds of her breasts rising above the low neckline of her sweater, and he mentally recited the same words to her perky nipples. Don’t tempt me. “I sure as shit didn’t need you rushing in here after me,” he bit between clenched teeth.
She plunked her hands on her hips. “You’re awfully ungrateful for someone who just got his ass saved.”
Her delicious body might be putting off vibes that made him salivate, but it didn’t make her any less aggravating. If anything, his reaction to her only elevated his irritation. “Do I look like I need saving?”
“As a matter of fact…” Her gaze swept toward his torso, and she gasped. “You’re bleeding!”
He glanced down and noticed the gash in his T-shirt and the dark, wet stain spreading across his shoulder. “Hell, I’ve had worse paper cuts than that nick.”
Before he could hazard a guess what her next move would be, she ripped the tear in his shirt open, exposing his oozing wound. “It needs to be stitched up.”
“So does my damn shirt.”
“Stop your whining. It was already damaged.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Do you have any idea what I am?” He didn’t know how she couldn’t. A white witch should be able to detect his energy just as easily as he did hers. Hence the reason they usually went screaming in the opposite direction on the rare occasion one crossed his path. Maybe this one wasn’t completely right in the head. It’d explain why she kept insisting on touching him. Something he shouldn’t be enjoying as much as he was, for devil’s sake.
“Yes, I’m all too aware you’re a demon.”
Definitely missing a few screws upstairs then. “So I shouldn’t have to explain how my going to a damn hospital would be a bad idea.” That whole nonhuman DNA thing? Yeah, tough to explain to those in lab coats.
“Who said anything about you going to a hospital?” She let go of his shirt and swiveled on her heel. After taking two steps she shot an imperious look over her shoulder. “Are you coming or not?”
Damn women. His focus trailed to her delectable ass. Still, they do have their benefits. He shook his head, attempting to reel his mind back to safety. “Depends. Where are we going?” An image of those curvy thighs bracing his ears while he dove into her pussy for an all-you-can-eat buffet flashed across his mental big screen. He locked his jaw and sent a silent memo to his dick to remember it was lusting after a white witch—the last person it should be getting excited over.
“My shop. It’s only two blocks from here.”
Much as he wished he could do him and his dick a favor and just teleport out of there, the loss of blood had affected him more than he cared to admit. Still, if he rode it out for a few minutes, he might gather enough energy to drag his ass home. Something told him his self-appointed savior wouldn’t make it that easy on him though.
“I’ll get blood all over your car,” he said in hopes of convincing her to leave him alone.
“I didn’t drive.”
It took a moment to catch her meaning. “You’re going to make me walk two blocks while I’m bleeding out?” He grunted. “And you witches have the balls to call us evil sadists.”
She shrugged. “I truly doubt you’re going to keel over dead in the next fifteen minutes.”
Yeah, rub it in. Biting off a growl, he stalked after her. The journey to her shop was occupied with the effort not to pass out or stare at her delectable butt. Either chore was harder done than said. By the time he leaned on the front window of her store while she dug in her purse for the keys, he was breathing heavily, for both above reasons.
The sooner he was stitched up and out of there, the better. To distract himself from her sweet, intoxicating scent, he glanced at the filigreed metal sign hanging above the door. Bella’s Boutique. The name was fragile and feminine, like her. She looked over her shoulder and caught him staring at the sign. It could have been worse. She could have busted him for ogling her ass.
Pushing the door open, she flicked on the overhead lights before ushering him inside. After securing the lock behind them, she started across the room, her heels tapping on the gleaming floor planks. He pushed forward and staggered slightly, the wooziness from the blood loss getting the better of him. The sense of weakness made him grouchier. Which might explain his sudden desire to bait his tempting rescuer. “Aren’t you afraid to be locked in here with the big bad demon, Glinda?”
She shot him a quick look, her lips twitching. “Glinda? As in good witch? Wow, who knew demons have a sense of humor?” She swept him with an appraising eye. “And really, you’re in no condition to do anything to me. I’m not worried.”
Her statement only stoked his foul mood. If he didn’t suspect he was seconds away from collapsing, he’d show her just how worried she should be. He stalked after her as she ventured to the rear of the shop. They passed several small rooms. When they strode by a display presided over by a daybed with a veritable mountain of frilly pillows, his overactive imagination betrayed him yet again with lusty thoughts. Only this time the tableau in his head centered around the tempting visual of burying himself balls-deep in her pussy while she grasped the brass side rail for dear life.
Using the sleeve of his T-shirt to mop the sweat from his brow, he tore his gaze from the bed and joined her inside a tiny kitchenette.
Frown lines tweaked her brow while she eyed his approach. “You can barely stand up straight.”
“Is that your way of accusing me of drinking too much?”
“No, it’s my way of saying you’re hurting way worse than you let on.” She yanked a ladder-back chair away from the pine table in the middle of the room and pointed to its rush-woven seat. “Sit.”
“Bossy much?” Despite his sarcasm, he sagged onto the chair. He battled the strong temptation to close his eyes until the dizziness passed and instead kept the witch fixed in his sights as she walked to the sink and pulled a dishtowel from one of the drawers. A second later, the splash of running water muffled the jackhammer starting up in his brain. He grimaced and dug his thumb and forefinger into his temple. Usually alcohol had little negative side effect on him. Course, six months of torture was bound to weaken anyone’s defenses.
His rescuer rung out the towel before swiveling and striding in his direction. She stopped in front of him and nodded toward his blood-soaked shirt. “You’ll need to take that off.”
Much as he wanted to argue, giving in would get him one step closer to leaving this place. Plus the idea of her hands on his bare skin intrigued him far more than it should. He stared at her delicate, slender fingers, a lick of lust battling with the wary edginess building within him. After the endless misery Nettie had foisted upon him, the notion of being the slightest bit attracted to a witch was a damn abomination. His cock would do well to remember that fact.
Unfortunately, that part of his anatomy rebelliously hardened when he hiked up his shirt and wrestled it over his head. The garment hit the ground, and his rescuer gaped at his chest, seemingly unconcerned with the inevitable blood leaching into her floor. “What happened to you?”
It took a moment to remember the residual scars from Toran’s whip. He shrugged in response to her horrified look. “I got into a fight with an alley cat and lost.”
Her expression hinted that she wasn’t falling for his line. Hell, she could believe whatever she wanted. He wasn’t about to go into an in-depth sob story regarding his past.
Biting her lip, she pressed the cool cloth to
his wound and began gently cleaning it. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”
The notion of her soft stroking inflicting any kind of pain wasn’t entirely laughable. His throbbing cock sure as hell testified to that reality. Somehow he doubted she’d be willing to kiss it and make it better though.
“I’ll survive.” The gravel in his voice must have betrayed him because her focus darted to his face. Their gazes locked, and a flush bloomed across her cheeks.
She did that lip-nibbling thing again that provided his baser instincts with prime fantasy material before she dropped her hand and retreated to the sink. The dishtowel landed in the basin with a wet plop. She stooped, making her sweater ride up enough to reveal a tantalizing strip of pale, creamy flesh near her tailbone. He visualized tracing the small hollow at the base of her spine with his tongue.
He shook his head furiously and groaned when the action earned him stars shooting in his vision. Desperate to banish the tormenting pinpricks of brilliant light, he slammed his eyes shut and let his head loll back weakly. The staccato click of heels announced the return of his lusciously scented savior, but he resolved to not look at her, convinced it’d do the trick of dampening his strange fascination with her.
A hesitant, feather-light touch grazed his jaw, making him jerk and shattering his hard-fought control. He stared into worried blue eyes. A strange sensation twisted in his gut and radiated throughout him. Sweat seeped down his roasting skin. He couldn’t break the magnetic force of their linked gazes. As if they held a will of their own, his hands lifted and molded over her breasts. Her firm, soft, lust-inspiring breasts.
She gasped, but the sound barely cracked through his haze. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for the stinging smack she delivered to his right cheek.
The swirling stars started up again, and he winced. “Was that necessary?”
“Yes. You’re groping me, in case you didn’t notice.”
Like there was any chance every inch of his body wasn’t aware of the lush bounty of feminine flesh resting in his palms. With a mixture of relief and regret, he let go of her. “Shit, I must be drunker than I thought.”
Unmistakable hurt flashed in her eyes before she masked it. “Why? Because you made a pass at me?”
“Let’s get something clear. That was me copping a cheap feel, nothing more. Hell, you’re so far from my type we might as well be different species.” He offered a humorless laugh. “Oh yeah, we are.”
She rolled her lips tight. “You’re not exactly my type either.”
“Good. Glad we agree on the subject.” He dropped his scrutiny to the sewing basket she’d placed near his foot. “Now are you going to stitch up my damn wound or let me bleed out all over your floor?”
Her eyes narrowed, fire blazing in their depths. “Something tells me the second option would be wiser.”
He grunted. Imagine that. Another thing they agreed on.
Chapter Four
Good grief. Why in the world was she so attracted to such a miserable son of a bitch? Marabella scrubbed her palms beneath the running faucet, barely registering the pink-tinted suds swirling down the drain. Okay, there was definitely his mouthwatering physique to consider. Even the numerous scars patterning his bronzed flesh didn’t take away from his dark beauty. If anything, they only added to his ruggedness like badges of honor.
She halted in mid-rinse while she pondered that last thought. Did honor even belong in a demon’s vocabulary? Doubtful. More than likely those scars were courtesy of nefarious acts he’d committed. Regardless, getting her panties wet over him was a bad mistake—almost as boneheaded as her impulsive decision to bring him here. If the witches’ guild, or goddess forbid, her mom, ever caught wind of what’d gone down tonight, her ass would be in the ringer. Still, it wasn’t like she could leave him wounded and helpless in the park. She wouldn’t have been able to live with it if something happened to him.
With that realization firmly planted in her mind, she ripped two paper towels from the available roll and blotted her hands dry. She spun on her heel and blinked as she took in the empty chair where the demon had sat seconds ago. Her attention fell to the ground, and she noticed his shirt had disappeared too.
She crumpled the paper towels and shot them in the direction of the sink before rushing from the room. Her pace harried, she methodically checked the entire store and quickly came to the conclusion he’d ditched her.
She grunted, the irony of the situation epic. “Twice in one night. Has to be a record for me.”
She retraced her steps to the kitchen and flicked off the lights. After one final inspection to ensure the sneaky demon wasn’t hiding in the shadows somewhere, she freed the deadbolt that led to the rear vestibule and the stairway to her apartment. Once she secured the lock, she trudged upstairs. Tossing her purse on the couch, she wandered to the antique secretary and tugged the chain on the brass table lamp, splashing a warm circle of light on the monitor of her laptop. She punched the Power key and a few seconds later hopped online. The cursor blinked in the Search text box, taunting her. Fingers trembling, she shot a look over her shoulder and groaned at her ridiculous nerves.
For goddess’s sake, it wasn’t like her mom or any members of the guild would barge in on her the moment she began typing.
At least she hoped not.
Stiffening her spine, she tapped the word demon into the search field, followed by the name she’d heard Jasper use in the park—Gorasola. No useful results popped up. Certainly nothing that screamed this is the sinfully gorgeous and surly-as-hell demon you’re seeking.
She pillowed her cheek in her palm and blew out a breath. “It’s probably for the best.” She didn’t need to encourage any more of this stupid obsession with him. Or keep recounting the hot, intense look in his eyes when he’d felt her up. Her traitorous nipples immediately pebbled at the memory. Of course, his tune had changed real fast after she’d slapped him. Her ego wouldn’t let her forget that tiny, sad fact. Apparently demons weren’t immune to the weird curse hanging over her head. Isn’t that just my luck?
She frowned at the inappropriate and completely unhelpful thought. Strike that, she was blissfully happy there was no possibility of mattress mamboing with a demon in her future. Particularly Mr. Buff and Scowling Gorasola. From here on out, no more begrudging her circumstances. Fate had handed her a huge favor with this curse business. She saw that now.
Her mood lifting a fraction, she started to log off the internet, but as her finger hovered on the mouse she remembered the database the guild kept on the demons they considered especially dangerous. A flicker of guilt fluttered through her. She tamped it down with the assertion that she wasn’t digging for possible information on him. She’d already decided to thrust him out of her mind—as soon as she verified he wasn’t a threat that the guild was keeping tabs on.
Gnawing on her thumbnail, she pulled up the official website for the International Alliance of Witches and logged into the classified Members Only section. With a little surfing, she found the correct registry and scrolled through the archived listings. Her heart plummeted to her toes when she spotted the name Gorasola. She stared at the big, bold, red letters, willing them to mutate into something else.
They didn’t.
Her stomach shaky, she clicked on the link.
Samael Gorasola, age unknown, soul collector and former personal familiar to Antoinette Delacroix. Considered an extreme threat and danger to society. If encountered, proceed with care and caution.
There were a few more lines of text, but her vision had become too wonky to interpret any of it. She swallowed hard, trying to defeat a wave of nausea. This was a million times worse than anything she might have cooked up in her wildest imaginings. Bad enough she’d gotten hot and bothered over a demon. She’d lusted for a contract killer.
Chapter Five
“Oh yes, right there. Ahhhh, that thing you’re doing with your tongue…don’t you dare stop.” A throaty moan purred from his rescuer
while his head bobbed between her thighs.
He murmured an incoherent reply into her slick flesh. Fuck, she tasted delicious. Intoxicating. The most forbidden sweet fruit with the distinct undertone of…fabric softener?
Sam jerked awake and spit out a mouthful of his pillowcase. For devil’s sake. He was so hard up he’d resorted to performing oral sex on his bedding.
Speaking of hard…
Moving gingerly, he flopped onto his back and willed away his erection. He’d certainly experienced plenty of low moments in his life, but this had to rank in the top ten. Crooking an arm over his eyes, he listened to the steady whir of the ceiling-fan blades. Just as he was beginning to drift off to sleep, the obnoxious shriek of the smoke alarm broke his bubble of relaxation. He jolted. His left eye twitching, he shoved aside the tangle of sheets and leapt off the mattress. At the last second, he remembered to tug on a pair of sweats. He hiked them in place and raced to the kitchen. Skidding to a halt in the entry, he spotted Nikki furiously beating the smoke detector with the handle of a broomstick. By the time she was done with it, the unit dangled limply from the ceiling by two wires like a defeated opponent who’d gone three rounds with Mike Tyson.
“For fuck’s sake.” Growling, Sam grabbed the detector and twisted the cover off. He detached the batteries and the shrill buzzing puttered to a sickly drone before falling silent.
Nikki leaned on the broom and grunted. “Huh, so that’s how you shut the stupid thing off.”
His fist tightening around the batteries, he stalked to the kitchen counter and yanked open the miscellaneous-crap drawer. He pitched the batteries inside and choked on a strangled cough when the awful stench he’d been too busy to notice hit him full blast. Jerking his focus to the stove, he spied a frying pan holding the charcoaled remains of…something. One of the few spatulas he owned was half melted to the burner. What the hell? His patience at an all-time low, he held his breath, crossed to the sink and cranked open the window situated above it. A breeze stirred through, scattering the acrid scent blanketing the kitchen.