by Vivi Andrews
It was easy to picture him—she wasn’t sure whether it was imagination or some facet of her abilities supplying the images, but she saw them all the same. Smart, independent, resourceful, often in trouble. The system would not have rewarded his defiant brand of ingenuity.
She toed off her heels and sank onto the soft, ivory leather of the couch beside him, careful to keep all traces of sympathy from her expression. He wouldn’t want it. The topic was a minefield and she was too fuzzy to navigate it well, so she hid the way the thought of him as a kid made her ache, letting him see only the respect she had for what he’d become.
She raised her glass to him. “To hacking out a place for yourself in the world.”
That obsidian gaze landed hard on her. He went preternaturally still and for a moment, she saw the predator, pure and unvarnished, looking back at her. Her stomach clenched. Then he blinked, something unlocked and suddenly his mouth was twisted in a wry smile, his glass clinking against hers. “To hacking it out.”
Karma took a breath, belatedly realizing she’d been holding it, and they both drank. After the tension of the moment, relief made her head spin. Or maybe that was the alcohol. The vodka slid over her tongue like silk now and pooled pleasantly with the warmth in her stomach. She could focus on him, but the rest of the room had taken on a distant, fuzzy quality. Houston, we’ve achieved orbit. She frowned, squinting blurrily at the ice clinking merrily in her glass. “Why isn’t the ice melting?”
“Magic,” he rumbled. And just like that, he was relaxed again. How did he do that? He stretched an arm along the back of the sofa, his fingertips grazing the back of her neck as he lazed there, like a lion sunning in the afternoon. Even when he relaxed, he brought to mind predators. There was probably something seriously wrong with her psyche that she got a charge out of the little shivers when he made her feel like prey. It certainly said something about her defective survival instincts, but everything was loose and liquid right now, her entire body warm and mushy, and she couldn’t make herself care. Or move. Especially as his finger began to repeat a slow, deliberate stroke down the nape of her neck.
She’d always been sensitive there, but it had never felt quite like this, like every single individual cell was humming. His fingertip was an electric charge, sizzle sizzle sizzling down her spine and out to her extremities in warm, heavy waves. She was tuned to his touch, each new stroke awakening another inch of her body she’d never known could be erogenous. And that was just from brushing the back of her neck. What would happen if she gave him carte blanche with her body? The thought worked a delicious shudder through her.
Why was she resisting this? Why was she resisting him? He was this wild, sexy, utterly unpredictable, insanely masculine specimen of a man. She was never going to meet anyone else like him and she was wasting it because she was too much of a prude to listen to her own body, which was currently screaming at her to pounce on him.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said.”
“Mm?” His eyes were closed, head lolled against the back of the sofa.
“About casual sex.”
His finger stilled on the back of her neck, then resumed its lazy stroke. “Oh?”
“And fun.”
“Sex should be fun,” he rumbled agreeably, still without opening his eyes or moving a muscle. “Otherwise you’re doing it wrong.”
“I’ve definitely been doing it wrong.” The profoundness of this statement seemed to echo in her thoughts, distracting her.
His lashes lifted, the ebony depths they veiled watching her with careful neutrality. “Now that is a shame.”
“I agree.” His hand fell away from her neck and she resisted the urge to pout and demand it back. She tucked her legs up underneath her so she was kneeling, facing him. “I need more fun in my life. And more sex.”
He plucked her glass from her hand and set both tumblers on the floor. “That’s enough of that,” he muttered under his breath. Then, louder, “Why don’t we see about accessing that gift of yours?”
“Okay.” She swung a leg over his so she was seated, straddling his lap.
Chapter Seventeen
Save a Horse, Ride a Warlock
“Whoa. Ah, hi there.” If Prometheus had made a list of likely things to happen tonight, having Karma mount him like a cowgirl wouldn’t have made the top five hundred possibilities. Her skirt, which he’d never seen so much as wrinkled, bunched high, exposing the smooth lean stretch of her thighs.
“Hi.” She looped her arms around his neck, smiling dopily. “It worked last time when you kissed me.”
“I remember.” He didn’t know what to do with his hands—a gentleman would keep them to his goddamn self, but Prometheus was no gentleman, so he gripped her hips, squeezing gently, testing out the feel of her and discovering he liked the hell out of it. “I also remember that you wanted no physical contact to be one of our ground rules.”
“I have too many rules.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you, but I’m pretty sure I’m only agreeing with the Stolichnaya. The Karma I know lives for her rules.”
“Do you know me? Do I know me? Does anyone?”
“I know that you’re a flirty, weirdly philosophical drunk. Wasn’t expecting that one.”
“I’m not flirting. I’m making a pass.” She frowned, peering close into his eyes. “Am I doing it wrong?”
“You’re doing great.” If the erection he was sporting was anything to go by, she was world class. “But we’re here to practice working your gift, remember? Now that you’re loose—”
“I hate it.”
“What?” He was having trouble keeping up now that drunkenness seemed to have kicked Karma into overdrive.
Her eyes were wide, startled. “I’ve never said that to anyone.”
“Yeah, we’re both full of confessions tonight.” Next time he bespelled a bottle of vodka, he was going to be a damn sight more careful about what kind of juju he put into it.
It had seemed like a brilliant plan when he thought of it. Keep the charm wholesome and pure and put all the naughty, manipulative trust me, rely on me, confide in me crap into the vodka. It hadn’t occurred to him that he’d be drinking it himself—and when she’d told him to drink, he’d been reasonably certain that the magic was specific enough, designed to make her trust him, that he would be immune. Then the next thing he knew they were talking about fucking foster care. Jesus.
As soon as he’d realized what was happening, he’d switched the clear liquid in his glass to water. Luckily, with his faster metabolism, he was already starting to sober up and the trust me juju was fading as the alcohol worked through his system, but it looked like Karma was coming into the confessional sweet spot. He was sure she’d never be confiding in him otherwise—he hadn’t missed that it had taken her two shots of the spelled vodka before she’d trusted him enough to put on the perfectly harmless charm he’d made for her. Now it dangled between them, swinging against her breasts as she rocked forward in his lap.
“I hate my gift,” she said again with relish, like a child confessing long-held feelings for a despised stepparent. “The dreams are the worst. They come at you when you’re vulnerable and drag you under. They say you can’t die in your dreams, but you’d be amazed how close you can come. Stabbed, shot, burned, drowned, smothered, bones breaking like twigs left and right. The pain is bad, but the fear is the worst. The helplessness. I can’t change anything in the dreams. It isn’t me, you see. I’m not there. I’m just a passenger, living through the fear and the pain of someone else’s choice. All the consequences, none of the control.”
“Holy shit. No wonder you’re a control freak.”
He’d seen it happen with Ciara, but he’d thought that must be an aberration, a fluke brought on by Karma's panic. If it was like that every single time her gift engaged, how did she stay sane?
She gave a high, slightly hysterical laugh, and the words kept coming, tumbling out of her mouth, each one hollowing
him out and making his empty chest ache. “I don’t think I’ve slept a full eight hours since I was ten years old. I used to wake up screaming every night, but it was killing my parents to hear it and it wasn’t helping me so I taught myself not to. I’d still be screaming in my head, I’d still hear it, but no one else would. So my parents stopped talking about sending me away to get me help. I hate the dreams, Prometheus. I hate them.”
She listed abruptly on his lap and only his grip on her hips saved her from toppling to the floor. “Easy now.” When she was relatively stable again, he squeezed her waist to get her attention. “Hey. You’re going to master those dreams. They won’t be able to touch you anymore if you don’t want them to. You’ve been holding yourself back, but you’re a force of nature like I’ve never seen. I’m the biggest badass on the block and I know my shit. While you’re keeping yourself in check, I can run circles around you, but when you let yourself free you’re going to be able to Hulk-smash my puny ass into next week. You just have to start working with your power rather than against it. You’ve got this, Karma.”
Her jaw dropped and she gawked at him, gaping in shock—whether at his words or his ferocity, he didn’t know. Then she closed her mouth with a click, blinked once and announced, “I’m going to kiss you now.”
And she did.
Her lips were as smooth and soft as he remembered and she tasted of vodka and something spicier. Cinnamon. Then her tongue teased past his lips, her hands fisted in his hair jerking him closer, and coherent thought waved goodbye as the kiss went from exploratory to incendiary in a heartbeat.
The couch was right there, so perfectly inviting. It was the most natural thing in the world to roll her underneath him as he ate into her mouth. His hips found the perfect cradle between her legs and he rocked up into her. Her breath hitched and he caught the gasp in his mouth, devouring it then nipping at the plush pad of her lower lip as he rocked again, the hard length of him catching her sweet spot again, but still begging for a firmer, harder stroke. Her legs twined around his hips, her hands slipping beneath his shirt to splay across the bare skin of his lower back. Prometheus hissed as her nails teased lightly up his spine.
There was something he was supposed to remember. Something he needed to do…
Karma sucked his tongue into her mouth and pulsed her hips up into his and his brain short circuited. The buttons of her blouse were slippery, as eager as he was to see them freed. The silk parted beneath his hands and he levered himself up for a better look, the angle pressing his hips deeper into hers so Karma’s head fell back on a moan. His mouth watered. God, she looked decadent. Sultry. Her hair had come loose—he vaguely remembered plunging his hands into it—and writhed like black silk over her shoulders. Her eyes were slitted, half-closed with abandon. Cheeks flushed, chest flushed, back arched to display the surprisingly lush curves she’d kept hidden beneath those beautifully tailored suits, the soft swell of her breasts rising out of the black lace bra. She was a fucking fantasy and the sight of her hit him like a punch to the gut. How did he get so lucky?
Something he ought to remember…
Training. They were supposed to be training. He was teaching her. He’d stolen her trust with bespelled vodka…taking advantage…
Aw, fuck. What a shitty time to develop a conscience.
Prometheus closed his eyes to block out the vision tempting him to forget again. He grabbed her hands, lacing their fingers together and plunging them both headlong into the wild ocean of her power.
He expected her to fight, to resist. He expected the panic and chaos of their last attempt.
He was wrong. It was easy.
A thousand possible futures wrapped around them, but they weren’t violent. Together they floated on the tide of her power, sampling a vision here, a premonition there, letting the current of possibilities take them where it would. They weren’t directing it or controlling it, he wasn’t sure they could call this swimming, but she wasn’t drowning. It was amazing how easy it was. The vodka? The charm? Him? Who knew what had changed? All he knew was that Karma was one step closer to being the channel she had been born to be. The power was no longer running roughshod over her. Now all she needed to do was learn how to direct it. Preferably sober.
She dipped her fingers into one future and they slid into it. She stared at the stick—longest three minutes of my life—then squealed and bolted out of the bathroom, waving it frantically. “Matt! Matt, it’s two lines! I’ve got a bun in the oven!” Her green-eyed lover turned, his face going white then breaking out in a wide smile as she flung herself into his arms.
Prometheus sucked in a breath as Karma pulled them both out of the vision, blinking to bring her office back into focus. He was still sprawled on top of her on the couch, but he couldn’t quite get the feel of his own body, still stuck in the weird double vision of looking through Karma’s eyes as she looked through Ronna’s eyes at Matt. Prometheus wasn’t sure he was going to be able to look the hardass cop in the eye next time he saw him. It was too strange.
“Ronna’s seen that future. She told me. I could pick to see it too. I’ve never been able to pick.” Karma was breathing quickly herself—though the shortness of breath may have had something to do with the fact that he was crushing her.
Prometheus sat up, pulling her up beside him. “That was…”
There were no words to describe it. She’d been Ronna. That was her husband. Her baby. Her joy.
Which meant every other time it had been her pain. Her fear. Talk about nightmares.
Karma released a little hiccupping laugh. “It worked. I can’t believe it worked. It felt so different.” She blinked at him. “You actually did it.”
“That wasn’t me.” He rubbed a thumb along her cheekbone. Maybe he was still off balance from their dunk into her power, but all he could think was what a marvel she was. “You…” Amaze me. Awe me. Make me want—No. Best to cut that thought off right now. He wanted her help. Nothing else mattered. Life or death. No distractions.
She levered herself straighter with a hand pressed to his chest then frowned at her hand. “You really don’t have a heartbeat.”
“I know.”
“Heartless bastard,” she muttered, but the words were bemused rather than condemnatory. She flexed her fingers and he felt her power flex, little tendrils of it snaking into his chest, seeking the origin of his power. He knew the moment she found the tether that tied him to Deuma. And if he felt it, Deuma did too. This was exactly what he wanted Karma to be able to do, but if she did it when Deuma wasn’t contained by a summoning—Fuck.
He grabbed Karma’s wrist and yanked her hand off him. “Enough.”
She could have resisted, kept probing—he hadn’t been kidding when he said she could Hulk-smash him if she let herself—but her head wobbled on her neck and her face fell into an exaggerated pout. “What?”
Karma Cox was drunk off her ass and about five minutes from passing out cold.
“Come on,” he growled. “Let’s get you home.” He was rapidly approaching sober, but she was in no shape to drive and if he put her on the back of his motorcycle, she’d probably slide right off. “I’ll call you a taxi.”
She snickered, apparently finding this hysterical. “I think I can walk it.” Using him as balance, she shoved herself to her feet and staggered a zigzagging path across the room to where a black Chinese screen painted with a red and gold dragon hung on the wall. She opened a panel on the wall, swiped her thumb across it, and the screen parted to reveal an elevator. “Ta-da!” She twirled, going for some kind of Vanna White flourish, but the movement was too much for her and she tumbled into the elevator to land flat on her ass, giggling “Whee!” the whole way.
Apparently, they had reached the happy drunk portion of the evening. He should be recording this. No one would ever believe Karma had said, “Whee!”
Prometheus crossed to the elevator. She’d managed to get herself into a semi-seated position, wedged into the corner. After her s
omewhat half-hearted attempt to restore her clothing to order, her blouse was held closed by only two buttons and her skirt was back down around her legs rather than hitched at her hips. All of her attention was fixed on wiggling her stockinged toes when his shadow fell across her and her head weaved and wobbled to the side so she could look up at him.
“You’re tall, you know that?”
He crouched down in front of her so she didn’t injure herself trying to look him in the eye. “You live in the basement?”
“Mm-hm. Jo calls it the Bat Cave. Thinks I don’t know. But I know. I know all.” She waggled her fingers in front of her face, frowning at them. “I can’t feel my hands. The vodka stole my hands, Prometheus.” But the vodka had also stolen her enunciation and Prometheus came out Promshuss. “Your name is hard. Ima call you Steve. Okay, Steve?”
“No.”
She pouted. It was disturbingly adorable. He found himself regretting his why-the-fuck-do-I-need-a-camera-on-my-phone stance. The blackmail would be priceless.
“C’mon, Steve. Please?”
“Fine, whatever, call me Steve.”
“Or I could call you Betty and you could call me Al.” She giggled, then closed her eyes and began to hum. Very off tune. Music was most definitely not one of her gifts.
“I think in that scenario, I’d rather be Al than Betty. Can you stand?”
“Nope.”
“Okay then.” Prometheus straightened and pushed the down button. The elevator eased into motion so smoothly he barely felt it, but Karma moaned.
“Oooh, that isn’t good.” She flopped onto the floor, pressing her cheek to the carpet and groaning. “That’s bad. I don’t like bad.”
The elevator stopped moving and the door slid open without a sound. Prometheus crouched next to Karma as she huddled in the fetal position on the floor. “Karma?”