Witches Get Stitches

by Juliette Cross

  “Zaire. Doing some moonlighting?”

  Oh my. His voice was the perfect combination of raspy and warm.

  “Nico.” I couldn’t see him, but he must’ve done that head-chin-lift thing guys do in greeting.

  “Damn,” said the other guy, a handsome, brown-eyed blond, coming around close to my left shoulder. “Nice ink.”

  Werewolves were always pushing into people’s space. This one was no exception. If you ever meet a close-talker, they’re probably a werewolf. They just can’t help but push boundaries. Maybe that’s why I liked them despite the fact my sister Jules had told us our whole lives to stay away from them. Also, rebellion was stamped into my DNA.

  Nico edged closer in front of me, watching Zaire work. Now I could see that his eyes were a deep green, the tiniest starburst of gold ringing his pupil, which flared the slightest bit when he settled his heated gaze on me.

  “The blue orchid. That’s interesting.”

  “How so?” I quirked a brow. “Do you even know what it means?”

  His sensual mouth quirked up on one side. Coupled with the hot look he was aiming at me, I would have known this one was trouble without Zaire’s warning.

  “I do,” was all he said, still giving me that devastating, crooked smile.

  “What? I don’t look like the spiritual, deep-thinking kind of girl?” Because that’s basically what the blue orchid meant—the deep thinker. Though I was aware that I was an over-thinker, I really chose it because it was just so damn pretty, and blue was my favorite color.

  The big, bad werewolf moved even closer, tilting his head down. He whispered almost intimately, “The blue orchid is also the rarest of them all.” His gaze narrowed, smile widening. “I’ll bet you’re a one-of-a-kind witch, aren’t you?”

  While holding his intense gaze, I didn’t miss the widening of the gold starburst in his eyes—a sure sign his wolf was sniffing around at the surface. I was about to make some snappy comeback if I could get my mouth to work when Zaire interrupted our little flirty exchange.

  “All done.” Zaire turned off his cordless tattoo machine. “Wanna look?”

  Blinking away the intimate connection, I glanced over my shoulder. Zaire handed me a handheld mirror while holding his own so that I got a reflection of the reflection.

  I was well aware that my tank-top hung half off. The girls were fully covered in the bikini top, but I was showing quite a bit of skin for a rooftop party in winter rather than sunning on the beach. Still, I was getting a kick out of Nico’s mixed expression of shock and arousal.

  I took a good look, completely spellbound for a moment, forgetting where I was. “Damn, Zaire. Your skill is so amazing. Sure you don’t want to move to New Orleans?”

  I caught his bright smile in the mirror and gave him a wink.

  “Glad you like it.” He went to work with the final ministrations of wiping the excess ink, cleaning with antiseptic, then spreading the transparent, waterproof tape to cover it all. He didn’t bother to answer me for the hundredth time that he wasn’t moving. But a girl had to try.

  “Same price as last time?” I asked, scooping my tank-top back up onto my shoulders. “Two blow jobs and a steak dinner?”

  Blondie coughed out a laugh where he was leaning against the table. The witches giggled. I swear I heard a deep-throated growl from the big werewolf still standing in my private bubble. Zaire arched a brow at me and shook his head.

  “You know what the payment is.”

  “One BJ and dinner?”

  “Jesus, Violet. Stop it.” He looked at the two werewolves, shaking his head and chuckling. “She’s joking. That’s just her way.”

  “Oh, look.” I nodded toward the door. “You have impeccable timing, Zaire. Josie’s here.”

  The petite witch with a pixie cut and hair dyed every color of the rainbow practically skipped toward our little corner. I was experimental with my hair color—currently a peacock blue—but Josie took it to the next level. She was his second walking advertisement for the night.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” Nico hadn’t moved from my personal space the whole time I’d lifted my gray jacket from my lap and slipped it on.

  “Sure thing.” I tucked my hands in my pockets and glanced over my shoulder, winking at Zaire’s scowling face. Since he would be busy for a while, I saw no problem in hanging with the werewolf till he was done.

  This guy wasn’t dangerous. I mean, he certainly wasn’t the loose cannon Zaire had heard from his little witch sewing circle. My magic was strongly attuned to warning me of danger. Okay, maybe he was putting off the bad-boy vibes when he walked in, but up close I knew there was no sign of danger danger. And my, how I enjoyed this close-up view of his pretty face.

  We found two stools at one of the bars, of which there were three spread out over the rooftop. Trellises with fairy lights set the ambiance and, in this lighting, his face looked like it was cut out of a magazine.

  “What is it?” he asked, a small smile teasing his lips, which only drew my attention back to them.

  “You’ve got an awfully pretty mouth.”

  He laughed, then surprised me with his next question, “Zaire didn’t scare you off?”

  “How do you mean?” Though I knew exactly what he meant. I was just caught off guard at him going straight for the sensitive topics.

  “Surely, he told you stories about me.”

  “Singular. One story.”

  “Mm.” He nodded, wide mouth quirking on one side.

  “Is there any truth to the story?”

  “Don’t know what he told you.”

  “That you lost control. Went wild wolf on a sixteen-year-old and hurt him.”

  He swallowed visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing once, but he didn’t wince or look away. No. He held my gaze, as if transfixed.

  “There’s truth to it. It was an accident.”

  “Honest. Wow. That’s interesting.”

  “You thought I’d lie?”

  “No. But I thought you might evade, since I’m pretty sure you’re trying to impress me.”

  “You’re wrong. I’m not trying to impress you. I want you to see me.”

  “Why?” I reached out with my magical senses. “We just met.”

  “And when we did, the earth opened up beneath my feet.”

  That’s when I tasted a shift of energy, my psychic line tapping into his emotions. I wasn’t as adept at reading emotion as Clara—my twin who was an Aura and could read feelings like words on a page—but I still could catch a whiff on the air. Like a passing breeze. And a magical wind had just wafted waves and waves of sincerity through me. It was heady. And aggressive. I’d even say seductive.

  This werewolf was unique.

  “So he didn’t scare you off then,” he stated as a challenge more than a question.

  “I’m still here, aren’t I?” That earned me a great big smile. “My, what big teeth you have.”

  He stared at me a few seconds before asking, “So, what do you do?”

  “No, no, no.” I shook my head, my blue hair brushing over my shoulders. “Let’s not do that. That’s boring.”

  “Okay.” He grinned wider. “Tell me what we should talk about.”

  I exhaled a deep breath and rolled my eyes. “Entertain me, wolfie.”

  That all-observant gaze flared for one second before his brows shot up and he recited in a rather formal voice, “There once was a werewolf from Kent, whose cock was so long it bent. So he found him a witch, to scratch his big itch, and with a great howl, he spent.”

  I tossed my head back and burst out in throaty laughter.

  “Your turn,” he said after a soft chuckle.

  “We’re having a limerick war?”

  “You started it.” He held up two fingers to the bartender and pointed to the whiskey. “If you can’t think of one in ten seconds then I win.”

  Shit! He was good. Naughty wolfie.

  Clearing my throat, I sat up straight and, with a haug
hty air, did my best. “There once was a grim from Liverpool, who was caught playing with his tool.” I paused. Nico arched a superior brow, which made me laugh before saying, “But then he met Paul, who played with his balls…aaaand they both went to ball-juggling school?”

  “Are you asking me if they went to ball-juggling school?”

  “No!” I swatted him on the bicep. Ooo, nice. “It just came out that way.”

  “Oh, sweet Violet,” he said with a playfully condescending air. “I think you just lost.”

  “What are you talking about? That was a perfectly good limerick.”

  “Actually, it was near-rhyme only with Paul and balls, not exact rhyme. So, not a perfectly good limerick. You obviously aren’t as expert at this as I am.”

  “Fine, fine. If you can come up with a next-level limerick, better than mine—”

  “Shouldn’t be hard.”

  “Shut up. As I said, better than mine, then you win.”

  “I want a prize when I win.”

  “If you win. Presumptuous much?”

  “Confident.” He tilted his head to the side, cocky smirk on his lovely face. “And werewolves like tangible prizes for their achievements. We’re visceral creatures.”

  I ignored the rumble of his words on that last part. “I’d hardly call creating a dirty rhyme an achievement.”

  “You haven’t heard it yet,” he challenged as the bartender set two whiskeys on ice in front of us.

  “And what makes you think I like whiskey?” Pushy bastard, this one. I liked him.

  “Am I wrong?”

  “No, dammit.” I took the glass and knocked back a swallow. “I know you already have something in mind, so what do you want if you win?”

  “A kiss.”

  I huffed a laugh. “I don’t even know you.” Not that that’s ever mattered.

  “You know me enough.”

  We’d literally just met within the last half hour, but somehow he was completely right. I felt like I knew him well enough for a little tongue-tangling.

  “Fine. I’ll give you a full minute to think one up because this has to be super epic.” And I was hoping he’d win so I could give him that prize. “And just so there’s no question about it, we’ll have a guest judge alongside me, of course.”

  When I waved at the bartender and she came over, I explained our need for an unbiased judge. “I’ll be glad to help,” she said, setting both forearms on the bar top.

  “Nervous?” I asked, because he suddenly looked that way.

  Then he didn’t, his superior expression returning ten-fold.

  I pulled out my phone from my jacket pocket and found the timer. “Your minute starts now.”

  After I clicked the start button, only five seconds passed before he said, “There once was a wolf from the city, who met a witch who was stunning and witty.” His voice was low and luscious and gruff. “She charmed him at a glance, making him wish he had a chance, to kiss her sweet lips and her kitty.”

  Most girls might slap a guy for being so bold, for saying exactly what they were thinking. Specifically that he wanted to eat her out, even if he did say it with pretty words. All I could do was bite my lip and shake my head, recognizing my equal.

  “Well, fuck,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Yep, he won,” said the waitress before sauntering off.

  “What do you say, Violet? Do I get my prize?”

  Before I could launch myself into his lap, a guy I’d seen with the band earlier approached and tapped Nico on the shoulder. “They’re ready for you, man.”

  His smoldering expression evaporated as he glanced over his shoulder. “Shit, I forgot.”

  “You forgot?” asked the guy. “Isn’t that the reason you came?” Then the guy looked at me, realization dawning on his face. “Oh, right. Well, you still comin’?”

  The music died down to just the vampire on vocals speaking into the mic. “I have a special guest here tonight. You guys have surely seen him around town. Please welcome Nico Cruz to the stage for a few songs.”

  Nico gripped my hand in his as he slid off the stool. He gave my hand a good squeeze, the sensation pinging down to my lady bits. He leaned forward close to my ear. “Don’t go anywhere.” He leaned back a few inches, catching my gaze. “Please.” Then he grinned wider. “I want my prize.”

  As he followed the other guy through the crowd toward the stage, I got a good look at his fantastic ass. “I do, too,” I murmured to myself while sipping my whiskey.

  I leaned back against the bar, ordered an Old-Fashioned for my second round and enjoyed the show. This werewolf was full of surprises. Nico didn’t do any grandstanding or make any cute, quippy remarks into the mic, he just picked up a guitar, slung the strap over his shoulder, and began to play. And sing.

  Fucking hell. His voice. Rough and smooth and smoky with a direct line to my pussy.

  He played “Feel Like I’m Drowning” by Two Feet, then some Kaleo and some indie song I’d never heard. But when he sang his own masculine rendition of Skylar Grey’s “I Know You,” his attention riveted on me, I actually started to shake. Me! Shivering on that fucking stool.

  Here’s the thing about werewolves. Once upon a time, a seriously pissed-off witch cursed a man who became the first werewolf. The curse divided him in half. Gifted him with the most sublime magic of creativity and cursed him to become a beast upon the full moon. So when a werewolf created art, there was magic in it. And when Nico sang to me, he sang to me.

  My heart pumped faster, blood rushing to tantalizing places, and his voice vibrated straight to my bones, keeping my ass on that stool and my eyes on the sexy-as-fuck man serenading me from the stage, breath frosting the air.

  When he poured the last lines of the song out in a desperate plea, directed at me, the vampire singer stepped up beside him. Nico pulled back from the mic and lifted the guitar away as the guy said, “Let’s give Nico a big round of applause!” And so they did. “Almost to countdown time, everybody.”

  While the vampire roused the crowd, Nico stepped off the stage and headed toward me with fire blazing in his eyes.

  “Oh, boy.”

  I knew that look. And I was one-hundred percent ready for it. I popped off the stool right as he made it to me. He grabbed my hand and laced our fingers, then tugged me away from the crowd. I didn’t ask where we were going. I didn’t give a damn. As long as he put his mouth on me.

  He hauled me behind the bar where there was a thin partition between the back-door entrance and the area for customers. Cases of beer were stacked in rows, leaving a tiny corner vacant in the shadows. He backed me into the corner and pushed his fingers into my hair, tightening his fist before his mouth crashed onto mine.

  He parted my lips with deft precision and a bit of desperation. When his tongue touched mine, I couldn’t help but rock my hips up, bending one leg to wrap at his hip.

  His deep groan was heavenly rumbling against my chest. “Fuck, you’re so fine, Violet,” he whispered against my mouth before he bit my lip with a little sting and thrust his hard cock between my legs. The friction was divine.

  “Keep talking, wolfie”—I leaned up and bit his neck—“or put that mouth to better use.”

  He froze. His otherworldly gaze was locked on mine, a question hanging in the air. Holding his focus, I started unsnapping and unzipping my jeans to answer it, not giving a damn that anyone could walk up on us.

  Needing no more encouragement than that, he was on his knees, curling his long fingers into the sides of my jeans and panties and dragging them down my legs. He pulled off the sneaker on my left foot then freed my leg of clothes and draped it over his shoulder.

  I might’ve whimpered when I combed my fingers into the black waves of his hair, fisting my hand to give him a little of the pleasure-pain he’d given me.

  His wolf-green eyes flickered up at me as he eased forward, sliding the tip of his middle finger along my slit.

  He nuzzled my inner thigh with his no
se. “I want to drown in your scent,” he said, voice having dropped several octaves.

  “Be my guest.”

  So he did. He gave me one long slide of his hot tongue, while holding my gaze. My fingers clenched tighter in his hair on instinct, dragging a growl from deep in his throat. I whimpered as he went to work. Lapping at me with fierce licks and sucks, driving me like a freight train on fire toward climax.

  “I don’t know where you learned to use your tongue like that,” I panted, riding his mouth with feverish agony.

  I couldn’t even finish my sentence, forgetting what I was about to say. I had to get there, and I needed him and only him to do it. This semi-stranger werewolf with a poet in his voice and a devil in his tongue.

  The distant laughter and raucous cheers of the crowd skirted the periphery of my focus. The in-unison countdown began—ten, nine, eight, seven!

  Then Nico slid two fingers inside me and pumped hard and fast, playing my clit like he played that guitar.

  Six, five, four!

  “Damn, you’re so good,” I mumbled.

  Three, two!

  His answering growl vibrated against my clit before he curled his fingers slightly as he stroked out, hitting my G-spot and sending me over the edge.

  One!

  Fireworks went off in the distance with a loud, modern chorus of Auld Lang Syne as I came on Nico’s mouth, my head back against the partition wall, staring up at the night sky. He continued to lick with leisurely strokes and a satisfied hum, lapping all of me up. The cold night air, his hot mouth, the skyrocketing endorphins and ecstasy-like orgasm wouldn’t be something I’d soon forget.

  Slowly, I came back to myself, vaguely aware of Nico slipping my leg back into my panties and jeans, zipping and snapping them.

  He stood, wrapped his fingers around my nape, and pressed a soft, slow kiss to my mouth, letting me taste our mingling scents together before he pulled apart, green eyes fiery and smoldering.

  “Happy New Year, Violet.”

  I didn’t respond other than to give him one last, lingering kiss. Because I knew what would happen next. I’d hurry a goodbye then duck out the door and haul ass back to New Orleans as fast as possible. Because whatever this werewolf was, it was my brand of addiction. Zaire wasn’t wrong when he said my sister Jules would kick my ass.