Jodi Redford - Getting Familiar with Your Demon

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.”