Jodi Redford - The Seven Year Witch

Once again, Clarissa’s image superimposed itself on his mental big screen like a taunting mirage. Only this time she was as naked as he, straddling his bike. And his cock. The fantasy was familiar—one he’d replayed and jacked off to at least ten thousand times since that day her arousal teased his senses while his Harley rumbled beneath them. Judging from the rising state of his erection, the grand tally for masturbatory titillation was about to hit ten thousand and one.

In his present fantasy, he gunned the throttle, triggering fierce vibrations that traveled through his balls. Clarissa gasped, her pussy fluttering around his shaft.

Though it was a poor substitute for the vivid scene playing out in his head, he wrapped his hand around the base of his cock and dragged his fist up along the shaft, his strokes slow and indulgent. He battled with the opposing need to make it last and the equally powerful need to come. When fantasy Clarissa began riding him harder, the silky walls of her pussy providing a tormenting friction, he pumped his dick faster, his hips arching into each downstroke. He was strung tight, panting, the promise of a blinding release pounding down on him. In his mind, Clarissa bucked against him, the sweet sound of his name tumbling from her lips as her slick channel milked the come right out of him.

It was enough to push him over the edge, and the orgasm slammed into him, tearing a strangled moan from his throat. Like it’d been propelled by a damn rocket booster, his semen splashed over his fist and tensed abdomen. His heartbeat slowly returning to normal, he slumped into the cushion. Despite feeling like every bone in his body had liquefied, a heavy weariness washed over him. Good as his orgasm was, it still left him hollow, aching and hungry for the real thing. But for the first time in his life, the idea of sex with just any available and horny woman held zero appeal.

The only one he wanted was Clarissa. As if on cue, the damn tattoo began tingling, and he ground his teeth together.

He couldn’t keep going on like this, playing these stupid games that got neither of them anywhere. Which left him with only one option.

He had to turn up the heat and burn down Clarissa’s defenses. The stubborn witch would have no choice but to finally admit she wanted him too.

Momentarily switching focus from the notes she’d been transcribing for the past hour and a half, Clarissa peeked at the brass clock ticking near the corner of her desk. Exactly five minutes had passed since the last time she’d checked the stupid thing. Grumbling beneath her breath, she tossed her pen aside and rubbed the nape of her neck. In addition to the crick there, a knot of nerves close to the size of a damn baseball was giving her a major fit. It’d be a miracle if she didn’t psyche herself out by the time she had to leave for Tatum’s.

Not good. She needed to be clearheaded and calm during her dealings with Seven. She knew all too well that revealing the slightest weakness could lead to dangerous consequences.

Life-altering consequences.

Refusing to dwell on things she couldn’t change, she flipped to the next page in the ancient grimoire. A knock sounded on the door, and she looked up just as Griffin stepped inside the office. He glanced at the book propped in front of her and mumbled an apology for disturbing her before backing through the entry.

“Wait.” Desperate for any opportunity to get her mind off her upcoming meeting, she slammed the text shut. She scrambled from her seat and banged her kneecap on the underside of her desk. Wincing, she hobbled toward the doorway. “I thought you weren’t due to come in until Wednesday or Thursday.”

“Jemma’s been a nervous wreck doing this last-minute wedding planning from a distance. I decided to do her—and me—a favor by driving us out here sooner.” Humor tugged at the corners of his mouth. “This way, I figured I’d have backup in case Jem decided to go bridezilla all of a sudden.”

A pointed cough sounded behind Griffin and he jumped, his face taking on a guilty flush. He swiveled sideways, revealing Jemma standing behind him, her arms stacked above the slight swell of her belly. She arched one blonde eyebrow. “Bridezilla?”

“Don’t get mad, Jem. It’s not good for the baby.”

Jemma snorted. “That excuse is only going to last you so long, buddy.”

“Then I’ll just have to use it to my full advantage for the next four and a half months, won’t I?” Flashing a grin, he leaned down and banished Jemma’s scowl with a kiss.

When he leaned back, Jemma curled her palm around his jaw. “I really, really hate it when you make it hard to be pissed at you.” The loving adoration in her gaze counterbalanced her stern tone.

The pair’s easy affection stoked a strong flare of envy within Clarissa. Seeing their obvious love and devotion stirred up every wistful desire she thought she’d safely locked away. Rather than pander to the traitorous longings that did her absolutely no good, she shifted her scrutiny to Jemma’s stomach. “How is the pregnancy going?”

“The doc says everything looks good.” Jemma’s hand automatically dropped to her baby bump.

The tenderness in the gesture rubbed at the all-too-fresh scab of Clarissa’s shameful envies, peeling back the edges to expose her hidden vulnerabilities. With sickening clarity, a memory popped into her head—her mother throwing empty beer bottles at her, screaming slurred words of hate. “I wish you’d never been born, you little bitch.”

Somehow, she yanked herself from the painful remembrance and buried the tide of emotions threatening to surface. Once the familiar numbness filled the ache in her chest, she glanced at Griffin. “Would you mind asking Gloria to put together some refreshments for us?”

Griffin’s expression hinted that he knew her underlying reason for the request had more to do with getting him out of earshot for a moment than any sudden thirst, but he dutifully ducked from the room. Once he was gone, Clarissa abandoned the doorway and invited Jemma to take a seat on one of the twin French armchairs. “I’ve been meaning to ask how things have been between you and the guild. They aren’t still hounding you about testing your abilities, are they?”

Jemma smoothed the hem of her peasant-style blouse and grimaced. “No. I think they got the point after Griff threatened to make a few of them his chew toys at the last meeting.”

“It’s good that he’s protective of you.” And it gave her one less thing to worry over. The guild’s overenthusiastic interest in exploring Jemma’s latent magical skill could have become a giant headache.

Jemma shifted in her seat, obviously trying to get comfortable. “Enough about me. What’s the latest excitement around here?”

“Not much,” Clarissa lied.

“I suppose that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Personally, I’m thrilled my life has become boring again.” Jemma’s lips twisted in irony. “Well, as boring as it can possibly be when I’m shacked up with one tiger and months away from popping out another. Not to mention all the wedding planning that’s been driving me loony. I’m just thankful Griff has been so patient with me.”

The tiger in question chose that minute to stroll back into the room. He handed Jemma one of the glasses of lemonade and a cookie. “Did I hear someone singing my virtues?”

“It depends. Are you going to fork over the other cookie you’re hiding from me?”

Grunting, he placed the tray on the desk and fished the treat from the pocket of his flannel shirt. “I have no idea how you do that. Your nose is practically better than mine when it comes to sniffing out sweets.”

Her smile angelic, Jemma snatched the cookie and added it to her stash. After taking a sip of her beverage, she glanced at Clarissa. “Speaking of world-class sniffers, where’s Logan? I thought for sure he’d be hanging around. Especially today of all days.” Jemma shrugged in response to Clarissa’s frown. “Griff told me it’s your anniversary today. I think it’s nice that you guys celebrate it.”