Julie Leto - Something Wicked

“He wasn’t a man,” Rick corrected, his frown revealing new lines on his once smooth and youthful face. He’d aged in six months. Physically and spiritually.

“He nearly killed your best friend,” she insisted, her heart cracking for the degeneration of the man she’d known, the man she knew he could become again, if only he could see she was here to help.

“Why do you think I left Chicago?”

“To play vigilante?”

His eyes widened at the snap in her tone.

“You think that’s what this is?”

“I think covering up the crime cut at your soul,” she admitted. “I think the magical world bursting into your ordered, ordinary life set you on a difficult path you don’t know how to get off of.”

For an instant, she thought she might have hit a nerve. But a split second later, the flash of surprise in his eyes disappeared.

“Go home, Josie. This is no place for a sweet kid like you.”

Okay, that crack made her fingers itch. By nature, she was a pacifist. But every woman had her limits. And one was being called a kid by a guy who’d had to take a very cold shower after the last time they were alone together.

“You’re kidding, right?” she asked, incredulous. “Who do you think you are, Humphrey Bogart? John Wayne? More like John Wayne Gacy, if you ask me.”

“I’m not a killer,” he spit.

“According to whose reality? I’ve seen the bodies, Rick. I’ve smelled the stench.”

“It’s not killing when the monsters aren’t human.”

“I don’t give a damn about them, you idiot,” she said, marching across the room until she stood at the edge of the bed. One glance into his liquid ebony eyes and her anger abated. He wasn’t doing a bad thing. Destroying evil was something he should be proud of. But he wasn’t proud— he was desperate. And that desperation was going to get him killed.

Even after all he’d been through, Rick still managed to look gorgeous. His chest, so naturally tan and sculpted, glistened against his towel and the white sheets beneath him. Josie’s body stirred, reacting to his as it had before. As if no time had elapsed. As if nothing had changed, when honestly, everything had.

Good Goddess, she ached to launch herself onto him, press her body tight against his, kiss him soundly and erase all the dark ugliness haunting his eyes and the sardonic lines framing his former devil-may-care mouth. This wasn’t Rick. Not the Rick she remembered. Not the Rick she’d fallen for so hard. Not the Rick she could have loved, if they’d only had the chance.

Still, his newly hardened edges made her belly flutter. Not to mention the effects of his naked chest and that oh-so-loose, oh-so-easy-to-remove towel. She had to contain a little sigh and fight the impulse to touch him and see how her pale flesh contrasted against his natural darkness, to tangle her fingers in the hair that spiked across his chest, then grew into a narrow line that led to areas she’d once felt pressed tight against her but had never had the chance to take into her hands.

He looked askance, but when he finally allowed his gaze to linger on hers for more than a split second, she saw a shadow of regret flit through his eyes.

After taking a deep breath, she sat down on the bed beside him.

“Tell me what happened. Tell me why you left.”

He shook his head. “I can’t look back, Josie. And you need to leave. I’m not the same guy you met six months ago.”

“Tell me about it.”

He cursed.

“No,” she said, laying her hand on his, trying to ignore the way his bare flesh glistened in the dim light. “Really. Tell me about it.”

He moved to get off the bed, but Josie held his hand so he couldn’t escape. He tugged and turned, revealing a gash across his arm. The skin was pink and puffy. Healing, but with jagged edges that told her he hadn’t sought the best—if any—medical help.

He chuckled when he spied the horrified look on her face. “Just a scratch.”

“That’s what the black knight said in Monty Python and the Holy Grail when King Arthur chopped his arm off.”

Surprisingly, Rick laughed. Not a hearty guffaw by any means, but more than a snigger, which had to mean something. Like he wasn’t totally lost.

“I haven’t thought about that in—”

“Six months?” she questioned.

“Longer.”

He sat back on the bed and Josie couldn’t help but notice that the edge where he’d tucked his towel had begun to loosen. Her heartbeat accelerated. The idea of seducing Rick in order to lure him back to Chicago had come to her as naturally as breathing. The possibility of finally confronting the sexual tension that had first drawn them together made her nipples tight and her inner thighs ache. She’d wanted him for so long—the man he was and the man he’d become, even if she wasn’t entirely certain yet who that man was.

With shaking hands, Josie slid out of her leather jacket, revealing the snug tank tops beneath.

He eyed her suspiciously.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m hot.”

“Then leave,” he said, jerking his head toward the door even as his eyes begged her to stay. Or was that her imagination?

Did it matter?

She smiled. “It’s hotter outside. Unseasonably hot for New York City in February. Or haven’t you left this hotel room lately?”

“I’ve left,” he muttered.

She stretched, lifting her hair off her back, then arching her shoulders so that her breasts curved enticingly. Cheap trick? Oh, yeah. “Really? When? Because in Philadelphia, you didn’t even take a hotel room. You slept in that junker you bought from that all-night car dealer.”

“You were in Philly?”

She stood and, with one quick flick, undid the top button on her low-slung jeans. She would have kicked off her boots, but she had some serious misgivings about the stained carpet.

“And in Detroit and in Boston,” she replied.

She walked closer to the window and hoped that her silhouette against the neon slats of the blinds pushed the right button. They’d been apart for so long and even then, she hadn’t known him that well. But if she could just connect with him, get under his skin, she might be able to lure him back to Chicago. To his friends. To his old life. Out of danger from both the supernatural world and his own self-destruction.

Grabbing the hem of her layered tank tops, she lifted them over her head. She was wearing nothing now but a lacy black bra and unfastened jeans with the edges of her panties peeking out from between the teeth of the zipper.

“Don’t do this,” he said, his voice more pleading than commanding.

She slipped her hands between her jeans and her hips, tugging the fabric down a few inches, making sure he had a good look at the black lace she wore underneath. “Don’t do what?”

Though she hardly trusted her normally clumsy self to step forward when her nerves were jangling like wind chimes in a thunderstorm, she made the attempt and succeeded. She was still three feet away from him, but a warring mixture of desire and restraint clouded his eyes. His jaw was set so tight she thought the bone might crack.

“Don’t…” Rick whispered, “try and seduce me.”

His tone faltered. The words came out half as an admonishment and half as request. And she knew very well which half she was going to listen to.

She licked her lips and closed the rest of the distance between them in three purposeful steps.

“I’m not only going to try, Rick. I’m going to succeed.”

RICK CLOSED HIS EYES, but Josie, who smelled of musk and sandalwood and had turned on the full force of her inner seductress, was impossible to shut out. And why should he try so hard? Hadn’t he spent the past six months dreaming about her, fantasizing about her, casting her as the star in hot, wet dreams that had left him to take sexual matters into his own hands more times than he had since he’d been a teenager?