Michele Hauf - This Soul Magic

When he held his arms out to receive me I wasn’t sure it was because he wanted to hug me, or because I’d explained to him a hug was something friends did, and even people who were more than friends.

But resist his powerful embrace? Never. The man’s muscles had been forged by angelic means.

I intended to keep the cookies available, but not in such great quantities that he became a softy. That was my department. I might wear a double-digit size, but I was proud of my curves, and especially liked the way his hands slid over those curves as if exploring uncharted territory.

“The air is better now,” he whispered in that stalwart tone that always tightened my nipples in anticipation.

I had no idea what he meant by better air, but he’d said it a few times before. The heat of his iron-hard body lulled me into a swoon and I laid my head against his biceps. Happy to be there. Let this fantasy never end.

When a few flowers fell from the basket hooked at my elbow, I reluctantly pulled from the hug and twisted to pick them up.

Reichardt commented, “Now that I could look at all day.”

“What? My ass?” I straightened and wiggled my hips. “You can touch.”

“Really?”

Such innocent devilishness in the man’s tone. Monsieur Sex on a Stick had it all, yet was naively unaware of what that all did to a woman.

He slid his hands down my hips and cupped my derriere, growling a satisfied purr, and whispered at my ear. “Teach me about kissing.”

“Oh, lover, I adore your curiosity.”

We’d kissed once, before he’d gotten a soul. It had been a means for me to distract him from harming Vika—and it had worked. At the time I had almost thought Reichardt had been all in with the emotions and fresh love thing, until he’d then taken my soul.

But now was different. He’d hadn’t the power, let alone the heart, to enact such an evil scheme.

“Or will this stop me from getting too close?” he asked, tapping the object strung around my neck on a thin leather cord.

I touched my grandmother’s nail, coiled about the leather. All three St. Charles sisters wore one of the nails that had been pounded into our grandmother’s jaw by a witch hunter in order to keep her down during the burial process, following a vicious dunking that had ended in her death. The nail possessed power and acted as a sort of protector.

“Grandma would approve, I’m sure, lover.”

“Why do you call me lover?” he asked. “We aren’t lovers, as far as I know.”

“It’s just a pet name,” I said, batting my lashes coyly. “You don’t like it?”

“I do like it. It would be more fitting if it were true.”

The man was big on truths and morality, which clashed only a little with my energy. I hated lies and tried to be as moral as a witch possibly could. Did chocolate binges and crushes on celebrities count against my moral compass?

I trailed a finger along his chin, tapping the black goatee that called attention to his rugged square jaw and gave him some rock-star appeal. “Soon enough, lover boy, soon enough. Much as I’d love to push you onto the floor and ravage your sexy body, I think it best we take things slow.”

“Is ravaging good?”

“Ravaging is the bomb. But let’s do something about the kisses first. You want to learn?”

“Such a lesson would prove more interesting than how to mow the lawn or sweep the floor.”

So I’d been teaching him a few domestic skills. Every man should know the routine, am I right?

“Come here.” I grabbed his shirt and pulled him close enough to feel his breath against my chin.

The man’s eyes had retained the kaleidoscopic colors innate to angels. Every time I looked into them I saw a different color, from blue or gold to violet and even emerald. I could stare into them for hours.

“What do you see?” he asked with a concern that gave me a tickle.

“Curiosity.”

And that flickering multicolored aura that I had no intention of telling him about, because to do so would distract from my goal of a kiss.

“That’s because I am curious.” He squeezed my derriere. “I like this part of you. It’s soft and fills my hand.”

“Oh, lover, what did I do to deserve you?”

“From what you’ve told me, you gave me back my soul.”

Indeed, I had held his halo—which contained his earthbound soul—above his head but a week ago. That had caused Reichardt to rise from the ground, the halo affixed above his head. Briefly, Vika and I had witnessed the blue smoke wings Reichardt had never worn as a soul bringer, and had watched them shatter into so much angel dust, leaving the man lying unconscious in the garden before us. It had been a beautiful yet frightening experience.

“Come here,” I coaxed. “A little closer so our mouths almost touch, but not quite.”

He smelled like the homemade bay rum soap I’d slipped into his shower a few days ago to stock his barren apartment. I loved a spicy man, and it was all I could do not to hook a foot behind his knee and throw him to the black-and-white harlequin-tiled kitchen floor.

Patience, Libby.

But not too patient. This woman had needs and desires that demanded attention. How long could a girl be happy with a fumbling beginner when what she really needed was a skilled lover to master her mind, body and soul?

“Your breath on my skin feels good,” he said. “I know your lips are soft because they are the color of the rose petals in the garden.”

Mercy, but the man was a romantic without even trying.

“You don’t remember, but we’ve kissed before,” I said. “When I was trying to distract you from taking Vika’s soul.”

“I wish I could remember. I’ve lost so much.”

“I’ll refresh your memory.”

“Should I tilt my head?”

“No, I’ll do that. You just let it happen.”

I pressed my mouth to his and spread my hands across his rock-hard pectorals. I had to stand on my tiptoes, which gave me a thrill because—hell, it just did. The connection—no movement, just touching—activated all my nerve endings to scream pleasure and feed me.

I gripped him by the back of the head, running my fingertips through his short dark hair, and deepened the kiss. The man’s mouth was receptive and so hot. Spice teased my senses. I could have stayed right there all day. Oh, to bespell his heart and make him mine!

The guy was mine. Let no woman dare to take him from me.

Wait. Really? Claiming the guy? I was being too forward.

Breaking the kiss, I stepped away, smoothing my hands down my dress. “Whew! Sorry about that.”

He touched his lips and shrugged. “Sorry for what? I liked it. Did I do it wrong?”

“Not at all.”

His brows fell and his mouth pouted. The puppy dog had been denied a treat.

Shame on me. Libby St. Charles was not the denial sort. Be damned this too-forward business. I tended to take what I desired, and if it made me feel good, I’d overindulge.

“All righty then, here goes nothing, lover boy.”

This time I dashed my tongue across his, coaxing him to a sensual dance that teased at my inhibitions like a feather tracing me from head to toe. Every part of my skin craved contact with his. Clothing felt bothersome. And when I wanted him to dip me backward and make me his, the man simply took what I gave.

So I would become the teacher. He would learn, and then take the control I wanted him to own.

Sliding my hands down over his, I moved them lower on my hips. Reichardt squeezed and I moaned into his mouth. “You squeeze all you like, lover.”

“So much of you to enjoy,” he murmured, and this time he initiated the kiss.

He pressed my body against the counter and probably wasn’t aware how hard he leaned into me. I didn’t care. I wanted to be controlled by a man, needed it. His mouth, firm and seeking, tasted my lips and a murmur of satisfaction was my reward for this teaching session. I loved every moment of this connection, even his awkward movements as he tilted his head one way and then the other.