The Seven Year Witch: That Old Black Magic, Book 2 (3 page)

Stepping into the cottage’s small entry, he plunked his helmet onto the front end table and tugged his T-shirt over his head. Bending, he shucked his boots and dropped his shirt near his bare feet. Half a second later, his jeans and boxer briefs joined the pile. He padded across the room, the tile cool beneath his toes, and unlocked the sliding doors. Beyond the low rise of the dunes he could make out the white-capped waves of the Atlantic. The surf was strong today, alive with an energy that called to him. Mother sea would no doubt enjoy battering the hell out of his hide.

He’d welcome it, compared to the battering his heart was taking.

Releasing a howl that came from the very depths of his soul, he bounded across the gray, weathered planks of the back deck and easily cleared the railing. He landed on the sugary sand with the barest thud and continued sprinting toward the waves cresting in the distance, unmindful of the gathering of purple sandpipers that scurried out of his path. The brisk, foaming tide lapped over his feet and calves. He plowed deeper into the wave until water crashed into his shoulders. The tide reversed, hauling him away from shore, and he effortlessly rode the current. No wimpy dogpaddling for him. Six years ago, when he’d purchased the cottage and begun his extensive remodel on it, he’d learned the best way to burn off excess energy was to pummel his body in a nightly swim.

Course, there were other enjoyable ways for burning off excess energy. Sexy ways that coincidentally enough also entailed sweating his ass off and getting his cock wet. Whether that last part came about from a woman’s mouth or her pussy, it was all better than fine by him.

As always happened whenever his thoughts turned toward sex—and face it, when the fuck
didn’t
he think about sex?—Clarissa popped into his mind’s eye. The vision of her seemed so real, he could practically feel the wet glide of her soft curves beneath his palms. Without thinking, he moaned, and his mouth filled with seawater. He surfaced, sputtering. The relentless waves dragged him under again, and for several minutes he fought to escape the sucking grasp of the deep swells. Finally he pulled free and began the long swim to shore.

The tide spat him onto the sand as if he were a toy it’d grown bored with, and he flopped onto his back with a weak groan. He took a few seconds to regain his breath before staggering to the concealment of his palm-shaded deck. Exhausted or not, the last thing he needed was a beachcomber tripping over his buck-naked body.

His muscles screaming over their rough treatment, he sprawled onto the lounger, ignoring the dusting of sand that instantly scattered into every nook and cranny of the padded cushion. The sun beat against him, its persistent heat easing his aches, even while it fed the flames of an entirely different ache that burned at a constant simmer. He closed his eyes, the residual white glare from the sun leaving spots behind his lids.

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.

Chapter Three

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.”

The reminder of how she’d let Logan down socked into Clarissa with all the subtlety of a two-by-four. The awful sensation intensified when she recalled how angry and hurt he’d looked before he’d turned and stalked away from her yesterday. She hadn’t seen him at all since then. Probably just as well. He needed space to cool off. And she needed time to figure out how to make things right again between them.

Plastering on a smile that she prayed didn’t appear as pained as it felt, Clarissa rose from her seat and crossed to the built-in bookshelves. She pretended to be busy searching for a particular tome, using the time to compose herself. “Our celebration had to be postponed, unfortunately. No doubt he’ll be swinging by sometime in the coming week though.” Hopefully. If he hadn’t finally decided that he’d had enough of her.

The possibility tightened the vise in her chest. She turned back around and met Jemma and Griffin’s all-too-shrewd expressions. Oh shit, had she somehow revealed too much? The last thing she needed was the entire coven knowing about her chaotic emotions where Logan was concerned. She’d never hear the end of it.

Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, she pivoted toward her desk. The clock caught her attention and a splinter of dread pierced her fragile bubble of calm as she took in the time. The rest of her burdens immediately exited stage left as the hour of her judgment glared her in the eye.

Seven years had come down to this.

It was time to face her fate.

Chapter Four

The interior of Tatum’s was exactly as Clarissa remembered. Dark and dingy. Still, a twinge of relief scuttled through her. The dim, smoky gloom provided a modicum of obscurity. Not that she expected her mother to be working the floor tonight. And even if she was, not much chance the woman would race over, ready to dole out a hug and a smile.

A waitress who appeared to be poured into a slinky black leather halter dress tottered up to the hostess stand in her sky-high platforms. “Here for the band tonight?”

“No. I’m meeting someone. I don’t think they’re here yet, but can I grab a spot near the back?”

Responding with a nod, the waitress led Clarissa toward a vacant table a safe distance away from the smoke-filled bar. “We’re expecting a packed house tonight. Might want to put your order in now, before the kitchen gets swamped.”

She doubted her stomach would agree to the idea of food, but she accepted the grease-splattered menu anyway. Soon as the waitress wobbled off, she ditched the menu and wiped her fingers on the available paper napkin. Obviously Seven chose Tatum’s out of a twisted sense of sentimentality and not because of its two-star luxury.

Then again, dark, dismal places seemed to be Seven’s preferred hunting ground. Places where oblivion could be found in a bottle—and any soul could be bought for the right price. She was all too familiar with that last reality.

Leaning back in her seat, she watched the noisy quartet who’d wandered in off the street tromp toward the crowded bar. None of the four appeared to be old enough to drive, much less drink. Still, she doubted Tatum’s was the sort of establishment that looked too closely at their patrons’ drivers licenses.

“Foolish children, walking straight into the devil’s den.” The melodic, raspy voice managed to crack through the aura of calm Clarissa had so painstakingly worked on for the past twenty minutes, causing her shoulders to jerk. Silently berating her jumpy nerves, she tipped her gaze upward. Seven stood close enough to her chair the immense heat radiating off him nearly scorched the fine hairs on her forearm.